The Maxwell Mathers LP (SC2 Epilogue)

[Wham Yubeesling]

Friday, June 30, 2017, 9:22 P.M.: International Waters

They had a bigger boat now.

Special present from the guys higher up. For the occasion. When it was just a scouting run to try and figure out why this 30-year-decommissioned island had a smiley face seen from space, Jaxon and the rest of the gang had just received a ferry, some guns, and some firehoses for good luck. Now that he and Grossi had been proven right, though? Now that they all knew this was Survival of the fuckin’ Fittest? Yeah, HR — sorry, slip of the tongue, Jaxon had meant to say Naval Command — figured, after too many days of deliberation, that they could all head back to port to get a proper vessel.

Least it was also a faster boat. They’d almost made back their distance, if the radar this morning had told ‘em anything. In a day, maybe two, they’d be at the freighter, and then… and then they’d get their guns. And then they’d stage an attack. It was on unfamiliar territory — and who knew how prepared the enemy was for them? — but they didn’t have to take ‘em all out. Just find the freighter, apprehend the leader, and rescue as many of the hostages as they could. They were… they were…

Paris Ardennes. Christopher Schwartz. Vincent Holway. Kasumi White. Sebastien Bellamy. Felicia LaChapelle. Sophie McDowell. James Mulzet. Maxwell Lombardi. Yumi Nunes. Soren Rosendahl. Saachi Nidal. Cody Jenkins. Those were the only thirteen missing from the bus who didn’t have corpses attached to them. Hopefully, that was a whole fifth of the class that’d still been playing the terrorists’ game by the time Jaxon and Grossi had arrived. Presumably, that meant the AT had taken ‘em away and skedaddled right in the nick of time. If they were alive, if they’d all already been executed…

“We’ll get ‘em.”

Jaxon didn’t need to turn around to confirm who the voice was. He’d heard Grossi yapping over the radio all day. Guess now was time for his ten-minute smoke break.

“They’re clear on our radar now,” the captain said. “We’re closing the distance. Shouldn’t be more than a day before we’re close enough to raid.”

“Great,” Jaxon replied, something more bitter travelling through his voice than he’d realized.

“You scared?”

Jaxon had to think about that one for a second. Took a minute to figure out just what exactly it was rolling around in his stomach. He looked down, saw how the boat split the ocean as they sailed through, looked up at Grossi, and then:

“Nah. More… worried.”

Grossi gave a smirk.

“What’s the difference?”

“That it’s not about me.” He couldn’t be scared about what was going to happen. Couldn’t be worried, either. Boot camp had drilled that into him. And then had ran it into the ground. And then made him write ‘I must not be a weenie who fucks off out of life-or-death situations when my whole country is at stake’ a hundred times on the blackboard. He’d gotten the point. Eventually. “I’m thinkin’ more about the kids. If they’re… even still alive.”

“Pretty sure they are. Might be that some of the bodies were just ones we couldn’t find, but… but there’s still a big chunk not accounted for. They’re in there.”

“No, I mean…” Jaxon… gritted his teeth. Looked out towards the ocean. Towards the night. No fog, no other obstruction, but the darkness did its job enough. It was like… it was like all the strategy games he’d played at high school when the teachers weren’t looking. He could see a little past the boat, but other than that… anything could be out there. Anything could just appear. And he wouldn’t know what was even there until it leapt out. Again, no fog, but… there certainly was going to be a war, somewhere on the horizon. And in war…

“What if they execute them? Try to send a message? Like, we stopped their game, so what if they’re like ‘fuck you, you don’t get a winner?’ Make it clear that we’re not allowed to fuck with them.”

Grossi shook his head.

“I see that… but it wouldn’t be good for their PR. These people… need somebody visible, on the outside. They want somebody to show the world… both just how hard their game can change somebody, and how… even if they’re killing kids, they still play fair by their rules. Like, hey, this kid killed six people so he could maybe go home, so let’s keep our end of the deal. If they throw a tantrum and kill them anyway… what message do they even have? Where’s the incentive for the next bunch of kids to actually play their game?”

He paused, for a second. Thumbed his finger around the walkie-talkie by his belt.

“‘s what I think, anyway,” Grossi continued, eventually. “Can’t really say I’m an expert on this.”

“These guys are a bit of a step up from pirates, ‘ey?”

“They’re more ambitious, that’s for sure,” Grossi replied. “We’ll see how much they measure up when we reach ‘em.”

“Yeah.”

Grossi tapped his foot. Looked out into the night. Nothing new. Nothing emerging out of the blank black background. No storm — and as the radar said, it didn’t seem like there was even gonna be one for at least another day — but he still couldn’t stay calm. Couldn’t stop all his little tics from reemerging.

“So why do they say they’re gonna kill ‘em all?”

“What do you mean?” Grossi asked.

“Did some research on their little game,” Jaxon replied. “Found some old videos. There was this whole thing they said during the intro where, like, if nobody killed anybody they’d just kill everyone. If… if they really wanna make sure they have a winner, then why…?”

He wasn’t even sure why he was bothering to ask this, honestly. Felt wrong being the guy who was like ‘uhhhhhhhh, plot hole’ when these were real people and real kids dying, but… he didn’t know. Felt better trying to fill the air. Felt more right thinking about this than thinkin’ about how many of the kids were still alive.

“It’s probably just to scare the kids stupid, I guess.” Grossi shrugged. “Hard for ‘em to really think about what they’re being told when there’s a gun to their-”

He was cut off by a burst of noise from the walkie-talkie. He picked it up, brought it to his ear, and…

“Grossi here. I’m listening.”

Whoever was on the other end said something. It wasn’t quite distinct enough for Jaxon to hear.

“Are you sure?”

More noise.

“...Shit. I’ll get the crew ready. Over.”

Jaxon, almost instinctively, looked away from Grossi, towards the horizon. Had to double-check and make sure whatever thing was emerging hadn’t already done so. He looked back to Grossi. Stood at attention.

“Radar picked up something. Object headed directly towards us.” Grossi was already on the move. “Get ready for a potential situation.”

Fuck.

“Yes, sir,” Jaxon still said, even though Grossi had already dipped by now. Jaxon was on his feet, too. Towards one of the mounted guns by the front of the vessel. He put his hands onto it, placed his eyes into the scope, and…

Nothing. The night was as much of a wall as ever. He thought about making a run to get some night vision, when-

When something came out from the corner of his eye and he swivelled towards it. A motorboat. Two people on it. Neither seemed armed, or ready to fight, at a glance. One of ‘em — tall, lanky, dark skin, thick glasses — was waving his arms, frantic, as if his stunt hadn’t already gotten their attention. The other was seated, arms folded, hugging themselves because of the cold. He had a… black suit, light brown hair. Red highli-

Shit.

Shit shit shit that was one of the missing kids.

“Nobody shoot!” He screamed, as loud as he could. He disengaged, swirled around so he was facing the rest of the boat. It didn’t even look like anyone else was even prepared to shoot but god dammit he wasn’t fucking risking anything when one of the kids was here, alive, headed right towards them. “Prepare to intercept! We’re bringing them on board!”

In the midst of the waves, the boat, the shouting — Jaxon’s own voice among the cacophony — there was still a little voice in his head processing the situation. And while there was maybe a little bit of jubilation in the idea that there was potentially one of the kids alive… that was it. One.

There were still twelve more. Somewhere out there. Somehow still unaccounted for. Whether there was still a chance to go rescue them, whether they were all already gone…

…Jaxon didn’t know which was scarier.

[Wham Yubeesling]

Monday, June 19th, 2017, 6:03 P.M.: Unknown Location

The prisoner resisted far less than Matthews would’ve liked. For all the shit Mr. Lombardi and his friends had given them, for all the constant hustle just to try and keep out of the navy’s grasp, it would’ve felt nice to just fucking throw the twerp against the wall. Let the VIP know where his real place was.

But no, sadly, the little shit had decided to be on his best behaviour while he was in Matthews and Orson’s hands. Came from his private little room in the brig to Danya’s private little room on the bridge without so much as a pithy word. Which was whatever, honestly. Guess that meant stress relief was gonna have to come a little later. At the gym.

They took the prisoner into the room. Pulled him to the armchair across from the boss, threw him down, then moved to leave before-

“Wyndham,” Danya called out to Orson, before placing his attention on Matthews. “...you. Keep guard at the door.”

…Guess that meant stress relief was gonna have to come a lot later. He and Orson took opposite sides of the door out. Stood at attention, facing their boss. There was one last moment where Danya’s cone of vision included the two of them, but then his gaze dropped to the chair opposite his, and for all it mattered, Orson and Matthews weren’t even there anymore.

“I suppose you think you’re very smart.” Danya said.

“I do,” replied the boy. His voice was haggard, his words coming out of his throat like they’d been choked. Probably because they had: Matthews had heard the order, same as everybody else, to get whoever won off the island as quick as possible, and he supposed Wilson didn’t really want to wait for a cripple to make a walk to the dock. The gash was still there on his leg — and still visible, given the huge rip in the pant area around it. His clothes were dirty. His hair, too. Not his sling — that’d been replaced with something a little less shit the moment medical got their hands on him. He put his head on his uninjured hand, placed his injured leg on top of his non-injured leg and gave Danya a smile. Showed him the teeth he didn’t have anymore.

“Well, I suppose there’s no counterargument for that.” Danya sighed. He was leant back, lounging in his chair. His right cheek rested on a hand held perpendicular by the armrest. “You really did a number on us. Let’s see…”

He brought his hand to his bottom lip, brought his gaze up to the ceiling as if he was actually trying to think about this, before:

“Well, you managed to use the power of friendship to set nearly the whole island on fire.” He tapped his hand and brought up a finger, like he was trying to count. “You destroyed so much of our equipment, and managed to send both the navy and the fire brigade on us.” He put up two more. “We had to leave and take you right before they came down on us, which meant we couldn’t pick up either our remaining equipment or the corpses of your friends.” The last two went up. “Aaaaaand now we have the navy chasing us as we speak. I must say, you really-”

He paused. Pretended to think again.

“Oh. Wait.” He brought his eyes down from the ceiling. Stared the prisoner directly in the eyes. “None of that was you. It’s funny. Charles, Michael, their friends, they were all working to save everybody who was still alive, all while you and Daniel were in the tunnels crying about your dead girlfriends. It’s funny, what people do when their lives are on the line.”

There wasn’t much of a reaction from Maxwell. From where Matthews was standing he almost looked bored, more than anything.

“I never claimed that I did any of that,” the boy replied. “You’re the one who insists I did.”

“And yet you still act as if you’re Maxwell Lombardi, The One Who Epically Destroyed Survival Of The Fittest.” Danya said. “I’m curious as to what gave you that assumption.”

“Because I’m here.” Maxwell said. “Because I’m still me. Your game didn’t get me.”

“Despite your best efforts. Tell me, how many people did you try to kill?”

“I don’t know,” Maxwell scoffed. “I’m sure if I managed to finish the job with one of them you’d be much less mad with me.”

“Oh, believe me, it’s not that much of a problem,” Danya replied, with a wave of his hand. “Believe it or not, we did tell you what would happen if you didn’t kill anybody. Believe it or not, we do have protocols in place if someone attempts to call our bluff.”

“It could be an issue in your next game, though.”

“Please. Tell me what you’re going to do next time you play.”

“I wasn’t talking about me,” Maxwell replied. “I’m just saying that your little game hasn’t quite proved its hypothesis yet.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve done this twice now, correct?”

“As far as you know.”

“And… if I remember correctly, I learned in my social studies class that the person who won the first version was a person who only killed other killers.”

And also some other people, of course. Matthews never got to hear the end of it. He’d just be trying to get his food from the cafeteria and somebody would be bitching about how all the media coverage would just focus on how Reid killed all the players. Like, okay, maybe some of his coworkers were more into whatever Danya’s ideology was supposed to be and were upset when people didn’t quite get it but, like, man. Five years of that shit. And at this rate it was gonna be five years more.

Maybe jail hadn’t been such a bad option after all.

“And now, for your second version, your winner… didn’t kill anybody at all.” Maxwell’s grin came back. “I have to say, the track record hasn’t been good for anybody looking to play your game the intended way.”

“And this is meant to hurt… how, exactly?”

“Well, say you try this experiment again, however many years down the line.” Now it was the prisoner pretending to think. “And all these kids will know is that neither of the previous two winners were the type to hunt down their friends. Do you think that’s an incentive to try and do that the next go-around?”

“We have our methods,” Danya replied. “I’m sure you already know what your average teenager can do when there’s a gun to their head.”

Maxwell scoffed, again.

“How long does that bluff work for, though? You said it yourself: I won your game without killing anybody despite your exact warning not to. How long would it be until one class decides that they’re not going to try and kill?”

“You believe that that’s a bluff?”

“I do.”

“What makes you think that?” Danya asked.

“I’ve been thinking, quite a bit, over the past day or so-”

“That’s a first for you, I’m sure.”

“-and I imagine… you need to make sure somebody makes it home,” Maxwell continued. “You need to bring somebody back into society. Maybe it’s to show people how you play fair, or whatever, but… you also need to show the world that your game works. That it changes people. That it turns them into somebody else. Once upon a time, they were some happy little yuppie kid, eyes bright, ready for the world, and now they’re something different. Something broken. They’ve been brought down the lowest they can go, and they’re never going to be the same again. You need somebody like that. You need to prove that you do what you say you do.”

He shook his head. Waved his hand.

“Whatever your ideology is, anyway. I hope my guess was poetic enough for you.”

Silence. Matthews could hear… no, he wouldn’t be able to hear anything out of the ordinary. There were still noises outside. He could still hear the cogs of the freighter churn. Silence here wasn’t silence. There’d always be something happening here.

But he was able to hear what happened next. Danya laughing. Not some chuckle, or anything controlled. He was almost doubled over, laughing from his stomach. It didn’t last long — four or five seconds or so — but Matthews could tell. The prisoner had put the boss into one of his moods.

“I see,” Danya said.

He got back up, almost, but his posture had changed. He was leaning forward. His eyes were almost bugged out. And he was grinning. Showing how many more teeth he had than Maxwell.

“I’m afraid, however, there’s… a flaw in your reasoning.”

And in a flash — Matthews literally blinked and missed it — there was a gun pointed directly at Maxwell. Danya’s, specifically. Matthews supposed maybe it was in his pocket, or behind his back, or something.

“Allow me to make one thing clear.”

His finger curled, around the trigger, slowly pushing it inward and inward, and in another quick burst of movement he swung his gun so that it pointed directly at Matthews and then pulled the rest of the trig-

[Wham Yubeesling]

-ger. There was the sound of thunder, a flash of lightning, and when it all faded Matthews didn’t have a head anymore.

And Orson-

…

…

…

Kept his mouth shut. Kept his position by the door. Cecily was going to have to hear about this later — learn that their boss had just murdered yet another employee — but she wasn’t going to hear it from him. Stay quiet, stay in the background, keep your head on your shoulders. There were probably several chapters dedicated to that in the Mr. Danya survival guide. Orson had worked for mobs, been in prison gangs, and had found himself here once it proved a criminal record couldn’t get you any other job, and it still honestly stunned Orson how many people out there couldn’t take any questions.

He hoped — if mainly for his own sake — that maybe the kid sitting in the other chair would start to understand that.

“...Okay,” said Maxwell, the sight of Matthews, on the floor, blood geysering out of his neck not enough to pull his head away. “I can’t say I understand what that was supposed to mean.”

“I think I made my point rather clear, honestly,” Danya replied. “This is my game. My ship. My organization. I can do anything I want.”

“So what, you’re the man with the gun, so I automatically lose the argument? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I think you’re getting the gist of it.” Danya grinned.

“That’s so… brutish.”

Orson had to make sure not to laugh hearing that. Welcome to the AT, kid.

“Yes, well, it works,” Danya replied, waving Maxwell’s words away. “Again, you don’t quite realize what people are capable of once you place a gun against their heads.”

“And you still haven’t responded to my point. Nobody who’s played your game has won.”

“Oh, look at you. Why, just a day ago you were bragging to anybody caring to listen about how you managed to ‘beat my game.’ What’s the difference?”

“I didn’t win your game. I beat you.”

“Tell that to whoever you play against next.”

“You think they’re even going to play?” Maxwell sniggered. “I don’t know how many times I have to say this: why would they? They know what happened the previous two times. They know that’s not how you make it out.”

“Then we upload a video of all their heads blowing off," Danya said, his tone unconcerned. “Or perhaps we don’t upload anything. Perhaps we let that bus full of smiling children disappear forever. Rid their poor, poor parents of the solace of knowing what happened to them.”

Mr. Danya sighed. Placed his elbows on his knees. Placed his chin on top of his hands.

“You tell me I’m not listening, yet I’m the one who seems to be repeating himself,” he continued. “We have rules. And we have methods in place to deal with those who break them. I made sure you were made aware when we were both on the bus together. Were you listening then?”

A chuckle.

“Or were you too busy placing your arm around your little sweetheart? Getting one last little eyefuck out of her before it was too late? I can’t blame you for that, honestly. I don’t think either of us thought she was going to last long.”

There was a brief pause — enough for Orson’s boss to slink back in his chair and show the teeth in his grin — before, from Maxwell:

“So which one is it?”

“Hm?” Danya tilted his head.

“You said you had a contingency in place should nobody actually choose to play your game, yet you just named two.” He slowly began to mimic Danya’s little grin. “So which one is it? Do you upload the footage of all the collars blowing? Do you not upload anything at all?”

He gave a little wave, much in the same way as Danya had to him.

“For something you said you had in place, that’s rather unclear," Maxwell continued. “So which one is it?”

There was a brief pause. The two stared at each other, for a bit. Then Danya gave a deep, deep sigh.

“I’m so tired of this.”

The next sound was that of thunder. A flash of lightning lit up the entire room. When it faded, Danya had his pistol in his hand, while Maxwell had his hands around the knee Mr. Danya had shot a hole through. Even from here, Orson could see the results. Blood, flesh — maybe even bits of bone — exploded all across his clothes, the chair, the floor. Another smudge of paint for what looked like a tapestry: another bloodstain when the last one had only just dried.

At least that wasn’t something Orson was going to have to clean up. Between where the rest of Maxwell’s knee had sprayed and- god, he’d already forgotten about Matthews, it seemed like they were going to have to bring a whole crew in here to deal with this. Another thing that hadn’t changed: no matter where Orson went, there always seemed to be somebody above him who was under the impression that they could do anything they wanted. Who didn’t quite seem to understand that their actions had consequences because they weren’t the ones who had to deal with it.

He’d remembered, back when he was trying to make an honest living, how having to kow-tow to people like that was what really made him get tired of being nice. He was glad to know there were people like that no matter what his line of work was.

Maxwell screamed. He’d been screaming for the last little bit, and part of why Orson started looking at what somebody not him would have to clean was to try and tune it out a little bit then he tuned it back in and really, he was still going on? Would’ve thought he would’ve faced something worse, given all the bloodstains already on his clothes, but maybe-

“Oh shut up.”

Danya had stood up. Placed the gun against Maxwell’s forehead. Luckily — more for Orson than anybody else here — that had got his attention. Maxwell stopped screaming. Looked up. Stared Danya in the eyes.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Danya continued, his eyes seemingly focused on… Orson. Shit. The boss was looking right his way. “My friend here — Matthews, was it? — is going to take you back to your room. You’ll stay there for the time being. I know it must be so heartbreaking to have to say goodbye, but don’t worry. You’ll see me again. We’ve got the next few years together, after all. Admittedly, I’ve faced some dissent on the matter of what to do with you, but I think our course of action here is fairly clear.”

Wait.

What?

“The rules for winning our game were fairly simple: make sure you kill at least one of your cohort should you wish to return home, yet it’s clear to me, despite your best efforts, that you didn’t manage that. You didn’t learn anything from your experience. You didn’t go through any of the effort, any of the pain that any of your classmates were forced to go through. You didn’t grow, you didn’t improve, you didn’t change. You happily boasted about all those things yourself, and yet now that you’re here you dare wish to claim your reward?”

Danya finally turned his attention back to Maxwell, a glare into his eyes like Orson was going to have to do a lot more cleanup. Maxwell looked like he was about to say something, but then he winced and he grasped at his knee again.

“You cheated, plain and simple. You didn’t play by our rules, so I don’t see why we’re obligated to follow them either. You didn’t kill any of your cohort, so you don’t get to return home.”

…Fuck. He was really doing this. Without anybody else’s permission.

“We’ll keep you, in your room, for however long we need before we’re ready to let you out again. You’ll be fed, given adequate facilities, and we’ll make sure to do what it takes to keep you alive for that time period. But you won’t be allowed to leave. You won’t be able to exit your room, you won’t be allowed any sort of exposure to the world outside, and you won’t be able to go home. That room, from now on, will be your cage. And until I choose to let you out, I’m afraid there won’t be any sort of escape.”

…No.

No no no no no no that was so fucking stupid. Had he even taken a second to think about the logistics of what he was decreeing? Because Orson had. And what Orson had realized was that this meant that he and all the other grunts — because, again, Mr. Danya didn’t quite seem to get that the people he kept threatening to shoot were the same people who had to make every little whim of his actually work — were going to have to spend every minute of every day, for… god they didn’t even know how many years it was going to take to even have a next game.

And they were going to have to watch this kid, for all that time. And they were going to have to make sure that he didn’t try to escape. That he didn’t try to kill himself. That he didn’t try to do anything else that jeopardized the whole operation because for some reason they were keeping their prisoner right in the belly of the beast. They were going to have to watch them. And with him knowing what he knew, and with him knowing that they knew he knew, they weren’t going to be able to take their eyes off for a second. And again, how many years were they expected to have to do this?

And, like, this was all from the perspective of “how are we even going to do this?” Because that was what Orson cared about most of all — doing his job. Getting paid. He wasn’t one of the people who signed up because they were into the whole ideology, but God were they going to be fucking pissed about this too. Because all this while, while him and Wilson and whoever replaced Matthews were all at work, there were going to be so many news articles and reddit posts going like ‘is Maxwell Lombardi still alive? Are we sure the terrorists didn’t kill him?’ So many reasons on the outside to doubt that the AT was acting in good faith.

And maybe, someday, when they found a time, found an island, and found a whole new bunch of kids to dump Mr. Lombardi with, then… cool. Maybe they’d get at least a little bit of their credit back. But if one day, he managed to get a razor snuck in with his gruel?

They would never, ever, recover from that.

Fuck was this so stupid.

“Do you understand?” Danya said, after enough of a pause to allow everything he’d just said to sink in.

Maxwell opened his mouth.

He closed it.

And then:

“I understand.”

“Good. Now get up.”

Maxwell looked at his leg.

“Oh, right. Forgot about that. Matthews, please escort the prisoner back where he belongs.”

It was so hard for Orson to not reply as he stepped forward, made the distance to the chair, and hoisted Maxwell up with one… less-than-smooth motion. The prisoner yelled — Orson supposed that perhaps this was not the most comfortable way to piggyback a man, especially if he only had the one kneecap — but he couldn’t quite find it in him to care. There was more important shit to worry about. Replacing Matthews. Keeping guard of the prisoner. Dealing with… the new policy Mr. Danya had just enacted on a whim.

Fuck.

Cecily was going to have to hear about this.