Santiago faintly felt the sea air hit his face as he stirred to life. It was a new sensation, something you don't get when you live in the mountains for the vast majority of your life, and Santiago might have enjoyed it in other circumstances. The Program wasn't a set of circumstances to start trying out new things, however, and before Santiago had the energy to open his eyes he turned over to show his back to the breeze.
However, that proved to be a mistake, as Santiago felt the ground disappear beneath him, and after a few terrifying seconds of rushing air he plunged into the harbor.
((Sandy Santiago Ibarra: START))
He swallowed the first gush of sea water that entered his mouth. Not intentionally, but it was better than breathing it in. Santiago thrashed about, his eyes now open and stinging in the murky salt water. He could vaguely see blurry brown pillars near him, but he was more concerned with reaching the light. Light meant air.
A few seconds later, Santiago surfaced. He still flailed about in the water, trying to keep himself from falling under, and looked around in his panicked state for something to rescue him. Within a few more seconds, he saw the latter leading up to the pier, and threw himself through the water towards it. He clung to the thin wooden beams as he started pulling his body from the deep and eventually, flung it back onto deck like the catch of the day.
Looking up, he saw a bag. His bag. He could have moved towards it, but he didn't. He had the energy, but none of the drive. He had nothing left to give.
Because he wasn't sure whether he even wanted to live or not.
All of Santiago's life, he'd been working towards a goal, with little pitstops along the way for his responsibilities. Not only did he have to navigate the world pretending he was something he wasn't, but he had to make sure he would one day live his dream of playing soccer for a living, as well as providing the way to a better life for his brothers and sisters.
The moment his name was called, all of that had been taken away. He would never become a soccer star. He would never see his family again. He was not dead, but he might as well be. Even if he lived, he would never get anything of his old life back. He had nothing left to live for.
So Santiago Ibarra lay on the moist boards, lightly panting, staring at his bag just out of reach, and wondered whether it was even worth it. The only thing he could really do was convulse his stomach, forcing the seawater he swallowed to come back up. He didn't move his head or mouth as it dribbled from the back of his throat, accompanied by his own retching.
There was still no drive to move.
A Lo Hecho, Pecho
Phase 1 (0-12 Hours)
Shit, he was dead, wasn't he? Y'know, staring out at the light at the end of the tunnel or whatever people told themselves so they could ignore the cold, shitty realities of life.
Okay, well no, he wasn't dead, the tunnel was a barrel, and the light was—well, it was a light, but still, y'know?
((Harland Strange: END))
Harland was laying down on the ground, his upper half fit snugly inside a barrel, where he'd woken up. The thing'd probably been used to store, like, fish entrails or some shit like that, but hey, it's not like he'd get sick from it or anything. Probably be dead before he could. His head was propped up against the back of the barrel, staring out at his feet for what had felt like at least fifteen minutes. Shit, his neck was getting pretty damn sore. Time to shimmy on out and face the world.
Okay, so he was out of the barrel now. It didn't feel too different from before, but hey, whatever. He stood up, slowly. Shit, like, it was pretty soggy out here, which made sense because he was right above the ocean.
Oh, huh, the ocean. That was pretty neat, he guessed. He'd never seen the actual ocean before. Oh well.
He could see his bag laying a few feet away, slumped against another upturned barrel, this one covered in seagull shit that'd turned into a crust over the years it'd been slathered over the barrel. He meandered over to the bag and pulled it away from the shitbarrel, crouched down and opened it up, ruffling through the its contents. M'kay, there was some shit in there like food, some smushed up paper at the very bottom, a box full of something that was probably supposed to be important, and a fully inflated, bright pink koosh ball. Oh hey, that last one was pretty fun. If he lost his beanie, he could pop the ball and wear it over his head, like some kind of bright pink head-condom with tentacles. He took the ball out and zipped the bag back up.
He looked further down the dock. Oh hey, there was a kid there. Looked like either he was sleeping or enough of an idiot to get killed already. Oh look, he was moving, so that ruled out that last possibility unless he was inhabited by some kind of alien parasite that was exerting its control over his nervous system. Probably not that. It'd be cool though. Corpse McAlienhouse was rolling over, and then he wasn't because apparently the alien inside him was aquatic and also because this place was built and designed by an actual monkey. Shit, that was pretty funny, just falling in like that. Harland knew he should've been, like, y'know, helping the kid, but he just kind of wanted to watch.
And watch he did. If the kid drowned, no skin off Harland's back. It wasn't his fault the kid had super drowning skills.
Fisho managed to make his way back up onto the dock. Good job, Fisho. The kid was staring at his pack, on the other side of him from Harland. Harland shrugged and slid his bag up onto his back, holding the pink ball of wonder in his right hand. He grabbed it with both hands, stretched out one of the tentacle things, and began plucking at it, making a sound akin to what he imagined a low-quality acoustic guitar made out of rubber would sound like. He walked over to about ten feet away from Retchboy and placed his hands up to his mouth so that his voice could be heard over the roar of the ocean.
"Mornin', shitbird!" He called out. "Gravity's a bitch, inn'it!?"
Okay, well no, he wasn't dead, the tunnel was a barrel, and the light was—well, it was a light, but still, y'know?
((Harland Strange: END))
Harland was laying down on the ground, his upper half fit snugly inside a barrel, where he'd woken up. The thing'd probably been used to store, like, fish entrails or some shit like that, but hey, it's not like he'd get sick from it or anything. Probably be dead before he could. His head was propped up against the back of the barrel, staring out at his feet for what had felt like at least fifteen minutes. Shit, his neck was getting pretty damn sore. Time to shimmy on out and face the world.
Okay, so he was out of the barrel now. It didn't feel too different from before, but hey, whatever. He stood up, slowly. Shit, like, it was pretty soggy out here, which made sense because he was right above the ocean.
Oh, huh, the ocean. That was pretty neat, he guessed. He'd never seen the actual ocean before. Oh well.
He could see his bag laying a few feet away, slumped against another upturned barrel, this one covered in seagull shit that'd turned into a crust over the years it'd been slathered over the barrel. He meandered over to the bag and pulled it away from the shitbarrel, crouched down and opened it up, ruffling through the its contents. M'kay, there was some shit in there like food, some smushed up paper at the very bottom, a box full of something that was probably supposed to be important, and a fully inflated, bright pink koosh ball. Oh hey, that last one was pretty fun. If he lost his beanie, he could pop the ball and wear it over his head, like some kind of bright pink head-condom with tentacles. He took the ball out and zipped the bag back up.
He looked further down the dock. Oh hey, there was a kid there. Looked like either he was sleeping or enough of an idiot to get killed already. Oh look, he was moving, so that ruled out that last possibility unless he was inhabited by some kind of alien parasite that was exerting its control over his nervous system. Probably not that. It'd be cool though. Corpse McAlienhouse was rolling over, and then he wasn't because apparently the alien inside him was aquatic and also because this place was built and designed by an actual monkey. Shit, that was pretty funny, just falling in like that. Harland knew he should've been, like, y'know, helping the kid, but he just kind of wanted to watch.
And watch he did. If the kid drowned, no skin off Harland's back. It wasn't his fault the kid had super drowning skills.
Fisho managed to make his way back up onto the dock. Good job, Fisho. The kid was staring at his pack, on the other side of him from Harland. Harland shrugged and slid his bag up onto his back, holding the pink ball of wonder in his right hand. He grabbed it with both hands, stretched out one of the tentacle things, and began plucking at it, making a sound akin to what he imagined a low-quality acoustic guitar made out of rubber would sound like. He walked over to about ten feet away from Retchboy and placed his hands up to his mouth so that his voice could be heard over the roar of the ocean.
"Mornin', shitbird!" He called out. "Gravity's a bitch, inn'it!?"
A voice. Good, maybe it could end it all, send him off to an early grave so he didn't have to try. Given the fact that it was the class weirdo now speaking to him, the odds were toppled in his favor. Who the fuck even knew what Harland was capable of?
Of course, Harland had to act like nothing was going to affect him, because that was the kind of bullshit he pulled all the time even when his life wasn't on the fucking line. Santiago was never jealous of that, because he had no way of relating. 'Look at me, I'm Harland Strange, I can afford to be apathetic because I'm a pointless leech on society, I'm going to spend the rest of my life dodging the draft and sponging off welfare'.
Santiago didn't want to spend the last remnants of his life obsessing over a classmate who never meant anything to him. Might as well cut to the point. And do so without even moving, facing him, or making any effort to protect or defend himself. He was still laying on the boards, staring in the direction of his bag, his clothes dripping through the wood and pooling at the bends.
"You gonna kill me? If you are, just get it over with."
Nothing had changed in Santiago's mind in the seconds since Harland announced himself, and rightfully so. No family and no future in sport still meant there was nothing waiting for him at the end.
Of course, Harland had to act like nothing was going to affect him, because that was the kind of bullshit he pulled all the time even when his life wasn't on the fucking line. Santiago was never jealous of that, because he had no way of relating. 'Look at me, I'm Harland Strange, I can afford to be apathetic because I'm a pointless leech on society, I'm going to spend the rest of my life dodging the draft and sponging off welfare'.
Santiago didn't want to spend the last remnants of his life obsessing over a classmate who never meant anything to him. Might as well cut to the point. And do so without even moving, facing him, or making any effort to protect or defend himself. He was still laying on the boards, staring in the direction of his bag, his clothes dripping through the wood and pooling at the bends.
"You gonna kill me? If you are, just get it over with."
Nothing had changed in Santiago's mind in the seconds since Harland announced himself, and rightfully so. No family and no future in sport still meant there was nothing waiting for him at the end.
"Nah, I'm gonna take my time with it, y'know? Watch ya' bleed out real slow, get off on it, like back when I tortured squirrels in my back yard."
He shook the koosh ball around, the flashy-light-ball inside making a jingling sound. Christ, this guy was an asshole.
"Guess what, I'm lying. Why the fuck would I kill you?"
He took a step forward and bounced up and down on a janky old board.
"Like, shit dude it ain't like you need any help getting killed, and fuck it, what'd I have to gain from it? What's the point of murdering everyone you know if the military's probably just gonna pop one in the back of your head anyways?"
He cleared his throat.
He shook the koosh ball around, the flashy-light-ball inside making a jingling sound. Christ, this guy was an asshole.
"Guess what, I'm lying. Why the fuck would I kill you?"
He took a step forward and bounced up and down on a janky old board.
"Like, shit dude it ain't like you need any help getting killed, and fuck it, what'd I have to gain from it? What's the point of murdering everyone you know if the military's probably just gonna pop one in the back of your head anyways?"
He cleared his throat.
...
Santiago was expecting some kind of answer, but not that one.
He turned around on his vertical, then lifted his upper body from the boards. God, why Harland? Of all people, why did Harlan have to find him? He didn't want to have to deal with this right now, especially considering how much better literally every alternative seemed.
But his last words echoed in his mind.
"So you get it, don't you? How did you-"
Santiago stopped, trying to figure out the words to say.
"So you know there's no point. Why should I do anything here? I'm never going home. Never seeing my family again, never going to play sport for a job, or anything. So...why-"
He caught himself. Why bother explaining himself, or asking for help, or asking for help or an explanation from someone like Harland? He'd never get the answer he wanted. He'd never even find a false comfort.
"...just forget it."
Santiago was expecting some kind of answer, but not that one.
He turned around on his vertical, then lifted his upper body from the boards. God, why Harland? Of all people, why did Harlan have to find him? He didn't want to have to deal with this right now, especially considering how much better literally every alternative seemed.
But his last words echoed in his mind.
"So you get it, don't you? How did you-"
Santiago stopped, trying to figure out the words to say.
"So you know there's no point. Why should I do anything here? I'm never going home. Never seeing my family again, never going to play sport for a job, or anything. So...why-"
He caught himself. Why bother explaining himself, or asking for help, or asking for help or an explanation from someone like Harland? He'd never get the answer he wanted. He'd never even find a false comfort.
"...just forget it."
"So you get it, don't you?"
Boy, did Harland ever get it. He got it before it was cool, man. Everyone else suddenly realizing that everything was fucking pointless didn't mean anything had actually changed. Just because death wasn't staring you in the face didn't mean it wasn't coming, it just meant you didn't know when it would.
Okay, analogy time. Say you're standing at the entrance of like, a super tall skyscraper or something. Doesn't matter what, just that it's tall. There's a guy on the roof, and he's feeling like a cartoon villain today, so he gets a piano brought up to the roof. Doesn't matter how, just that he did. So, the guy moves the piano over to the side of the roof, sees you standing there, and he thinks "Yeah, looks about right".
Then he pushes it off, right above your head. Doesn't matter if you look up to see the piano falling or if you stay looking forward or whatever. You're still gonna get crushed by a piano.
The guy, whatever his name was—sad drowny guy, not piano guy—was going "Boo hoo, woe is me, nothing matters, wah wah wah." which was like, what usually happened when you realized everything was for nothing and that you were a failure. Harland went through that phase back when his mom'd been reduced to a fine red mist by some random terrorist freedom-fighter fucker who by now was probably dead too. He grew out of it, though.
And then the guy was like "No, never mind, I'm sad so I'm going to avoid thinking about my problems instead of dealing with them, cry cry cry, forget it." but Harland wouldn't just "forget it" because he had shit to say and the guy obviously had shit to say, so why not say it?
He took another step forward.
"Okay, so, I'm gonna ask you a question, and your answer to it is the answer of literally all of those questions you're cryin' 'bout."
Harland knew the answer already. Rock rolls down hill. Residual momentum. The only reason why Harland hadn't offed himself yet was because he didn't actively feel like dying. Maybe if the guy learned the truths of life he'd be less sad.
"If you've got nothing to live for, why'd you climb outta the water instead of let yourself drown?"
Boy, did Harland ever get it. He got it before it was cool, man. Everyone else suddenly realizing that everything was fucking pointless didn't mean anything had actually changed. Just because death wasn't staring you in the face didn't mean it wasn't coming, it just meant you didn't know when it would.
Okay, analogy time. Say you're standing at the entrance of like, a super tall skyscraper or something. Doesn't matter what, just that it's tall. There's a guy on the roof, and he's feeling like a cartoon villain today, so he gets a piano brought up to the roof. Doesn't matter how, just that he did. So, the guy moves the piano over to the side of the roof, sees you standing there, and he thinks "Yeah, looks about right".
Then he pushes it off, right above your head. Doesn't matter if you look up to see the piano falling or if you stay looking forward or whatever. You're still gonna get crushed by a piano.
The guy, whatever his name was—sad drowny guy, not piano guy—was going "Boo hoo, woe is me, nothing matters, wah wah wah." which was like, what usually happened when you realized everything was for nothing and that you were a failure. Harland went through that phase back when his mom'd been reduced to a fine red mist by some random terrorist freedom-fighter fucker who by now was probably dead too. He grew out of it, though.
And then the guy was like "No, never mind, I'm sad so I'm going to avoid thinking about my problems instead of dealing with them, cry cry cry, forget it." but Harland wouldn't just "forget it" because he had shit to say and the guy obviously had shit to say, so why not say it?
He took another step forward.
"Okay, so, I'm gonna ask you a question, and your answer to it is the answer of literally all of those questions you're cryin' 'bout."
Harland knew the answer already. Rock rolls down hill. Residual momentum. The only reason why Harland hadn't offed himself yet was because he didn't actively feel like dying. Maybe if the guy learned the truths of life he'd be less sad.
"If you've got nothing to live for, why'd you climb outta the water instead of let yourself drown?"
The answer to that was, of course, survival instinct. When a creature's life is in danger, its self-preservation kicks in. The same thing would have happened if Santiago had fallen on a stove, or had a nest of wasps thrown at him.
Of course, Santiago didn't know that. He'd never really paid attention in chemistry, or biology, or any of the sciences, enough to answer Harland's question in the way it could have been answered. A concise, remonstrative answer to shut him up.
So he lay there on the molding boards, looking at the other boy, thinking of what to say. Nothing came to mind, at least in the way Santiago wanted it to, so instead of the right answer, Santiago began veering into the wrong answers, the answers Harland wanted.
"...I don't know. I just guess I didn't want to die like that?"
It was something. Probably not the right something, but a something nonetheless.
At some point, he was going to have to turn things around on Harland. Get some fucking answers out of him.
But Santiago just kept his course.
Of course, Santiago didn't know that. He'd never really paid attention in chemistry, or biology, or any of the sciences, enough to answer Harland's question in the way it could have been answered. A concise, remonstrative answer to shut him up.
So he lay there on the molding boards, looking at the other boy, thinking of what to say. Nothing came to mind, at least in the way Santiago wanted it to, so instead of the right answer, Santiago began veering into the wrong answers, the answers Harland wanted.
"...I don't know. I just guess I didn't want to die like that?"
It was something. Probably not the right something, but a something nonetheless.
At some point, he was going to have to turn things around on Harland. Get some fucking answers out of him.
But Santiago just kept his course.
"Well, why the fuck not?"
Harland did an exaggerated shrugging motion and stiffly moved his head back and forwards. Like a hybrid between a seagull and an Egyptian artpiece. Man, if he broke through the boards right now, he'd laugh. Or try.
"I mean, as far as dying goes, drowning ain't that bad. Like, hey, least you're not getting fucked to death with a trident, y'know?"
He sighed. Man this guy was thick as a thick thing. Obtuse. A few fingers short of a hand. If he was a dessert food, he'd be one of those shitty rainbow jellos.
"Naw, naw, that's not it. The whole drowning thing, I mean. You gotta go deeper than that, yeah? Dig right in to your subconscious. Stop lying to yourself — and me."
Man, it'd really suck balls if he got punched in the face right now.
Harland did an exaggerated shrugging motion and stiffly moved his head back and forwards. Like a hybrid between a seagull and an Egyptian artpiece. Man, if he broke through the boards right now, he'd laugh. Or try.
"I mean, as far as dying goes, drowning ain't that bad. Like, hey, least you're not getting fucked to death with a trident, y'know?"
He sighed. Man this guy was thick as a thick thing. Obtuse. A few fingers short of a hand. If he was a dessert food, he'd be one of those shitty rainbow jellos.
"Naw, naw, that's not it. The whole drowning thing, I mean. You gotta go deeper than that, yeah? Dig right in to your subconscious. Stop lying to yourself — and me."
Man, it'd really suck balls if he got punched in the face right now.
-
Catche Jagger
- Posts: 743
- Joined: Tue May 28, 2019 7:40 pm
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
((Nathan Kirchhoff continued from Putting Humpty Together Again))
Squatting behind a barrel, Nathan listened closely and watched as the two boys talked. It hadn’t been hard to sneak up on them as they discussed philosophy or some crap, but he still had yet to approach them. They had been the first two people he’d come across since he’d made his resolution on the shoreline and, though they certainly seemed like they’d make questionable allies, Nathan would have to make do.
The shorter, leaner boy seemed to be pretty non-threatening and Nathan knew that he could probably scare him off with his knives if things got too dicey. The other guy looked pretty athletic and seemed to be the type of guy Nathan wouldn’t want as an enemy. But as a friend…
His next step would be to think of an approach. Resting his hand upon one of the knives as it lay nestled in his jacket pocket, Nathan decided that threats would be a very bad idea. Any alliance built upon threats would probably end up with him taking a bullet to the head. However, seeing as these were a couple of guys, he was pretty sure that he wasn’t going to be able to charm them so easily. Unless… No, pity was probably going to be his best option.
After a moment’s consideration, Nathan bit down on the material of his jacket sleeve, before forming his free hand into a fist and bringing it down upon the wound in his thigh. The boy let out a muffled groan of pain as tears welled up in his eyes. Gotta make it feel legit.
Grasping his bandaged thigh, Nathan rose to his feet, raised an empty hand in the air and began to slowly shuffled towards the two strangers.
“Hey!” he called in a pained hiss “H-Hey! I come in peace!” He grit his teeth in an attempt to force his face to turn red in mock exhaustion. Sell it like you’re fucking dying. They’ve gotta know that you’re no threat. The boy repeated to himself in his head over and over as he approached the strangers at a glacial pace.
While one hand remained on his thigh, he knew that it was near enough to his jacket pocket that he could make a quick grab for his knife if necessary.
Squatting behind a barrel, Nathan listened closely and watched as the two boys talked. It hadn’t been hard to sneak up on them as they discussed philosophy or some crap, but he still had yet to approach them. They had been the first two people he’d come across since he’d made his resolution on the shoreline and, though they certainly seemed like they’d make questionable allies, Nathan would have to make do.
The shorter, leaner boy seemed to be pretty non-threatening and Nathan knew that he could probably scare him off with his knives if things got too dicey. The other guy looked pretty athletic and seemed to be the type of guy Nathan wouldn’t want as an enemy. But as a friend…
His next step would be to think of an approach. Resting his hand upon one of the knives as it lay nestled in his jacket pocket, Nathan decided that threats would be a very bad idea. Any alliance built upon threats would probably end up with him taking a bullet to the head. However, seeing as these were a couple of guys, he was pretty sure that he wasn’t going to be able to charm them so easily. Unless… No, pity was probably going to be his best option.
After a moment’s consideration, Nathan bit down on the material of his jacket sleeve, before forming his free hand into a fist and bringing it down upon the wound in his thigh. The boy let out a muffled groan of pain as tears welled up in his eyes. Gotta make it feel legit.
Grasping his bandaged thigh, Nathan rose to his feet, raised an empty hand in the air and began to slowly shuffled towards the two strangers.
“Hey!” he called in a pained hiss “H-Hey! I come in peace!” He grit his teeth in an attempt to force his face to turn red in mock exhaustion. Sell it like you’re fucking dying. They’ve gotta know that you’re no threat. The boy repeated to himself in his head over and over as he approached the strangers at a glacial pace.
While one hand remained on his thigh, he knew that it was near enough to his jacket pocket that he could make a quick grab for his knife if necessary.
Santiago could have just given Harland the answer he wanted. Told him that no, he didn't want to die after all, how could he have been so foolish, he just needed to be yelled at to understand it! It wasn't that simple. Why couldn't this fucker get it?
But things changed all the time, and it was gnawing at the back of his skull that this would be something he wouldn't live to regret, rather than a permanent change of attitude. Why'd he have to be right? Why'd someone so stupid and so pointless have to be right?
Of course, he had no time to take this in, because someone else had found them. Someone in pain. Nathan Kirchoff, funnily enough. Privileged little shit who thought the whole world owed him, a description that could easily be applied to half the school, but was especially apt in the case of Nathan. And normally, he'd be all for seeing him in pain, but this kind of pain meant this kind of situation was becoming the new normal.
Santiago wanted to move, to help him just out of instinct. He had siblings, siblings tended to get hurt, and didn't know how to help themselves. He'd dressed some superficial wounds before. But he was stopped by another gnawing feeling at the back of his mind that reminded him 'Hey. Harland's still here. Don't let him know he changed your mind.'
So at the new factor bounced into the equation, Santiago just sat and stared at Nathan's pain. The little mission list in his head had changed from a blank slate to two little points:
Find out what you really want.
Don't let that fucker Harland know he got to you.
But things changed all the time, and it was gnawing at the back of his skull that this would be something he wouldn't live to regret, rather than a permanent change of attitude. Why'd he have to be right? Why'd someone so stupid and so pointless have to be right?
Of course, he had no time to take this in, because someone else had found them. Someone in pain. Nathan Kirchoff, funnily enough. Privileged little shit who thought the whole world owed him, a description that could easily be applied to half the school, but was especially apt in the case of Nathan. And normally, he'd be all for seeing him in pain, but this kind of pain meant this kind of situation was becoming the new normal.
Santiago wanted to move, to help him just out of instinct. He had siblings, siblings tended to get hurt, and didn't know how to help themselves. He'd dressed some superficial wounds before. But he was stopped by another gnawing feeling at the back of his mind that reminded him 'Hey. Harland's still here. Don't let him know he changed your mind.'
So at the new factor bounced into the equation, Santiago just sat and stared at Nathan's pain. The little mission list in his head had changed from a blank slate to two little points:
Find out what you really want.
Don't let that fucker Harland know he got to you.
Harland waited for Drowny's response, but instead of a response he just got Drowny looking a bit grumpy. Well okay. Fine. Be that way. It wasn't like Harland was trying to help him or anything. Fuckin' dickbag.
Oh, so Drowny was staring at something, as Harland soon found out when he heard some whiny little voice creak out a "hey". Harland turned around to look at whoever the new voice was, letting his back face Drowny. Oh great, it was that edgy fuck with the band or whatever. Dumb hair, too.
"Well jeez, I sure am glad you specified you came in peace, 'cus if you didn't I'dve just assumed you liked alerting your victims to your presence before killing them."
Harland coughed. It wasn't like he had anything left to lose. He could finally be an asshole, let off his steam, y'know? If he had a chance to die happy, fuck it, he'd take it.
"Hi, guy! Did'ja accidentally staple your hand to your leg or something?"
Oh, so Drowny was staring at something, as Harland soon found out when he heard some whiny little voice creak out a "hey". Harland turned around to look at whoever the new voice was, letting his back face Drowny. Oh great, it was that edgy fuck with the band or whatever. Dumb hair, too.
"Well jeez, I sure am glad you specified you came in peace, 'cus if you didn't I'dve just assumed you liked alerting your victims to your presence before killing them."
Harland coughed. It wasn't like he had anything left to lose. He could finally be an asshole, let off his steam, y'know? If he had a chance to die happy, fuck it, he'd take it.
"Hi, guy! Did'ja accidentally staple your hand to your leg or something?"
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Catche Jagger
- Posts: 743
- Joined: Tue May 28, 2019 7:40 pm
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
As Nathan edged towards the two boys, they turned to look at him and he managed to get a better look at their faces. He recognized the athletic boy as being Sandy… something-or-other. His last name hadn’t been important to know. What he did know was that the guy was a serious flag-waver, meaning he could turn out to be some kind of player. Nathan couldn’t place the other guy, but his pale, acne-ridden, rat-like face gave a less-than pleasant impression.
Though Sandy remained silent at Nathan’s greeting, the rat-boy called back.
"Hi, guy! Did'ja accidentally staple your hand to your leg or something?"
“No. Did you accidentally dump acid on your face?” Nathan desperately wanted to call back, but he held his tongue. He needed allies. He had to remember that.
“No, some psycho kid jumped me with some crazy kung-fu knives, fucked me up pretty bad.” he replied instead, his voice still strained. “I only survived because I got lucky.” He also knew that he’d have to avoid talking about or at least downplay the brutality of what exactly went down with Miguel at the Barricade. The truth might make them a bit wary if him.
“I managed to bandage myself up a bit, but I’m pretty sure I fucked it up pretty bad on my thigh here…” as he spoke these words, Nathan had managed to come close to the two. He swallowed slightly before continuing, “Look… I’m not looking for any trouble, all I need is a bit of help. I know I’m not going far like… like this.”
All he could do was hope was that these two were the bleeding-heart sort.
Though Sandy remained silent at Nathan’s greeting, the rat-boy called back.
"Hi, guy! Did'ja accidentally staple your hand to your leg or something?"
“No. Did you accidentally dump acid on your face?” Nathan desperately wanted to call back, but he held his tongue. He needed allies. He had to remember that.
“No, some psycho kid jumped me with some crazy kung-fu knives, fucked me up pretty bad.” he replied instead, his voice still strained. “I only survived because I got lucky.” He also knew that he’d have to avoid talking about or at least downplay the brutality of what exactly went down with Miguel at the Barricade. The truth might make them a bit wary if him.
“I managed to bandage myself up a bit, but I’m pretty sure I fucked it up pretty bad on my thigh here…” as he spoke these words, Nathan had managed to come close to the two. He swallowed slightly before continuing, “Look… I’m not looking for any trouble, all I need is a bit of help. I know I’m not going far like… like this.”
All he could do was hope was that these two were the bleeding-heart sort.
Santiago was suddenly feeling incredibly anti-social.
Nathan's story made sense, or it at least fit together in a way that didn't set off red flags. Santiago didn't know what kung-fu was, but it seemed like an adjective that fit together well with knives. People also survived because they got lucky all the time, even in real life.
It wasn't a pretty, colourful picture - it was a vague impression of one. But Santiago didn't really know how to react either way. This guy wasn't as upfront and dickish as Harland, and even though that normally meant he'd probably avoid the latter in real life, right now it seemed to mean he could trust that person more.
But still, what did Santiago know?
After what seemed like minutes of staring but more likely was just a few seconds, considering it seemed like Nathan had just finished talking and explaining, Santiago finally spoke up.
"Well if that was a while ago, and you're still bleeding...you're probably gonna need to stitch that up, man. Or get someone who knows how to do that, to...do that."
Santiago knew how to stitch people up. He was probably going to have to stitch Nathan up.
Why did he have to be such a fucking parent? Here, of all places?
Nathan's story made sense, or it at least fit together in a way that didn't set off red flags. Santiago didn't know what kung-fu was, but it seemed like an adjective that fit together well with knives. People also survived because they got lucky all the time, even in real life.
It wasn't a pretty, colourful picture - it was a vague impression of one. But Santiago didn't really know how to react either way. This guy wasn't as upfront and dickish as Harland, and even though that normally meant he'd probably avoid the latter in real life, right now it seemed to mean he could trust that person more.
But still, what did Santiago know?
After what seemed like minutes of staring but more likely was just a few seconds, considering it seemed like Nathan had just finished talking and explaining, Santiago finally spoke up.
"Well if that was a while ago, and you're still bleeding...you're probably gonna need to stitch that up, man. Or get someone who knows how to do that, to...do that."
Santiago knew how to stitch people up. He was probably going to have to stitch Nathan up.
Why did he have to be such a fucking parent? Here, of all places?
Harland stared at the stab wound. It was real, tangible, something that was niggling at the back of his mind, telling him "Hey, this is real, stop fucking around."
He tried his best to ignore it, though.
Yeah, so Drowny was probably right. Darn. Edgy kid was probably gonna bleed out if, like, they didn't stop the bleeding. Harland was all for death, what with it being inevitable and all, but that didn't mean edgy kid was.
"Right you are, drowny fella! Edgy kid, you should definitely patch that up, but not here. Imagine all the, like, flesh-eating bacteria in the water—oh, and all the birdshit everywhere. Oh, and the fish guts. Don't want those gettin' in your leg."
He anxiously picked at the koosh ball. This kid could be a murderer.
He tried his best to ignore it, though.
Yeah, so Drowny was probably right. Darn. Edgy kid was probably gonna bleed out if, like, they didn't stop the bleeding. Harland was all for death, what with it being inevitable and all, but that didn't mean edgy kid was.
"Right you are, drowny fella! Edgy kid, you should definitely patch that up, but not here. Imagine all the, like, flesh-eating bacteria in the water—oh, and all the birdshit everywhere. Oh, and the fish guts. Don't want those gettin' in your leg."
He anxiously picked at the koosh ball. This kid could be a murderer.
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Catche Jagger
- Posts: 743
- Joined: Tue May 28, 2019 7:40 pm
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
The rat-boy seemed insistent on acting like a jackass, which continued to keep Nathan slightly on edge. Had these guys not realized how serious this shit was? Worse still, Nathan could see the sun growing lower in the sky, a ticking clock to remind him that the announcements would come soon enough and reveal him for what he was.
“It’s Nathan.” the boy replied to the rat-faced kid, with a greater degree of snark. He needed a plan of action, not just a vague goal. Of the two, Sandy seemed far more sympathetic to his situation, and stood to be the greater physical threat if things went south. The other guy, tough… well, not everyone was meant to be a contender.
“Yeah… I was thinking so, but I’ve got no idea how.” Nathan replied to Sandy’s comment. He decided not to remark on the rat-boy’s inane comments about sea bacteria or whatever. This wasn’t a fucking hospital, and Nathan had already gotten some seawater on his wounds.
Still, it was clear that the rat-boy wanted to leave, and if Sandy and him were some kind of allies, then he’d want to leave too. A wave of anxiety rushed through his body even as he kept a straight face. He wasn’t sure when when they’d be willing to stop for a little chat again and time was running out. He one last gambit that he needed to play, one that might make or break him.
“I’d really appreciate it if you guys would help me, but if you are… there’s something you should know.” Nathan cleared his throat. Shaky voice, slow and uncertain, filled with regret, this needs to work.
“The guy who attacked me… he’s dead now.” Nathan swallowed, “I managed to throw him off of me, and his head hit this rock…” Every word had weight to it. They had to.
It helped that he did regret what had happened with Miguel. It was him or me, though. After a moment more of hesitation, he continued.
“There was blood, and… and I just got out of there as fast as I could. But, I know what happened. It was pretty fucking clear…” His voice trailed off. Maybe it was better to not come right out and say it.
His hands trembled, though not from reliving the memory of what he’d done to Miguel, but rather out of fear that the two of them might turn on him right then and there. He had to tell them, though. It was the only way either one would ever trust him.
“It’s Nathan.” the boy replied to the rat-faced kid, with a greater degree of snark. He needed a plan of action, not just a vague goal. Of the two, Sandy seemed far more sympathetic to his situation, and stood to be the greater physical threat if things went south. The other guy, tough… well, not everyone was meant to be a contender.
“Yeah… I was thinking so, but I’ve got no idea how.” Nathan replied to Sandy’s comment. He decided not to remark on the rat-boy’s inane comments about sea bacteria or whatever. This wasn’t a fucking hospital, and Nathan had already gotten some seawater on his wounds.
Still, it was clear that the rat-boy wanted to leave, and if Sandy and him were some kind of allies, then he’d want to leave too. A wave of anxiety rushed through his body even as he kept a straight face. He wasn’t sure when when they’d be willing to stop for a little chat again and time was running out. He one last gambit that he needed to play, one that might make or break him.
“I’d really appreciate it if you guys would help me, but if you are… there’s something you should know.” Nathan cleared his throat. Shaky voice, slow and uncertain, filled with regret, this needs to work.
“The guy who attacked me… he’s dead now.” Nathan swallowed, “I managed to throw him off of me, and his head hit this rock…” Every word had weight to it. They had to.
It helped that he did regret what had happened with Miguel. It was him or me, though. After a moment more of hesitation, he continued.
“There was blood, and… and I just got out of there as fast as I could. But, I know what happened. It was pretty fucking clear…” His voice trailed off. Maybe it was better to not come right out and say it.
His hands trembled, though not from reliving the memory of what he’d done to Miguel, but rather out of fear that the two of them might turn on him right then and there. He had to tell them, though. It was the only way either one would ever trust him.