((Nick Ogilvie continued from I Came In The Name Of The Dead, To Bring My Neck To The Blade.))
The third announcements were something new for Nick. He wasn’t going to feature on them. Mixed blessings. Meant he wasn’t, well, a killer. Meant that he didn’t have a single focal point to hone in on, though. That he had to actually, well, listen to all of it.
He wanted to be...if not impartial and equitable in his grief, at least give everyone their due in terms of remembrance. It was the smart thing too, after all. Remembering who the killers were - even though Nick knew all too well from his own experience that being on the list wasn’t necessarily an indicator of callousness or a penchant for premeditated murder - was useful. But Nick couldn’t help but be drawn in to those names that meant something substantial for him, to the exclusion of all others.
Nick looked at Marco. At least he wasn’t alone. That was a comfort.
Michael was a killer. He had shot someone. Nick knew not to judge. Michael was broken. That had been apparent. Broken enough to kill? Nick didn’t know. Maybe his penchant for disproportionate force and explosive rage had rubbed off on Michael. Or maybe Michael had always had it in him and it was pretty ludicrous of Nick to assume that he’d had such a transformative impact. It seemed like ages since they’d travelled together. Nick wasn’t even sure why they had. They both were mourning Beryl. That was it. He hadn’t even known Michael cared about Beryl that much.
Nick had already forgotten the name of who Michael had killed. He remembered who’d died, sure. Reuben, Rhonda, Camila, Clayton. Just...four names in, and he was already struggling to match up victims with killers.
Blaise was killing some more. Dante, it appeared, wasn’t an anomaly. Maybe Dante had been a mercy kill, and Dolores and Alexander had tragically followed from that, an act of self-defence akin to his own killing of Jeremiah that had spiralled ruthlessly out of control. Nick had to admit that that was possible, and unlike with Lorenzo Nick had no trustworthy accounts of their actions to judge them by. But it seemed to be stretching the truth. Nick was willing to think two deaths were plausible. Three seemed unlikely. But he was sure that if he ended up racking up a third kill, well, his standards would change.
He wasn’t sure if Alexander was the Alexander that he’d met, but all doubt disappeared the moment Danya cracked one of his cruel jokes. Didn’t see it coming. That wasn’t witty. That wasn’t smart. There wasn’t even the faintest pretense of originality there. Nick could have come up with that, it was that pathetic, that rudimentary. But it told Nick that, yes, the Alexander that had died was the Alexander that he’d met.
Nia was having a hard time. Nick wasn’t sure what to do with that thought - he wasn’t even sure if he cared - but still. The thought was there. Alexander was dead. He hadn’t been nice to Nick. Now that bygones were bygones, Nick had enough maturity to admit that, well, Alexander had been pretty justified in his hostility. Not that the thought would have even occurred to Nick in the time.
Tristan was dead.
The day that followed was...slow. Nick didn’t discuss much. Nick didn’t say much.
The exact opposite of yesterday.
But at least he had Marco. And when the fourth announcement started, Nick moved to sit by him. Close enough that, if they wanted to, they could lean on each other.
I Just Want Your-
Day 5, Open once Paige posts
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General Goose
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Emprexx Plush
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((Marco Hart Continued From I Came In The Name Of The Dead, To Bring My Neck To The Blade))
What went unspoken caught most of Marco's attention. Each utterance became a weight not merciful enough to fall on his shoulders. Felt despite its position high above his head because its presence warped gravity. No, a burden would be too kind, this mass was beyond carrying. It did not carry the pretense of slowing him down; when it dropped, and it would drop, it carried the sudden, unavoidable energy of an execution. Marco stayed fastened in place as it grew. Counted one, two, five, eleven, twenty, too many times to notice anything but the mounting tension in his chest. He could not bring himself to focus on either outcome directly but they swelled in the periphery until there was no space for other thought, one or the other would pull the cord and either result was terrible and either was in some way his fault and there was no outcome where it went right there was no right here there was only
The pressure bulged, then stilled. The voice above them moved on with praise that sounded...he could not finish the thought. Not dead. Not a killer. Her name wasn't mentioned. Wherever she was, she'd kept her word one day longer. Without understanding why Marco tried to laugh, but in its place came a hoarse croak. His mouth and eyes felt dry, painfully dry, and he wondered if he'd moved at all during the broadcast. Breathed. Blinked. Probably not. He could ask Nick, but that was a very strange thing to approach. Probably. Marco wasn't sure, and not in the anxious way he was accustomed to feeling unsure. It didn't make him afraid. It didn't make him much of any-he'd been over this. Maybe. It felt familiar. Unlike himself.
Nick moved closer to him. The detailed frames of slumping into his side, curling up with his arms around Nick's elbow, rubbing his hand along Nick's bicep, it all slid past him but he must have made those decisions. They were happening, solid. Like Nick. The only distinct thing in the last...however many hours since she left was his presence.
Marco didn't mind that so much. There was no hurry to repeat the feelings either of their last visitors had pulled out of him.
What went unspoken caught most of Marco's attention. Each utterance became a weight not merciful enough to fall on his shoulders. Felt despite its position high above his head because its presence warped gravity. No, a burden would be too kind, this mass was beyond carrying. It did not carry the pretense of slowing him down; when it dropped, and it would drop, it carried the sudden, unavoidable energy of an execution. Marco stayed fastened in place as it grew. Counted one, two, five, eleven, twenty, too many times to notice anything but the mounting tension in his chest. He could not bring himself to focus on either outcome directly but they swelled in the periphery until there was no space for other thought, one or the other would pull the cord and either result was terrible and either was in some way his fault and there was no outcome where it went right there was no right here there was only
The pressure bulged, then stilled. The voice above them moved on with praise that sounded...he could not finish the thought. Not dead. Not a killer. Her name wasn't mentioned. Wherever she was, she'd kept her word one day longer. Without understanding why Marco tried to laugh, but in its place came a hoarse croak. His mouth and eyes felt dry, painfully dry, and he wondered if he'd moved at all during the broadcast. Breathed. Blinked. Probably not. He could ask Nick, but that was a very strange thing to approach. Probably. Marco wasn't sure, and not in the anxious way he was accustomed to feeling unsure. It didn't make him afraid. It didn't make him much of any-he'd been over this. Maybe. It felt familiar. Unlike himself.
Nick moved closer to him. The detailed frames of slumping into his side, curling up with his arms around Nick's elbow, rubbing his hand along Nick's bicep, it all slid past him but he must have made those decisions. They were happening, solid. Like Nick. The only distinct thing in the last...however many hours since she left was his presence.
Marco didn't mind that so much. There was no hurry to repeat the feelings either of their last visitors had pulled out of him.
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General Goose
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Nick looked at Marco.
The announcements were painful. They always were. It was a dull pain now though, robbed of the sting of being an unpleasant surprise. Nick imagined it was now rather akin to what it was like living with chronic pain. The distress that came from novelty, the agitation that came from unfamiliarity, that had disappeared, replaced instead by a steady and omnipresent sense of foreboding, a morose acceptance that this was Nick's life now.
It was the same routine every day. Nick didn't imagine that something so horrific could become so monotonous and wearisome quite so quickly, but here they were. It was the same saga as always. More people dying, a mixture of dear friends and loose acquaintances that he had thought would have fallen out of his life not through grisly death but instead, bar a solitary social media connection, gradual drifting away from over the years. More friends that had blood on their hands. More betrayals. A fratricide. So much to process. So much to think about.
Afterwards, Nick swallowed a sob. He felt like he needed to cry, but bar a stray tear every now and then, hadn't been able to do so. It was pretty exasperating. He needed that catharsis.
Nick sniffed. His nose was bad.
"Well, silver lining: statistically, you're the friendly Marco."
The announcements were painful. They always were. It was a dull pain now though, robbed of the sting of being an unpleasant surprise. Nick imagined it was now rather akin to what it was like living with chronic pain. The distress that came from novelty, the agitation that came from unfamiliarity, that had disappeared, replaced instead by a steady and omnipresent sense of foreboding, a morose acceptance that this was Nick's life now.
It was the same routine every day. Nick didn't imagine that something so horrific could become so monotonous and wearisome quite so quickly, but here they were. It was the same saga as always. More people dying, a mixture of dear friends and loose acquaintances that he had thought would have fallen out of his life not through grisly death but instead, bar a solitary social media connection, gradual drifting away from over the years. More friends that had blood on their hands. More betrayals. A fratricide. So much to process. So much to think about.
Afterwards, Nick swallowed a sob. He felt like he needed to cry, but bar a stray tear every now and then, hadn't been able to do so. It was pretty exasperating. He needed that catharsis.
Nick sniffed. His nose was bad.
"Well, silver lining: statistically, you're the friendly Marco."
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VoltTurtle
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((The roar of rushing water filled the area.))
The Stricken trudged along, following the path towards the waterfall cave. Her bag was limply slung over her shoulder, and Dolly's knife was clenched tightly in her hand as she carefully scanned the surroundings for any sign of a potential threat. She had been on edge ever since she and Roxanne had left the relatively safe confines of the lighthouse. Every shadow was an enemy, every sound a threat. Before, she had not been taking the place she was in seriously, and she had lost so much because of it. She was under no illusion of security now, and that mistake was not one that she would make again.
Despite her newfound paranoia, the rest of the fourth day had passed by relatively uneventfully, the pair roaming the island aimlessly. When they had elected to sleep, the Stricken soon found her dreams once again being haunted by the gruesome images of the corpse that was formerly her love, only now the ghosts of Beryl and Alex were haunting her too.
Beryl. Alex. Dolly.
Their names repeated in her head over and over again obstinately, refusing to leave her be for even a moment, refusing to let her catch her breath. She brought her blade to bare in front of her face, staring at the light reflecting off of it from the morning sun as they continued to walk. The rage in her heart had not faded, only festered. The guilt that weighed her down had only grown heavier in the absence of her attention.
She wanted revenge, but in the end, the madness that had eaten away at her had been right. Every misery that had befallen her in this place was her fault. She had allowed Blaise to kill two of her constant companions simply by failing to stop them. Now, upon reflection, Beryl's death haunted her too, even though the Stricken had not had the chance to stop Nick from ruthlessly murdering her, like she had with Blaise. She still could have done better, however, as she had not even attempted to locate Beryl before her untimely demise. She had even allowed herself to fixate so much on her girlfriend that she had almost brushed Beryl's death aside, and likewise allowed Roxanne to slip away from her.
She allowed all of this happen. She was the true enemy. She was the true evil.
A single tear began to roll down the side of her cheek. How selfish she had been, while thinking of only one other. Now her only remaining companion was just behind her, walking with her, following her on this haphazard path. She wondered why Roxanne was still with her, why Roxanne would allow herself to follow someone who had let so much evil occur. For the first time since they had woken up together, she began to weakly choke out words, refusing to turn around.
"Why aren't you mad at me?"
That question by itself wasn't enough, she knew Roxanne well enough that she would respond with simple confusion, wondering what the problem could possibly be. Someone else had to understand her, someone else had to share her indignation at her behavior, at her failure.
"Before you ask, I mean letting Alex die." Her voice quivered as she spoke those words, her eyes affixed ahead, at the fast-approaching cave entrance. "I know you cared about him, you're the one who dragged him into the band. I let Dolly die, and because of that I let him die too, so why? Why aren't you mad-"
She stopped in her tracks, her gaze falling upon a new pair within the dimly lit interior of the cave. Her free arm whipped around, grabbing Roxanne and holding her still. For the first time, the Stricken was finally face to face with someone on her list.
"Keep the gun ready," she hissed, keeping her voice level just above the sound of the rushing water. In an instant, her thoughts had been torn away from her self loathing, and now she had already decided what she was going to do. Roxanne would inevitably protest the needless encounter, but the Stricken couldn't let a chance like this pass her by. She didn't know what she would do, or what she would say, or even the point of her actions, but from deep within she felt an inescapable need to confront him.
Perhaps it was her rage, telling her now was the time to strike, to finally get the catharsis of vengeance. Nick may not be Blaise, the rage for him might not be as white hot, but he was a close second. He would be a sufficient tribute to the raging inferno of hatred within her. Her rational self was right that revenge could not bring the dead back to life, but she was already so tired of fighting against her inner fury, denying her baser urges and refusing to acknowledge her feelings. Maybe giving into it and letting it have what it wanted could finally make her feel at least somewhat better. Maybe she would finally be free of her guilt.
She breathed in as her hands began to shake, her nerves getting the better of her. Nick was a known killer, twice over. If there was any place she could die, it would be right here, right now. Her instincts were screaming at her to flee, to not bother confronting someone who could pose a massive danger to her, but she was unperturbed.
She squeezed the hilt of the knife, her brow furrowed. She could not waste precious seconds thinking over her choices, now was the time to act, now was the time to go.
Exhaling, she began to move once more, tugging Roxanne along with her, walking swiftly towards the mouth of the cave, straight for the pair. Her blade was highly visible, slicing through the air with her strides, a sufficient warning of what was to come. When she finally closed the gap, a distance not but twenty paces from the two of them, she finally stopped and released her grip on Roxanne.
In her head, she had built Nick up to be a monster, but the reality of the man in front of her called that into question. He had a companion with him, and as much as the Stricken was pushing that out of her mind, she couldn't help but acknowledge that reality.That was proof enough that he wasn't so far gone that he was blindly murdering everyone around him like Blaise clearly was. Perhaps there was something redeemable within him, deep inside. Perhaps she would draw it out, before her fury inevitably overtook her reasoning.
Her expression was cold, but betrayed little anger. The inferno within her had calmed, if only somewhat, and her rage was now much more focused than it had been previously.
"Nick."
A single word rolled off her tongue, hanging in the air between them. A silent accusation, and an implicit threat. Nick had killed Beryl, he had to know who she was, and why she was here.
She squeezed the knife clutched so tightly in her hand again, her knuckles turning white.
He better.
The Stricken trudged along, following the path towards the waterfall cave. Her bag was limply slung over her shoulder, and Dolly's knife was clenched tightly in her hand as she carefully scanned the surroundings for any sign of a potential threat. She had been on edge ever since she and Roxanne had left the relatively safe confines of the lighthouse. Every shadow was an enemy, every sound a threat. Before, she had not been taking the place she was in seriously, and she had lost so much because of it. She was under no illusion of security now, and that mistake was not one that she would make again.
Despite her newfound paranoia, the rest of the fourth day had passed by relatively uneventfully, the pair roaming the island aimlessly. When they had elected to sleep, the Stricken soon found her dreams once again being haunted by the gruesome images of the corpse that was formerly her love, only now the ghosts of Beryl and Alex were haunting her too.
Beryl. Alex. Dolly.
Their names repeated in her head over and over again obstinately, refusing to leave her be for even a moment, refusing to let her catch her breath. She brought her blade to bare in front of her face, staring at the light reflecting off of it from the morning sun as they continued to walk. The rage in her heart had not faded, only festered. The guilt that weighed her down had only grown heavier in the absence of her attention.
She wanted revenge, but in the end, the madness that had eaten away at her had been right. Every misery that had befallen her in this place was her fault. She had allowed Blaise to kill two of her constant companions simply by failing to stop them. Now, upon reflection, Beryl's death haunted her too, even though the Stricken had not had the chance to stop Nick from ruthlessly murdering her, like she had with Blaise. She still could have done better, however, as she had not even attempted to locate Beryl before her untimely demise. She had even allowed herself to fixate so much on her girlfriend that she had almost brushed Beryl's death aside, and likewise allowed Roxanne to slip away from her.
She allowed all of this happen. She was the true enemy. She was the true evil.
A single tear began to roll down the side of her cheek. How selfish she had been, while thinking of only one other. Now her only remaining companion was just behind her, walking with her, following her on this haphazard path. She wondered why Roxanne was still with her, why Roxanne would allow herself to follow someone who had let so much evil occur. For the first time since they had woken up together, she began to weakly choke out words, refusing to turn around.
"Why aren't you mad at me?"
That question by itself wasn't enough, she knew Roxanne well enough that she would respond with simple confusion, wondering what the problem could possibly be. Someone else had to understand her, someone else had to share her indignation at her behavior, at her failure.
"Before you ask, I mean letting Alex die." Her voice quivered as she spoke those words, her eyes affixed ahead, at the fast-approaching cave entrance. "I know you cared about him, you're the one who dragged him into the band. I let Dolly die, and because of that I let him die too, so why? Why aren't you mad-"
She stopped in her tracks, her gaze falling upon a new pair within the dimly lit interior of the cave. Her free arm whipped around, grabbing Roxanne and holding her still. For the first time, the Stricken was finally face to face with someone on her list.
"Keep the gun ready," she hissed, keeping her voice level just above the sound of the rushing water. In an instant, her thoughts had been torn away from her self loathing, and now she had already decided what she was going to do. Roxanne would inevitably protest the needless encounter, but the Stricken couldn't let a chance like this pass her by. She didn't know what she would do, or what she would say, or even the point of her actions, but from deep within she felt an inescapable need to confront him.
Perhaps it was her rage, telling her now was the time to strike, to finally get the catharsis of vengeance. Nick may not be Blaise, the rage for him might not be as white hot, but he was a close second. He would be a sufficient tribute to the raging inferno of hatred within her. Her rational self was right that revenge could not bring the dead back to life, but she was already so tired of fighting against her inner fury, denying her baser urges and refusing to acknowledge her feelings. Maybe giving into it and letting it have what it wanted could finally make her feel at least somewhat better. Maybe she would finally be free of her guilt.
She breathed in as her hands began to shake, her nerves getting the better of her. Nick was a known killer, twice over. If there was any place she could die, it would be right here, right now. Her instincts were screaming at her to flee, to not bother confronting someone who could pose a massive danger to her, but she was unperturbed.
She squeezed the hilt of the knife, her brow furrowed. She could not waste precious seconds thinking over her choices, now was the time to act, now was the time to go.
Exhaling, she began to move once more, tugging Roxanne along with her, walking swiftly towards the mouth of the cave, straight for the pair. Her blade was highly visible, slicing through the air with her strides, a sufficient warning of what was to come. When she finally closed the gap, a distance not but twenty paces from the two of them, she finally stopped and released her grip on Roxanne.
In her head, she had built Nick up to be a monster, but the reality of the man in front of her called that into question. He had a companion with him, and as much as the Stricken was pushing that out of her mind, she couldn't help but acknowledge that reality.That was proof enough that he wasn't so far gone that he was blindly murdering everyone around him like Blaise clearly was. Perhaps there was something redeemable within him, deep inside. Perhaps she would draw it out, before her fury inevitably overtook her reasoning.
Her expression was cold, but betrayed little anger. The inferno within her had calmed, if only somewhat, and her rage was now much more focused than it had been previously.
"Nick."
A single word rolled off her tongue, hanging in the air between them. A silent accusation, and an implicit threat. Nick had killed Beryl, he had to know who she was, and why she was here.
She squeezed the knife clutched so tightly in her hand again, her knuckles turning white.
He better.
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Emprexx Plush
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So here was a fun fact: you could not resolve over a decade of suppressed curiosity in less than a half dozen days. Even with your life on the line. Even with someone else's blood on your hands. When Marco drew firm lines they were rooted in need to feel something stable. The narrative he was constructing belabored that point often enough, but going back to it reminded him of all the work he wasn't doing. Since his conclusions couldn't be final he needed to keep revisiting them, not just revisit his need to revisit. Fixations, conclusions, frameworks, stuff that all should have probably been worked out through years of therapy or at least communication with, uh, anyone, denied the luxuries of time or perspective by his indecision. He wanted a life worth living. That meant examination, Plato had said that right? Or...Aristotle? Somebody Greek probably? Or was he way off, could it have been Thoreau? Off track. The exact kind of thing he couldn't afford anymore when he should have been thinking about things like...how had he phrased it when Axel disturbed them?
"If anyone tried to hurt Nick, he wouldn't hide in the back of the cave hoping that he made it out okay.
Marco would slit their fucking throats himself."
He'd meant to unpack that feeling. As much as he'd been preoccupied with inevitable violence with Garnet, he hesitated. His impulse was to wait and let her make the first move. If she started something, that was on her, right? Axel, though he hadn't known it was Axel at the time, didn't get that courtesy. The first hint of a threat and he would be on them. No, that was still too charitable, he wasn't waiting for them to act as a matter of procedure. There was anticipation. He wanted someone to try something, he wanted to hurt them, he wanted to show Nick that he was valuable, desirable, except Nick was just an avenue it could have been anyone who looked at him expecting worth, maybe, he wasn't, it wasn't-
If nothing else the jumble of thoughts demonstrated why he should have worked through all of this before they had more company. Marco didn't know the girl who stepped forward, but he watched her body language. All the existential musing about reality and body evaporated when she hissed Nick's name like a curse. Marco's body went rigid as he shot up, hand from Nick's bicep to his bag. "Stay. Back." If it was a threat, he gave no thought to its effectiveness. The girl did not seem to recognize him, and without reputation he was unimposing. Without his glove he was unarmed, except with singular unexamined certainty: if she tried to hurt nick, he would slit her fucking throat himself.
"If anyone tried to hurt Nick, he wouldn't hide in the back of the cave hoping that he made it out okay.
Marco would slit their fucking throats himself."
He'd meant to unpack that feeling. As much as he'd been preoccupied with inevitable violence with Garnet, he hesitated. His impulse was to wait and let her make the first move. If she started something, that was on her, right? Axel, though he hadn't known it was Axel at the time, didn't get that courtesy. The first hint of a threat and he would be on them. No, that was still too charitable, he wasn't waiting for them to act as a matter of procedure. There was anticipation. He wanted someone to try something, he wanted to hurt them, he wanted to show Nick that he was valuable, desirable, except Nick was just an avenue it could have been anyone who looked at him expecting worth, maybe, he wasn't, it wasn't-
If nothing else the jumble of thoughts demonstrated why he should have worked through all of this before they had more company. Marco didn't know the girl who stepped forward, but he watched her body language. All the existential musing about reality and body evaporated when she hissed Nick's name like a curse. Marco's body went rigid as he shot up, hand from Nick's bicep to his bag. "Stay. Back." If it was a threat, he gave no thought to its effectiveness. The girl did not seem to recognize him, and without reputation he was unimposing. Without his glove he was unarmed, except with singular unexamined certainty: if she tried to hurt nick, he would slit her fucking throat himself.
((Roxanne’s fourth day passed by, treacherously uneventful.))
A day, a whole day, when her life was measured in days. A whole day where the only notable event was her continued existence. They met no one except corpses, and even with those just averted their gazes, held their breath, and walked past without comment.
Marcy was horrible company. Petty of her to even think that, but little seemed to linger of the moment of clarity the girl had stolen in the lighthouse. She was tense, terse, aimless. Exhausting to be around. Roxanne didn’t want to be reduced to creeping around the island looking down the barrel of her shotgun, ready to pull the trigger at the slightest twitch of movement, but that was the path they were heading down.
Still. She had made her decision, and wasn’t going to ditch Marcy just because they were both miserable, in their own ways. Roxanne’s was fuzzy, an indistinct sense of longing, that things could somehow be better than they were. Marcy’s was gritted teeth reflected off of the edge of a knife. She couldn’t begrudge her rage, even if she didn’t share it.
The rain was gone. That was something to smile about, even in the silence they were left with once the announcements - refreshingly irrelevant to both of them - had finished. So many of them had died since the storm had first started, never to see the sun again. She was lucky. She had to remember that, even when it didn’t feel like it. Even when she was growing increasingly uncertain of what it was she even wanted out of the rest of her life.
Marcy broke the silence, and for once Roxanne was speechless instead of merely quiet. Had Marcy been reading judgement into Roxanne’s silences since she had been woken up by the announcements the previous day? Was that why she had been so on-edge? Had she spent the day expecting Roxanne to turn around and start yelling at her for failures at any moment?
Such a pointless, stupid way to deny yourself any peace of mind. She had to reassure her as soon as possible, that blaming Marcy for Alexander’s death would be like blaming her for not single-handedly stopping the abduction - but there were more pressing matters at hand. She should have guessed there’d be people in the cave - shelter was priceless, especially shelter so far removed from the morgue the town had to be turning into.
Marcy’s voice dripped venom. This could go very bad, very quickly. What a way to start their morning.
“Easy,” Roxanne said. Not to either one of them in particular, but rather the situation as a whole. She kept her shotgun low, but also hung back, safely out of lunging range. She didn’t want things to escalate, but if they did, she wanted to be one of the ones left standing.
She didn’t recognize the smaller one, but the bearded boy’s face was distinct enough to trigger her memories. When she had heard Beryl’s death (her first real loss) the shock had been so great that she’d completely forgotten where she’d heard the killer’s name - Beryl had mentioned something about dating him, and it’d slipped her mind. Maybe Roxanne hadn’t been that great a friend. Too late for regrets now.
Even now, looking directly in the eyes of the murderer, Roxanne felt nothing much except a vague sadness. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. But you killed my best friend, and I wanna know why.”
A day, a whole day, when her life was measured in days. A whole day where the only notable event was her continued existence. They met no one except corpses, and even with those just averted their gazes, held their breath, and walked past without comment.
Marcy was horrible company. Petty of her to even think that, but little seemed to linger of the moment of clarity the girl had stolen in the lighthouse. She was tense, terse, aimless. Exhausting to be around. Roxanne didn’t want to be reduced to creeping around the island looking down the barrel of her shotgun, ready to pull the trigger at the slightest twitch of movement, but that was the path they were heading down.
Still. She had made her decision, and wasn’t going to ditch Marcy just because they were both miserable, in their own ways. Roxanne’s was fuzzy, an indistinct sense of longing, that things could somehow be better than they were. Marcy’s was gritted teeth reflected off of the edge of a knife. She couldn’t begrudge her rage, even if she didn’t share it.
The rain was gone. That was something to smile about, even in the silence they were left with once the announcements - refreshingly irrelevant to both of them - had finished. So many of them had died since the storm had first started, never to see the sun again. She was lucky. She had to remember that, even when it didn’t feel like it. Even when she was growing increasingly uncertain of what it was she even wanted out of the rest of her life.
Marcy broke the silence, and for once Roxanne was speechless instead of merely quiet. Had Marcy been reading judgement into Roxanne’s silences since she had been woken up by the announcements the previous day? Was that why she had been so on-edge? Had she spent the day expecting Roxanne to turn around and start yelling at her for failures at any moment?
Such a pointless, stupid way to deny yourself any peace of mind. She had to reassure her as soon as possible, that blaming Marcy for Alexander’s death would be like blaming her for not single-handedly stopping the abduction - but there were more pressing matters at hand. She should have guessed there’d be people in the cave - shelter was priceless, especially shelter so far removed from the morgue the town had to be turning into.
Marcy’s voice dripped venom. This could go very bad, very quickly. What a way to start their morning.
“Easy,” Roxanne said. Not to either one of them in particular, but rather the situation as a whole. She kept her shotgun low, but also hung back, safely out of lunging range. She didn’t want things to escalate, but if they did, she wanted to be one of the ones left standing.
She didn’t recognize the smaller one, but the bearded boy’s face was distinct enough to trigger her memories. When she had heard Beryl’s death (her first real loss) the shock had been so great that she’d completely forgotten where she’d heard the killer’s name - Beryl had mentioned something about dating him, and it’d slipped her mind. Maybe Roxanne hadn’t been that great a friend. Too late for regrets now.
Even now, looking directly in the eyes of the murderer, Roxanne felt nothing much except a vague sadness. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. But you killed my best friend, and I wanna know why.”
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
They were not allowed to be alone, no. Their luck had lasted for too long. Maybe they'd earned, through some imperceptible act of decency, a couple of days of isolation and solitude, of temporary extrication from the lawlessness and ferocity of the island around them. That temporary reprieve, whether through luck or karma, was only temporary, and Marcy and Roxanne entered the scene.
Before Nick could even piece together where he knew them from or where they fit into George Hunter High's social hierarchy, he could tell from the look on their faces that they hated him for one of the people he'd killed. The look of vitriol, of sheer undiluted loathing, that came from being viewed as a murderer was far more venomous, far more scathing and caustic, than any of the looks of disdain that Nick was used to.
And, well, process of elimination, it was pretty easy to work out it was Beryl they were angry about. Jeremiah was...well, less fondly remembered. Never speak ill of the dead, unless the dead had died trying to smash your head in.
Nick's memory belatedly caught up with his instincts, and he recognised who Roxanne and Marcy were, and how they knew him, and how they knew of him, and why they would be pretty damn well justified in wanting him dead. They didn't attack, not immediately, though they had every conceivable advantage. They actually were giving him a chance to defend himself. How nice. He could appreciate that crude facsimile of due process.
"If you guys are here to kill me about Beryl, join the queue," Nick sighed, not really bothering to respond to Marco's - admittedly sweet - defence of him. "If you're here to kill me over Jeremiah...eh, that queue's a lot shorter."
Nick sighed. "I know you're here about Beryl. It was a damn mercy kill. I'm not one of those cunts who'd murder an ex in a fit of rage." They had no reason to believe him. None. Nada. Whatever. His tone was quiet, lethargic, accepting of how rapidly his fate had fallen out of his control.
Before Nick could even piece together where he knew them from or where they fit into George Hunter High's social hierarchy, he could tell from the look on their faces that they hated him for one of the people he'd killed. The look of vitriol, of sheer undiluted loathing, that came from being viewed as a murderer was far more venomous, far more scathing and caustic, than any of the looks of disdain that Nick was used to.
And, well, process of elimination, it was pretty easy to work out it was Beryl they were angry about. Jeremiah was...well, less fondly remembered. Never speak ill of the dead, unless the dead had died trying to smash your head in.
Nick's memory belatedly caught up with his instincts, and he recognised who Roxanne and Marcy were, and how they knew him, and how they knew of him, and why they would be pretty damn well justified in wanting him dead. They didn't attack, not immediately, though they had every conceivable advantage. They actually were giving him a chance to defend himself. How nice. He could appreciate that crude facsimile of due process.
"If you guys are here to kill me about Beryl, join the queue," Nick sighed, not really bothering to respond to Marco's - admittedly sweet - defence of him. "If you're here to kill me over Jeremiah...eh, that queue's a lot shorter."
Nick sighed. "I know you're here about Beryl. It was a damn mercy kill. I'm not one of those cunts who'd murder an ex in a fit of rage." They had no reason to believe him. None. Nada. Whatever. His tone was quiet, lethargic, accepting of how rapidly his fate had fallen out of his control.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
Stay back? How adorable, the Disarrayed thought. As if she needed to advance, they didn't seem to be armed at the moment, and Roxanne could blow them both away if the need arose. Still, Nick's companion seemed to be agitated, and the Disarrayed wasn't willing to take any chances. She turned her body ever so slightly, taking on a subtle, defensive, fencer-like posture, something that her father had taught her, before. Her armed side was now presented forward, shielding her unarmed, vulnerable side from attack. At the same time, her blade remained lowered, so as not to provoke any more aggression.
She merely needed to be a threat, a warning to not try to close the gap. If either tried to rush them down, she would have them on the ground in no time at all, bleeding out like a stuck pig. Her tranquil rage whispered this truth to her, in her heart of hearts. Then, once they were lying there, broken and bleeding, all she would need to do after that was reach down, pick them up by their hair, and-
She relaxed her grip on her blade's hilt, ever so slightly, a subtle shift that only she could notice. What was she thinking? Before she came here, she never even considered harming another person, but now it was dominating her thoughts. She had refused to consciously acknowledge it at first, but she had approached Nick with the intent to murder him. Regardless of what he said, regardless of who his companion was, regardless of what Roxanne thought, just a few seconds ago, she had been determined to make sure that when she left, Nick would be no more.
What right did she have, to make that call, to take another person's life? Had this place begun to corrupt her, like it had so many others already? Like Blaise?
Like Nick?
Her thoughts refocused, with significantly more clarity. Nick didn't have that right, either, and unlike her, he had already made the mistake of thinking that he actually did, twice. Perhaps he had a reason, however. Perhaps her homicidal fury was unwarranted. She doubted the possibility for numerous reasons, but nonetheless, Roxanne had asked, and the Disarrayed listened.
Her consideration of what was said was brief, and her response was simple.
"Bullshit," she barked. "Do you seriously think anyone would believe that? What's more likely, you kill an ex as revenge, or circumstances just so happen to line up for a mercy kill?"
It didn't make any sense. Perhaps it seemed like a reasonable explanation at first, but it simply didn't hold up to any kind of scrutiny. There were too many questions that raised, in an of itself, too many assumptions were required for it to make sense, compared to the simple explanation of a long-standing grudge. Occam's Razor would suggest that Nick was just as murderous as she thought, and he was simply lying to avoid the need for further conflict. Furthermore, his story had no mention of Jeremiah, and thus didn't not explain his death at Nick's hands.
A part of her had heard all she needed to hear to condemn him. Another part wanted answers, a full story that would definitely show cracks, if he was lying. Better that way, if she decided to act on her desire for vengeance, she would need Roxanne to truly be on her side. Nick would be the one to help her accomplish that.
"Let's say I believe you, though." She continued her rant, refusing to allow her tirade to be interrupted. "If that's the case, did you try to help her, first? Why couldn't she do it herself, if she really wanted to die?"
"Did you ask her if she actually wanted to die, before you did it?" She hissed, rattling off question after accusatory question. "Or did you just make that decision for her? So that way, you wouldn't need to be bothered with the burden of someone who needed your help."
Those last few words left her lips with extraordinary contempt. Even if he was telling the truth, she refused to believe that Nick had really done everything he could have to avoid Beryl's death. He was guilty, and she was simply trying to draw that guilt out of him.
"And," she said, after the briefest pause. "Finally, if you weren't really to blame for what happened, who or what was?"
She would address the matters of Jeremiah demise and the exact identity of Nick's companion later. The mysteries troubled her, but her interrogation was her primary priority for the time being. Everything she wanted to know would come, in time.
She merely needed to be a threat, a warning to not try to close the gap. If either tried to rush them down, she would have them on the ground in no time at all, bleeding out like a stuck pig. Her tranquil rage whispered this truth to her, in her heart of hearts. Then, once they were lying there, broken and bleeding, all she would need to do after that was reach down, pick them up by their hair, and-
She relaxed her grip on her blade's hilt, ever so slightly, a subtle shift that only she could notice. What was she thinking? Before she came here, she never even considered harming another person, but now it was dominating her thoughts. She had refused to consciously acknowledge it at first, but she had approached Nick with the intent to murder him. Regardless of what he said, regardless of who his companion was, regardless of what Roxanne thought, just a few seconds ago, she had been determined to make sure that when she left, Nick would be no more.
What right did she have, to make that call, to take another person's life? Had this place begun to corrupt her, like it had so many others already? Like Blaise?
Like Nick?
Her thoughts refocused, with significantly more clarity. Nick didn't have that right, either, and unlike her, he had already made the mistake of thinking that he actually did, twice. Perhaps he had a reason, however. Perhaps her homicidal fury was unwarranted. She doubted the possibility for numerous reasons, but nonetheless, Roxanne had asked, and the Disarrayed listened.
Her consideration of what was said was brief, and her response was simple.
"Bullshit," she barked. "Do you seriously think anyone would believe that? What's more likely, you kill an ex as revenge, or circumstances just so happen to line up for a mercy kill?"
It didn't make any sense. Perhaps it seemed like a reasonable explanation at first, but it simply didn't hold up to any kind of scrutiny. There were too many questions that raised, in an of itself, too many assumptions were required for it to make sense, compared to the simple explanation of a long-standing grudge. Occam's Razor would suggest that Nick was just as murderous as she thought, and he was simply lying to avoid the need for further conflict. Furthermore, his story had no mention of Jeremiah, and thus didn't not explain his death at Nick's hands.
A part of her had heard all she needed to hear to condemn him. Another part wanted answers, a full story that would definitely show cracks, if he was lying. Better that way, if she decided to act on her desire for vengeance, she would need Roxanne to truly be on her side. Nick would be the one to help her accomplish that.
"Let's say I believe you, though." She continued her rant, refusing to allow her tirade to be interrupted. "If that's the case, did you try to help her, first? Why couldn't she do it herself, if she really wanted to die?"
"Did you ask her if she actually wanted to die, before you did it?" She hissed, rattling off question after accusatory question. "Or did you just make that decision for her? So that way, you wouldn't need to be bothered with the burden of someone who needed your help."
Those last few words left her lips with extraordinary contempt. Even if he was telling the truth, she refused to believe that Nick had really done everything he could have to avoid Beryl's death. He was guilty, and she was simply trying to draw that guilt out of him.
"And," she said, after the briefest pause. "Finally, if you weren't really to blame for what happened, who or what was?"
She would address the matters of Jeremiah demise and the exact identity of Nick's companion later. The mysteries troubled her, but her interrogation was her primary priority for the time being. Everything she wanted to know would come, in time.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
He should have been wearing the glove. One of them should have kept watch. They should have stayed hidden. He shouldn't of killed her. Hmm. Who and who? Nick? Marco? Beryl? Kayla?
Marco could speak at length to either pair, but no one seemed interested in what he had to say just now. Had Nick said their names? Had they? If he was honest, which admittedly was a challenge, he hadn't been listening for them. Rude to the quieter girl who claimed to only want answers, maybe under different circumstances they could have had a conversation. The other though. She'd made up her mind days ago. Everything that came next was theater.
Marco didn't have the energy to imagine how that would go for her.
Marco could speak at length to either pair, but no one seemed interested in what he had to say just now. Had Nick said their names? Had they? If he was honest, which admittedly was a challenge, he hadn't been listening for them. Rude to the quieter girl who claimed to only want answers, maybe under different circumstances they could have had a conversation. The other though. She'd made up her mind days ago. Everything that came next was theater.
Marco didn't have the energy to imagine how that would go for her.
Roxanne listened as stoically as she could while Nick stated his case. He seemed reasonable. It was important to seem reasonable when you weren’t the one with the gun, wasn’t it?
He seemed tired - well, they were all tired. But specifically tired. Exasperated, almost. Already sick of repeating himself about how it really wasn’t his fault that he killed Beryl. It made sense. She had been well-loved by many - the band had only been a part of her life, not her whole world like it was for Roxanne. Easy to imagine how many people had come to him, demanding answers.
Well, he was still alive, so maybe everyone else had believed him. Or they’d just done a real bad job of killing him. Maybe that’s what happened to the Jeremiah he mentioned.
A mercy kill could mean a lot of things, none of them pleasant. If Marcy had come prepared to accept any answers, that certainly wasn’t one of them - she pressed on, lashed out, wanted to know how Beryl had suffered, wanted to know who she had to hate, and-
“Stop it!”
The desperate plea escaped Roxanne’s lips, almost without her realizing it. She was shaking. When had she started shaking? She needed to keep a steady heart, steady aim, focus on keeping herself and the person she cared for safe, but. Maybe that’s why she needed to do this. There was some shadowy thing writhing in her brain, and every question Marcy asked burned like a spotlight pointed into her skull, threatening to expose the ugliness hidden there.
Deep breaths.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Roxanne said, calmer this time. Shouting was a wonderful way to escalate things and get someone killed, so she needed to focus and clearly make her point.
“Marcy, I don’t want to hear how Beryl died. She’s gone, like the rain’s gone, like we’re all gone, and nothing we do can change that. I can live with that, okay?”
Someone had, with very little fuss, cut a neat Beryl-shaped chunk of her heart out. Maybe it was just the concept of death itself. She could deal with an abstract like that, stretching above their heads like the night sky, blanketing all of existence - it was too big to really register on an emotional level. Like coming home from school and being told that her childhood dog had been brought to the vet and euthanized while she was gone.
“I don’t wanna hear how much pain she was in, I don’t wanna know if she begged to die, the look in her eyes, the weakness in her voice, or maybe her strength, if she went out shooting finger guns or crying or screaming or who hurt her how much, and...”
Nick knew. Even if he had been the coldest bastard on the planet, he would never forget what had happened to her. That was his burden, and maybe he deserved it; but Roxanne had no desire to share it.
“There’s no such thing as evidence here. He said it was mercy, alright? Please don’t do anything that’ll make me have to protect you.”
He seemed tired - well, they were all tired. But specifically tired. Exasperated, almost. Already sick of repeating himself about how it really wasn’t his fault that he killed Beryl. It made sense. She had been well-loved by many - the band had only been a part of her life, not her whole world like it was for Roxanne. Easy to imagine how many people had come to him, demanding answers.
Well, he was still alive, so maybe everyone else had believed him. Or they’d just done a real bad job of killing him. Maybe that’s what happened to the Jeremiah he mentioned.
A mercy kill could mean a lot of things, none of them pleasant. If Marcy had come prepared to accept any answers, that certainly wasn’t one of them - she pressed on, lashed out, wanted to know how Beryl had suffered, wanted to know who she had to hate, and-
“Stop it!”
The desperate plea escaped Roxanne’s lips, almost without her realizing it. She was shaking. When had she started shaking? She needed to keep a steady heart, steady aim, focus on keeping herself and the person she cared for safe, but. Maybe that’s why she needed to do this. There was some shadowy thing writhing in her brain, and every question Marcy asked burned like a spotlight pointed into her skull, threatening to expose the ugliness hidden there.
Deep breaths.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Roxanne said, calmer this time. Shouting was a wonderful way to escalate things and get someone killed, so she needed to focus and clearly make her point.
“Marcy, I don’t want to hear how Beryl died. She’s gone, like the rain’s gone, like we’re all gone, and nothing we do can change that. I can live with that, okay?”
Someone had, with very little fuss, cut a neat Beryl-shaped chunk of her heart out. Maybe it was just the concept of death itself. She could deal with an abstract like that, stretching above their heads like the night sky, blanketing all of existence - it was too big to really register on an emotional level. Like coming home from school and being told that her childhood dog had been brought to the vet and euthanized while she was gone.
“I don’t wanna hear how much pain she was in, I don’t wanna know if she begged to die, the look in her eyes, the weakness in her voice, or maybe her strength, if she went out shooting finger guns or crying or screaming or who hurt her how much, and...”
Nick knew. Even if he had been the coldest bastard on the planet, he would never forget what had happened to her. That was his burden, and maybe he deserved it; but Roxanne had no desire to share it.
“There’s no such thing as evidence here. He said it was mercy, alright? Please don’t do anything that’ll make me have to protect you.”
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
So. There it was.
Marcy called bullshit on him. Whatever. Nick was used to that. It hurt emotionally, sure. It was frustrating, sure. But he could live with that. He was content if Axel and Marco were the only people out there that he could convince not to be scared of him. It sucked, but hey, having two people who believed him was enough to give Nick a tiny sliver of self-worth, enough confidence in his own moral assessments of the situation to know that he wasn't irredeemably detached from reality. Nick would take that.
Marcy asked so many questions.
Nick was prepared to answer them. He knew that his answers would be insufficient for her. He could accept that. He'd frame it with an acknowledgement of that fact - that he was demanding a level of credulity and faith that he had certainly not earned, that it was all things considered more likely that he was just another violent psycho ex-boyfriend than someone who had just so happened to be there at the exact moment that shit hit the fan.
Roxanne shut it down though.
She wasn't interested in hearing any of it.
Nick looked at her. This was, in a sense, a relief, but in another sense a complication. Had to keep them both...not cordial, it was too late for that, but at least non-violent. "I'm not going to give you the details, but Beryl was...she didn't have a chance. I gave her a burial at sea. She would have liked that, I reckon." Nick turned back to Marceline. "If you guys wanna hear more, decide amongst yourselves and then get back to me. But I ain't gonna get into the details if all it'll do is traumatise everyone here some more."
If you're gonna kill me, just do it, was what he wanted to say. Could have done without the kangaroo court bullshit. As Roxanne had pointed out, there was no evidence. Recordings, sure, but they weren't gonna be shared.
Marcy called bullshit on him. Whatever. Nick was used to that. It hurt emotionally, sure. It was frustrating, sure. But he could live with that. He was content if Axel and Marco were the only people out there that he could convince not to be scared of him. It sucked, but hey, having two people who believed him was enough to give Nick a tiny sliver of self-worth, enough confidence in his own moral assessments of the situation to know that he wasn't irredeemably detached from reality. Nick would take that.
Marcy asked so many questions.
Nick was prepared to answer them. He knew that his answers would be insufficient for her. He could accept that. He'd frame it with an acknowledgement of that fact - that he was demanding a level of credulity and faith that he had certainly not earned, that it was all things considered more likely that he was just another violent psycho ex-boyfriend than someone who had just so happened to be there at the exact moment that shit hit the fan.
Roxanne shut it down though.
She wasn't interested in hearing any of it.
Nick looked at her. This was, in a sense, a relief, but in another sense a complication. Had to keep them both...not cordial, it was too late for that, but at least non-violent. "I'm not going to give you the details, but Beryl was...she didn't have a chance. I gave her a burial at sea. She would have liked that, I reckon." Nick turned back to Marceline. "If you guys wanna hear more, decide amongst yourselves and then get back to me. But I ain't gonna get into the details if all it'll do is traumatise everyone here some more."
If you're gonna kill me, just do it, was what he wanted to say. Could have done without the kangaroo court bullshit. As Roxanne had pointed out, there was no evidence. Recordings, sure, but they weren't gonna be shared.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
The Scorned flinched in response to her companion's plea, taken by surprise by both the pain and sincerity in her request. Lowering her guard, the inferno of rage burning within her was quelled, at least a little bit. She had to remember that this situation wasn't just about her, that she wasn't the only one who had been hurt by everything that happened. As much as she wanted to tear down Nick's lies, there was no use in ripping open emotional wounds that were just beginning to heal.
"Right, sorry."
Simple words, spoken timidly. As much as she wanted to cut loose, to act on her feelings, to let her desire for vengeance overtake her, the Scorned would do herself no favors by forcing Roxanne to act when she had no desire to do so. Perhaps now was the time to calm down, to think about what she was doing, and to not allow herself to escalate tensions any further.
Nick spoke. Her response was simple, spoken plainly.
"I believe you."
In truth, she didn't. His words remained nothing but sweet lies, the fiasco he described was still too convenient. It was the exact unlikely situation that absolved him of all guilt, with some presumably truthful details sprinkled in, to lend it authenticity. Nick was clearly a deceptive snake, but perhaps harming him was ultimately unnecessary. Murdering Nick wouldn't bring back those he has killed, it would only prevent him from hurting anyone else. Perhaps he had no intention of harming more of their classmates, perhaps the threat he had posed had already self-mitigated.
To that end, she had a few more questions, the remaining mysteries she had previously ignored coming to the forefront of her mind.
"But... if it wasn't you, then who? Who forced you to do it? And..." She paused, briefly collecting her thoughts. "What about Jeremiah? What happened with him? And..." She gestured towards Nick's mysterious companion. "You, what's your name?"
"Right, sorry."
Simple words, spoken timidly. As much as she wanted to cut loose, to act on her feelings, to let her desire for vengeance overtake her, the Scorned would do herself no favors by forcing Roxanne to act when she had no desire to do so. Perhaps now was the time to calm down, to think about what she was doing, and to not allow herself to escalate tensions any further.
Nick spoke. Her response was simple, spoken plainly.
"I believe you."
In truth, she didn't. His words remained nothing but sweet lies, the fiasco he described was still too convenient. It was the exact unlikely situation that absolved him of all guilt, with some presumably truthful details sprinkled in, to lend it authenticity. Nick was clearly a deceptive snake, but perhaps harming him was ultimately unnecessary. Murdering Nick wouldn't bring back those he has killed, it would only prevent him from hurting anyone else. Perhaps he had no intention of harming more of their classmates, perhaps the threat he had posed had already self-mitigated.
To that end, she had a few more questions, the remaining mysteries she had previously ignored coming to the forefront of her mind.
"But... if it wasn't you, then who? Who forced you to do it? And..." She paused, briefly collecting her thoughts. "What about Jeremiah? What happened with him? And..." She gestured towards Nick's mysterious companion. "You, what's your name?"
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
He should have been razor sharp. There was nothing good at the end of this line of questioning, he'd already been there. When the name came up Nick seemed terribly guilty about her death, so Marco didn't imagine he'd want to try and talk his way out of this, but even with the full force of his charm behind them there wasn't much chance they walked away without violence. The other girl could convince their inquisitor to leave, but she'd probably turn on her too if it came to that. That's how it was, right? People with too many questions and no desire for answers lashing out at a situation they couldn't accept. You bargained your way through groups until you were sure you had all the answers and then.
Marco was well acquainted with both sides of the resulting equation.
The words didn't have any meaning to her, and anything Nick needed to get off his chest had been whispered around activities. So he stopped listening. There was a voice that felt far away, but he waited. The world was rocking back and forth, anticipation maybe? Another passed, familiar but distant just like the feeling permeating his sense of space, and his vision blurred. A third he barely recognized as speech. Why should he try. He knew how it was going to go down. He knew. He didn't need to be afraid because he knew, he didn't need to think about it because he knew, he didn't need to regret because he knew, he didn't need to question because he was falling.
Oh.
It would have been wise to sleep more and stare out into the dark less these past two nights. Noting that wisdom was not his greatest asset might have drawn a delirious giggle out of him before he slumped onto his bag, but might have imagined that. Oh well. The only other person he could remember that might have enjoyed it tried to kill him.
Maybe he laughed at that too.
Marco was well acquainted with both sides of the resulting equation.
The words didn't have any meaning to her, and anything Nick needed to get off his chest had been whispered around activities. So he stopped listening. There was a voice that felt far away, but he waited. The world was rocking back and forth, anticipation maybe? Another passed, familiar but distant just like the feeling permeating his sense of space, and his vision blurred. A third he barely recognized as speech. Why should he try. He knew how it was going to go down. He knew. He didn't need to be afraid because he knew, he didn't need to think about it because he knew, he didn't need to regret because he knew, he didn't need to question because he was falling.
Oh.
It would have been wise to sleep more and stare out into the dark less these past two nights. Noting that wisdom was not his greatest asset might have drawn a delirious giggle out of him before he slumped onto his bag, but might have imagined that. Oh well. The only other person he could remember that might have enjoyed it tried to kill him.
Maybe he laughed at that too.
A burial at sea. A Beryl at sea. A Beryl-ial at sea. That didn’t exactly qualify as a joke, but in Roxanne’s heightened emotional state, it took an embarrassing amount of her self-control to not laugh at the thought of her friend’s dead body being lost to the waves.
Nick hoped that Beryl would’ve wanted it that way. He and Roxanne had something in common, at least.
She was grateful that Marcy had backed down, but it soon became clear that she still planning to breathlessly rush forward, just in a different direction. Questions, questions, so many questions - it’s not like Roxanne wasn’t curious, but she didn’t want the answers like this. The atmosphere had been irreparably tainted by the imbalance in power the moment they had walked into the cave - she didn’t want to be an inquisition.
“Marcy - Marcy, why do you care?” She asked, preempting any answers their captives could give.
“Knowing who hurt Beryl is one thing, but, Jeremiah wasn’t anyone to either of us. And what’s the point of introductions? We’re probably never going to see these two again-” She turned to point at the nameless one in question, only to see that he had slumped down onto his bag.
“Are... you okay over there?”
Nick hoped that Beryl would’ve wanted it that way. He and Roxanne had something in common, at least.
She was grateful that Marcy had backed down, but it soon became clear that she still planning to breathlessly rush forward, just in a different direction. Questions, questions, so many questions - it’s not like Roxanne wasn’t curious, but she didn’t want the answers like this. The atmosphere had been irreparably tainted by the imbalance in power the moment they had walked into the cave - she didn’t want to be an inquisition.
“Marcy - Marcy, why do you care?” She asked, preempting any answers their captives could give.
“Knowing who hurt Beryl is one thing, but, Jeremiah wasn’t anyone to either of us. And what’s the point of introductions? We’re probably never going to see these two again-” She turned to point at the nameless one in question, only to see that he had slumped down onto his bag.
“Are... you okay over there?”
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
I believe you.
A lie. Nick couldn't remember if anyone had actually lied to him during the course of his time in the island. He knew that the terrorists embellished everything with mistruths and obfuscated through omission and exaggeration, but even they seemed to be more into traditional massaging of the facts than outright fake news. But Marcy was lying to him. He could tell. Not because he was great at reading her - he didn't know her well enough to see through her bluster and decipher her mannerisms - but because it was so obvious, just from sheer common sense. It was just irrational to think that anyone, let alone a grieving friend, was capable of such a u-turn in such a short space of time in the face of what Nick himself would concede was uncompelling evidence.
The preceding apology probably wasn't a lie, at least, but that was more because it was directed at Roxanne or herself than Nick. Nick didn't exactly deserve an apology anyway, so whatever. He was fine with that.
So many questions.
Nick knew that Roxanne had tried closing down that path of discussion. Nick couldn't resist answering one question anyway. He wanted to come across as cooperative. As sensitive to both of their concerns. As neither cagey nor hostile. It was lucky that they'd caught him in such a calm and largely docile state. "She was shot by someone in her group. A quiet girl who's still alive. It was an accident, so yeah." He didn't want to enable a hunt for revenge against someone who was essentially just a moron, but Nick knew that, if pressed, he would put her in danger rather than allow himself to fall into certain death. Not exactly a noble move, but one that he could accept was the sort of selfish decision he was going to make.
But yes. Roxanne was right. Introductions were unnecessary (and he wasn't going to deadname Marco for the sake of helping them work out where he was placed in the social strata). Jeremiah's tale, unimportant in the moment. Then Roxanne addressed Marco, and Nick realised that that soft slump he'd just heard had come from Marco's direction, and he turned, and Marco had fallen onto his bag.
"Marco," Nick spoke, softly, soothingly, but with a tinge of panic creeping into his voice. "You okay?"
A lie. Nick couldn't remember if anyone had actually lied to him during the course of his time in the island. He knew that the terrorists embellished everything with mistruths and obfuscated through omission and exaggeration, but even they seemed to be more into traditional massaging of the facts than outright fake news. But Marcy was lying to him. He could tell. Not because he was great at reading her - he didn't know her well enough to see through her bluster and decipher her mannerisms - but because it was so obvious, just from sheer common sense. It was just irrational to think that anyone, let alone a grieving friend, was capable of such a u-turn in such a short space of time in the face of what Nick himself would concede was uncompelling evidence.
The preceding apology probably wasn't a lie, at least, but that was more because it was directed at Roxanne or herself than Nick. Nick didn't exactly deserve an apology anyway, so whatever. He was fine with that.
So many questions.
Nick knew that Roxanne had tried closing down that path of discussion. Nick couldn't resist answering one question anyway. He wanted to come across as cooperative. As sensitive to both of their concerns. As neither cagey nor hostile. It was lucky that they'd caught him in such a calm and largely docile state. "She was shot by someone in her group. A quiet girl who's still alive. It was an accident, so yeah." He didn't want to enable a hunt for revenge against someone who was essentially just a moron, but Nick knew that, if pressed, he would put her in danger rather than allow himself to fall into certain death. Not exactly a noble move, but one that he could accept was the sort of selfish decision he was going to make.
But yes. Roxanne was right. Introductions were unnecessary (and he wasn't going to deadname Marco for the sake of helping them work out where he was placed in the social strata). Jeremiah's tale, unimportant in the moment. Then Roxanne addressed Marco, and Nick realised that that soft slump he'd just heard had come from Marco's direction, and he turned, and Marco had fallen onto his bag.
"Marco," Nick spoke, softly, soothingly, but with a tinge of panic creeping into his voice. "You okay?"