Morgan started saying something; stopped. Walked into the room, sat down. Put his hand on Michael's shoulder. Said the same kind of empty words everyone else had been saying during the past two days.
Michael flinched; started shaking again. He didn't deserve to be comforted. He didn't deserve to feel okay. He never wanted to be okay ever again.
Because if he ever felt okay again, it meant he had nothing left to live for.
Camila seemed like she'd felt okay. Just okay. Only okay. No emotional peaks or valleys, just a flatline almost. She'd gotten her closure and she'd been okay with dying. She'd gotten her closure and it killed her inside.
...Not having closure was the only was he could die feeling human. Michael saw that now. He had to lose himself so he could die as himself. He had to be everything he hadn't been back at home.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to sit up. He didn't want to move on. Morgan was going to try to make him feel like himself and-
-and he'd try to take the feelings away. He'd try to take everything Michael still had. He'd have good intentions, but...
...but he'd be what killed Michael.
His grip on the gun tightened. The shaking stopped again. He needed Morgan to get away. He didn't want to kill him. He needed to make Morgan understand. He needed to impose his internal narrative on Morgan and if he didn't he was sure one or both of them would die during the next day.
Songs. Songs imposed narratives; induced them. That was what they were for. That was why Michael'd been singing — he'd been trying to get the people watching to understand exactly what he'd been feeling. What he'd been going through reminded him of the song, and the song forced people to feel the shit he felt or at least contemplate it.
Michael needed Morgan to think he was a lost cause. Michael needed Morgan to think he was crazy. Michael needed Morgan not to waste his life on him.
Michael needed Morgan to find Lizzie. Michael wanted Morgan to die happy.
A single line from the song Buriedfed, by Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson. He spoke it softly, paraphrasing it into a sentence. Tears started. Every single word tore through his soul.
"Morgan... go save somebody else instead." He choked. He wanted to vomit. "...Please... I - you need to find Lizzie. Find her. I fell in love with someone and -" his voice broke. Half silent scream, half dry heave.
He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't tell Morgan about Beryl. It hurt but it hurt in a bad way. It brought too much closure. He had to change the subject for his own sake.
He sat up slowly, opened his eyes. He couldn't see Camila anywhere through the storeroom's open door. "- Morgan, I - I killed Camila Cañizares. I don't know where she is or if she's dead yet, but I killed her. I shot her in the stomach. That's her blood on the front door."
Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Is In)
Thread concluded! Day 3 thru pre-announcement day 4. (@Fenris for the thread title playlist use the White Denim cover please it's what I listened to for writing this!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
There he was, the usual selfless Michael, telling everyone not to worry about him and to make sure they took care of their own business. Morgan knew that no matter what Michael had seen, no matter what shock he'd gone through, that same old Michael was still lurking, just beneath the—
"What?"
Michael dropped a whole bunch of different mind-fucks on him in the span of ten seconds.
The first, less important and less pressing one was that he admitted to having fallen in love with someone. In another life, this would have been huge news, the kind that Morgan would have cleared his own schedule for. This was Michael, he of "if you want to see boobs that badly, you could just, I dunno, open up Google Images", whom he'd had to basically guilt-trip into going to prom. Michael Froese, who'd barely ever acknowledged having more than a passing interest in anyone outside of a friendly manner. Mikey Freeze, who'd basically tolerated his outrageous stories, especially the ones with Lizzie, which had all had a varying degree of ridiculousness. He'd listened with amusement, but never true understanding or jealousy.
Michael fell in love with someone? Something had happened, but that — more than almost anything else he could have said, jarred him to his core.
Of course, the second mind-fuck was about the only other thing that could have thrown Morgan for more of a loop. "Y—you," he trailed off, his mind trying to put the pieces together.
It took more than a second. He was silent for a long, pregnant moment.
His best friend, his buddy, his partner-in-crime had just confessed to killing someone.
Holy shit.
Morgan had often heard that sometimes during the span of a person's life, there were moments where you made decisions that you'd later understand as the watershed moment, in which you stopped being a teenager or a youth and actually crossed the line into adulthood. Some people had to face adversity or loss, some people had to grow up in a hurry due to circumstances beyond their control.
For however long he lived past today, Morgan knew that at the very least, this was his moment. This was the day he grew up.
"Okay," he climbed to his feet, but kept himself down on one knee, more so that he could look his friend in the face.
"Mike, I will. I'll find her, I promise you that. I've been wanting to since I woke up."
Morgan looked Michael in the eyes with an intensity and a maturity that he was unaware he possessed.
"But I won't leave you here to die, to wallow. Absolutely not. Mike, I — whatever you've done, I'm not going to judge. I didn't see Camila out there. I saw a — the bed-sheet. Whatever happened, it — fuck man, it doesn't matter. Just talk to me. We can figure it out, we can work through it. Even if it just means you have to learn to live with whatever happened, that's fine."
If he were telling the truth and he had shot Camila, something niggled at the back of Morgan's mind — if Michael truly had snapped and was beyond saving, there was a very real possibility that he might turn the gun on him. Exhaling the anxiety from his body, he stood, shook his head and held out his hand.
"You're my best friend. I'm not going to give up on you, man. No fucking way."
It was a risk that he was willing to take, because that's just what friends did.
"What?"
Michael dropped a whole bunch of different mind-fucks on him in the span of ten seconds.
The first, less important and less pressing one was that he admitted to having fallen in love with someone. In another life, this would have been huge news, the kind that Morgan would have cleared his own schedule for. This was Michael, he of "if you want to see boobs that badly, you could just, I dunno, open up Google Images", whom he'd had to basically guilt-trip into going to prom. Michael Froese, who'd barely ever acknowledged having more than a passing interest in anyone outside of a friendly manner. Mikey Freeze, who'd basically tolerated his outrageous stories, especially the ones with Lizzie, which had all had a varying degree of ridiculousness. He'd listened with amusement, but never true understanding or jealousy.
Michael fell in love with someone? Something had happened, but that — more than almost anything else he could have said, jarred him to his core.
Of course, the second mind-fuck was about the only other thing that could have thrown Morgan for more of a loop. "Y—you," he trailed off, his mind trying to put the pieces together.
It took more than a second. He was silent for a long, pregnant moment.
His best friend, his buddy, his partner-in-crime had just confessed to killing someone.
Holy shit.
Morgan had often heard that sometimes during the span of a person's life, there were moments where you made decisions that you'd later understand as the watershed moment, in which you stopped being a teenager or a youth and actually crossed the line into adulthood. Some people had to face adversity or loss, some people had to grow up in a hurry due to circumstances beyond their control.
For however long he lived past today, Morgan knew that at the very least, this was his moment. This was the day he grew up.
"Okay," he climbed to his feet, but kept himself down on one knee, more so that he could look his friend in the face.
"Mike, I will. I'll find her, I promise you that. I've been wanting to since I woke up."
Morgan looked Michael in the eyes with an intensity and a maturity that he was unaware he possessed.
"But I won't leave you here to die, to wallow. Absolutely not. Mike, I — whatever you've done, I'm not going to judge. I didn't see Camila out there. I saw a — the bed-sheet. Whatever happened, it — fuck man, it doesn't matter. Just talk to me. We can figure it out, we can work through it. Even if it just means you have to learn to live with whatever happened, that's fine."
If he were telling the truth and he had shot Camila, something niggled at the back of Morgan's mind — if Michael truly had snapped and was beyond saving, there was a very real possibility that he might turn the gun on him. Exhaling the anxiety from his body, he stood, shook his head and held out his hand.
"You're my best friend. I'm not going to give up on you, man. No fucking way."
It was a risk that he was willing to take, because that's just what friends did.
Morgan seemed shocked that Michael was a murderer. It didn't matter to him. What mattered was that Morgan hadn't seen Camila. It meant she'd wandered off before dying.
It meant someone might have mercy killed her. It meant that maybe Michael had Darlene'd Camila and someone else had Nick'd her. Michael deserved to bear the weight of her death. He'd murdered her. He didn't want anyone else to have it on their conscience.
...Camila had to have been someone's Beryl; most people were someone's special someone. Benny and Dante had been her Beryl.
At least someone had to be going through all the same shit Michael'd gone through. Someone had to have been broken specifically because of what he'd done.
...maybe he'd broken Camila too. Maybe telling her she was broken was what broke her; he'd never know. At the very least he had to have broken at least someone by killing her. He was someone's Darlene.
No, that wasn't true. He couldn't blame Darlene (though he honestly couldn't say he wouldn't shoot her if given the opportunity). Beryl'd been an accident. Camila had been a conscious choice. Michael was someone's villain now.
Shit, he'd already become one of Nia and Alexander's villains yesterday.
He didn't think he could ever come back from that.
He knew he certainly couldn't come back after what he'd done to Camila.
Morgan was trying to get him to stand up; trying to help him, trying to look strong. Morgan didn't know shit.
Michael glared into Morgan's eyes. His feelings of shame and guilt were replaced by the bitter void.
"There isn't anything of me left for you to give up on." he spat. "I'm too far gone. You wanna know what happened with Camila -" His left hand clenched into a fist. "- I talked her into letting me shoot her; told myself it was mercy. That's how serial killers work. I'm already thinking like a serial killer, Morgan. Stop fucking lying to yourself. Your best friend is dead."
He conspicuously clicked the pistol's safety. It was back on now, but Morgan didn't have to know that.
It meant someone might have mercy killed her. It meant that maybe Michael had Darlene'd Camila and someone else had Nick'd her. Michael deserved to bear the weight of her death. He'd murdered her. He didn't want anyone else to have it on their conscience.
...Camila had to have been someone's Beryl; most people were someone's special someone. Benny and Dante had been her Beryl.
At least someone had to be going through all the same shit Michael'd gone through. Someone had to have been broken specifically because of what he'd done.
...maybe he'd broken Camila too. Maybe telling her she was broken was what broke her; he'd never know. At the very least he had to have broken at least someone by killing her. He was someone's Darlene.
No, that wasn't true. He couldn't blame Darlene (though he honestly couldn't say he wouldn't shoot her if given the opportunity). Beryl'd been an accident. Camila had been a conscious choice. Michael was someone's villain now.
Shit, he'd already become one of Nia and Alexander's villains yesterday.
He didn't think he could ever come back from that.
He knew he certainly couldn't come back after what he'd done to Camila.
Morgan was trying to get him to stand up; trying to help him, trying to look strong. Morgan didn't know shit.
Michael glared into Morgan's eyes. His feelings of shame and guilt were replaced by the bitter void.
"There isn't anything of me left for you to give up on." he spat. "I'm too far gone. You wanna know what happened with Camila -" His left hand clenched into a fist. "- I talked her into letting me shoot her; told myself it was mercy. That's how serial killers work. I'm already thinking like a serial killer, Morgan. Stop fucking lying to yourself. Your best friend is dead."
He conspicuously clicked the pistol's safety. It was back on now, but Morgan didn't have to know that.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
There isn't anything of me left for you to give up on.
No. Morgan wasn't about to give up that easily, especially not when his friend was wallowing in his own guilt, self-pity, shame — whatever it was, he knew what it looked like to be pushed away when he saw it. His own father had done it enough to him over the years. This wasn't any different. The words and the situation didn't match up but the intention was all too familiar.
The safety on the gun clicked and a chill ran down his spine. It only strengthened his resolve. If trying to bring Michael back from the brink was how he was going to go out, then fuck it, that would be how he'd go out. There'd be no more pissing his pants in fear. He straightened up.
Michael's eyes had nothing behind them — behind the nothing, there was something, though. That, if nothing else, pushed him forward.
"Listen to yourself, man. A serial killer? Are you serious right now?"
Morgan withdrew his hand. Michael wasn't taking it, but that didn't mean he was going to back off. His voice was steady, but he rolled his flippant tone back a touch.
"Unless I've missed something over the years I've known you, I haven't seen any serial killer traits from you, Mike. You haven't been butchering small animals, you weren't wetting the bed, and I damn well know that you feel your feelings a hell of a lot more intensely than anyone else. So nah. That's bullshit, and you know it."
He punctuated his words with a finger, pointed at his friend.
"So you killed someone. That's fucked up. Ain't no way around that, Mike. That's capital F — Fucked. Up. But you think for one second that you'd ever have done that if you didn't have an explosive strapped around your neck and people with really big machine guns telling you that it was your only choice?"
Morgan shook his head.
"Nah. No fuckin' way."
After a moment, he allowed himself a look at the gun. It wasn't pointed at him, but Michael was clenching it for dear life. He could see the whites of his knuckles, could almost feel the turmoil. This was fear talking. It had to be.
"My friend isn't dead. My friend is right here in front of me, feeling the exact same way that I am. Terrified, alone, confused, and not sure what to do next, except die."
Looking back at Michael, Morgan met his eyes. This may have been the most important conversation he'd ever had, and that scared him; it was a different type of fear than he'd ever felt before. The gun hadn't moved yet. He had to believe that it wouldn't.
He had to bet his life on it.
"We aren't going to die today, Mike," Morgan once again held out his hand. "Not today."
No. Morgan wasn't about to give up that easily, especially not when his friend was wallowing in his own guilt, self-pity, shame — whatever it was, he knew what it looked like to be pushed away when he saw it. His own father had done it enough to him over the years. This wasn't any different. The words and the situation didn't match up but the intention was all too familiar.
The safety on the gun clicked and a chill ran down his spine. It only strengthened his resolve. If trying to bring Michael back from the brink was how he was going to go out, then fuck it, that would be how he'd go out. There'd be no more pissing his pants in fear. He straightened up.
Michael's eyes had nothing behind them — behind the nothing, there was something, though. That, if nothing else, pushed him forward.
"Listen to yourself, man. A serial killer? Are you serious right now?"
Morgan withdrew his hand. Michael wasn't taking it, but that didn't mean he was going to back off. His voice was steady, but he rolled his flippant tone back a touch.
"Unless I've missed something over the years I've known you, I haven't seen any serial killer traits from you, Mike. You haven't been butchering small animals, you weren't wetting the bed, and I damn well know that you feel your feelings a hell of a lot more intensely than anyone else. So nah. That's bullshit, and you know it."
He punctuated his words with a finger, pointed at his friend.
"So you killed someone. That's fucked up. Ain't no way around that, Mike. That's capital F — Fucked. Up. But you think for one second that you'd ever have done that if you didn't have an explosive strapped around your neck and people with really big machine guns telling you that it was your only choice?"
Morgan shook his head.
"Nah. No fuckin' way."
After a moment, he allowed himself a look at the gun. It wasn't pointed at him, but Michael was clenching it for dear life. He could see the whites of his knuckles, could almost feel the turmoil. This was fear talking. It had to be.
"My friend isn't dead. My friend is right here in front of me, feeling the exact same way that I am. Terrified, alone, confused, and not sure what to do next, except die."
Looking back at Michael, Morgan met his eyes. This may have been the most important conversation he'd ever had, and that scared him; it was a different type of fear than he'd ever felt before. The gun hadn't moved yet. He had to believe that it wouldn't.
He had to bet his life on it.
"We aren't going to die today, Mike," Morgan once again held out his hand. "Not today."
Something Morgan'd just said stirred up a memory deep from Michael's mind. He didn't want to remember it.
Once, when Michael was 15, he found a mouse stuck in a gluetrap. It seemed like it was in pain, and if he didn't kill it, he thought one of his parents would. He figured he'd try to minimize its suffering. It was the least he could do.
He filled a trash bin with water, put the gluetrap in a plastic shopping bag so he didn't have to watch the mouse die, and submerged it for three minutes.
He cried for hours afterwards; told himself it was a mercy kill.
Two years later and now he was doing the exact same thing to people.
An angel of mercy — that was the term for it used in criminology. Michael wished he didn't know about it, but he did. They were the serial killers who worked as nurses or doctors. They usually had ridiculously high body counts. Some of them administered insulin ODs to their victims as a method of murder. Michael had a shitload of insulin with him. Enough to kill like 20 non-diabetics. The fact that he was thinking about that scared him.
The slow realization that killing Camila temporarily filled the emotional void left in him by Beryl's death and made him feel like he was finally special to someone was scaring him even more.
He didn't want to hurt Morgan but he didn't know if he trusted himself not to hurt Morgan. Something would break him at some point and if Michael was still around he'd murder the poor bastard.
Michael didn't know if this was who he really really really was but goddammit it was something and he'd take anything over another second of being a nebulous blob inside. This could be the first day of his life.
Morgan was still trying to help him; holding his hand out. Morgan was too good for Michael. He needed to get Morgan away. He would do anything to get Morgan away.
Michael raised the gun to his own temple. He was used to the feeling of holding a gun to his head. He craned his neck back, jutting out his jaw. Grimaced. Teeth clenched. Hands shook. Eyes were feral. Real tears.
He couldn't remember how to speak so instead he just stared through Morgan's eyes.
Once, when Michael was 15, he found a mouse stuck in a gluetrap. It seemed like it was in pain, and if he didn't kill it, he thought one of his parents would. He figured he'd try to minimize its suffering. It was the least he could do.
He filled a trash bin with water, put the gluetrap in a plastic shopping bag so he didn't have to watch the mouse die, and submerged it for three minutes.
He cried for hours afterwards; told himself it was a mercy kill.
Two years later and now he was doing the exact same thing to people.
An angel of mercy — that was the term for it used in criminology. Michael wished he didn't know about it, but he did. They were the serial killers who worked as nurses or doctors. They usually had ridiculously high body counts. Some of them administered insulin ODs to their victims as a method of murder. Michael had a shitload of insulin with him. Enough to kill like 20 non-diabetics. The fact that he was thinking about that scared him.
The slow realization that killing Camila temporarily filled the emotional void left in him by Beryl's death and made him feel like he was finally special to someone was scaring him even more.
He didn't want to hurt Morgan but he didn't know if he trusted himself not to hurt Morgan. Something would break him at some point and if Michael was still around he'd murder the poor bastard.
Michael didn't know if this was who he really really really was but goddammit it was something and he'd take anything over another second of being a nebulous blob inside. This could be the first day of his life.
Morgan was still trying to help him; holding his hand out. Morgan was too good for Michael. He needed to get Morgan away. He would do anything to get Morgan away.
Michael raised the gun to his own temple. He was used to the feeling of holding a gun to his head. He craned his neck back, jutting out his jaw. Grimaced. Teeth clenched. Hands shook. Eyes were feral. Real tears.
He couldn't remember how to speak so instead he just stared through Morgan's eyes.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Michael said nothing. Didn't take his hand, didn't even allow a flicker that Morgan's words had made any impact. Except they had. They had in a big way, because Michael raised the pistol and pointed it at his own head. Thoughts flew out of his mind as quickly as they could. All he could see was the pained expression and the haunted eyes. It looked like his friend was wearing someone else's face. There was something else behind his glare that Morgan had never seen before.
Was he — could it be a bluff? Did Michael feel so badly about shooting someone that this was the logical progression? Was he truly suicidal, or was he trying everything he could to push him away?
There was no good option there, and that was the worst part of it all.
"No. I told you — not today," the words were whispered. His hand once again dropped to his side. At some point, his own tears had started, but his face remained stoic, his features a mask of barely-concealed concern.
Morgan couldn't stop looking at the gun, pressed up against Michael's temple. That one action had confirmed to him more than any: he couldn't leave. He wouldn't. Maybe before, there had been a tiny chance he'd have walked out of here without his friend, but not now. He didn't know what to do. Michael hadn't said anything, just stared straight through him.
So he tried the only thing he could.
"Speaking of classic signs. I pissed myself a few days ago, you know?" His voice was hoarse, he could feel the tears running down his face but made no move to clear them.
He made no sudden moves at all.
"Wyatt was coming at me and I couldn't help it. Couldn't move. I was so fucking scared, man. I just — thought I was dead, right then and there."
Morgan broke into a smile, barely recognizable as such. He felt completely miserable; the wrong thing could walk him directly into the worst possible ending.
"But nah, wasn't my time. I dunno about any of that fate crap; you know I'm a science guy, but maybe I'm supposed to be here. To find the people I care about. Right here. Right now. "
His stomach ached, but he ignored it. The audible growl was more difficult to dismiss.
"You're the first. Tough shit." Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, tightly so that he could blink the tears away. After he opened them, his eyes were once more filled with resolve. He was wagering that this was some sort of twisted attempt to push him away, some sort of guilt trip.
So he decided to fire back with one of his own. His voice turned harsh.
"You want to hurt yourself? Fine. But you're going to look me in the eyes when you do it. I'm not going to make this fucking easy for you. You think you're so far gone that no one will miss you? Pull the trigger, then. The last thing you'll ever think about will be how much that's going to completely fucking wreck me."
He let his words hang there for a moment. Uncomfortably, his stomach growled again, and he clenched his teeth.
"So do it. Go ahead, and fucking do it. Or don't. Pull the trigger or put it away, Mike. You're stuck with me either way."
Morgan Dragosavich wasn't really sure if he believed in God or not, but as he met the fractured gaze of his friend Michael, he prayed to every single deity that he could think of. The way he figured, he needed all the help he could get.
Put it down. Please.
Was he — could it be a bluff? Did Michael feel so badly about shooting someone that this was the logical progression? Was he truly suicidal, or was he trying everything he could to push him away?
There was no good option there, and that was the worst part of it all.
"No. I told you — not today," the words were whispered. His hand once again dropped to his side. At some point, his own tears had started, but his face remained stoic, his features a mask of barely-concealed concern.
Morgan couldn't stop looking at the gun, pressed up against Michael's temple. That one action had confirmed to him more than any: he couldn't leave. He wouldn't. Maybe before, there had been a tiny chance he'd have walked out of here without his friend, but not now. He didn't know what to do. Michael hadn't said anything, just stared straight through him.
So he tried the only thing he could.
"Speaking of classic signs. I pissed myself a few days ago, you know?" His voice was hoarse, he could feel the tears running down his face but made no move to clear them.
He made no sudden moves at all.
"Wyatt was coming at me and I couldn't help it. Couldn't move. I was so fucking scared, man. I just — thought I was dead, right then and there."
Morgan broke into a smile, barely recognizable as such. He felt completely miserable; the wrong thing could walk him directly into the worst possible ending.
"But nah, wasn't my time. I dunno about any of that fate crap; you know I'm a science guy, but maybe I'm supposed to be here. To find the people I care about. Right here. Right now. "
His stomach ached, but he ignored it. The audible growl was more difficult to dismiss.
"You're the first. Tough shit." Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, tightly so that he could blink the tears away. After he opened them, his eyes were once more filled with resolve. He was wagering that this was some sort of twisted attempt to push him away, some sort of guilt trip.
So he decided to fire back with one of his own. His voice turned harsh.
"You want to hurt yourself? Fine. But you're going to look me in the eyes when you do it. I'm not going to make this fucking easy for you. You think you're so far gone that no one will miss you? Pull the trigger, then. The last thing you'll ever think about will be how much that's going to completely fucking wreck me."
He let his words hang there for a moment. Uncomfortably, his stomach growled again, and he clenched his teeth.
"So do it. Go ahead, and fucking do it. Or don't. Pull the trigger or put it away, Mike. You're stuck with me either way."
Morgan Dragosavich wasn't really sure if he believed in God or not, but as he met the fractured gaze of his friend Michael, he prayed to every single deity that he could think of. The way he figured, he needed all the help he could get.
Put it down. Please.
Every single word hurt in a bad way. Every single word brought Michael back just a little bit more, reminded him of home. His eyes slowly started to refocus. Something inside him told him to flick the safety off and shoot himself; to run away and never stop running.
His hand didn't move.
The guilt trip broke through; shattered through the shell of self-induced psychoses he'd built around himself. His face went blank for a moment. "Safety's..." he broke into an ugly cry; gun fell limp to his side. "...S-Safety's on."
Smiled, bittersweet. "Morgan... I did way too many drugs yesterday, I think..." he croaked.
He was him again; or at least as close as he could still get.
He lunged at Morgan, wanted to jump up into his arms; went in for a hug instead. Almost kissed Morgan for some reason. Didn't kiss Morgan. Just hug. Only hug. Hug!!!!!!!!!!!!!
His hand didn't move.
The guilt trip broke through; shattered through the shell of self-induced psychoses he'd built around himself. His face went blank for a moment. "Safety's..." he broke into an ugly cry; gun fell limp to his side. "...S-Safety's on."
Smiled, bittersweet. "Morgan... I did way too many drugs yesterday, I think..." he croaked.
He was him again; or at least as close as he could still get.
He lunged at Morgan, wanted to jump up into his arms; went in for a hug instead. Almost kissed Morgan for some reason. Didn't kiss Morgan. Just hug. Only hug. Hug!!!!!!!!!!!!!
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
After a very long moment, the gun came down; so did the tears. Morgan was unable to hide his relief. This was like a real-life video game or a D&D session; he'd just gone and passed all of the speech checks, and thank fucking God. He didn't want to think about what could have happened had he tried something else, had he said something else. It all came back to what he knew about his friend. Michael cared, too damn much sometimes, and guilt was an easy and almost foolproof weapon to use on him.
A tiny part of him felt like an ass for his manipulation, but that was quickly washed away when Michael lunged at him, grabbing him in a vice-like hug and continuing to sob into his shoulder. Morgan squeezed back, comforting his friend as best he could. Tears silently rolled from his own eyes, but he didn't care.
Michael was back; he was here, he'd stepped away — if only for a moment — from his despair. The boys were back in town, as the song went.
Releasing him from the embrace, Morgan cracked a smile. It felt strange to be happy at all in their current situation, but he'd found his friend. For at least the next couple of minutes, he'd found his friend and everything was going to be all right.
"You're like that old Nic Cage movie, man. No more drugs," he theatrically pointed at Michael, "for that man!"
It was a bad joke and he knew Michael knew it, but that was how they worked. Morgan told shitty jokes and Michael snarked back at him. That was their dynamic. At least, it had been. He hoped it still was. His stomach growled again, reminding him of his own prescient issue.
"We should," he put his hand on Michael's shoulder and gave him another reassuring squeeze, quickly wiping the tears from his own face with his other hand. "We should figure out what to do next. But uh, do you have any food?"
He solemnly looked at the ground for a moment.
"Wyatt took all my stuff, so I haven't eaten since yesterday."
They needed to get out of this room, too, but Morgan didn't want to press Michael too far. The body in the next room had obviously been dealt with, and he imagined that his friend had likely been the one to do it. There was also the small matter of his murderous confession, but... they'd deal with that after Morgan got some food in his belly.
A tiny part of him felt like an ass for his manipulation, but that was quickly washed away when Michael lunged at him, grabbing him in a vice-like hug and continuing to sob into his shoulder. Morgan squeezed back, comforting his friend as best he could. Tears silently rolled from his own eyes, but he didn't care.
Michael was back; he was here, he'd stepped away — if only for a moment — from his despair. The boys were back in town, as the song went.
Releasing him from the embrace, Morgan cracked a smile. It felt strange to be happy at all in their current situation, but he'd found his friend. For at least the next couple of minutes, he'd found his friend and everything was going to be all right.
"You're like that old Nic Cage movie, man. No more drugs," he theatrically pointed at Michael, "for that man!"
It was a bad joke and he knew Michael knew it, but that was how they worked. Morgan told shitty jokes and Michael snarked back at him. That was their dynamic. At least, it had been. He hoped it still was. His stomach growled again, reminding him of his own prescient issue.
"We should," he put his hand on Michael's shoulder and gave him another reassuring squeeze, quickly wiping the tears from his own face with his other hand. "We should figure out what to do next. But uh, do you have any food?"
He solemnly looked at the ground for a moment.
"Wyatt took all my stuff, so I haven't eaten since yesterday."
They needed to get out of this room, too, but Morgan didn't want to press Michael too far. The body in the next room had obviously been dealt with, and he imagined that his friend had likely been the one to do it. There was also the small matter of his murderous confession, but... they'd deal with that after Morgan got some food in his belly.
Michael wasn't the Michael Morgan thought he was; no longer outwardly the version of him that he guessed existed in Morgan's head. He'd let Morgan find that out for himself.
Hug released. No more tears. Face neutralized once more.
He was done running from himself. No matter who he was, he was done running. For real this time, he promised himself.
It really was the first day of his life.
"Shoulda done hugs instead of drugs." He forced a singular over-exaggerated laugh noise.
He hoped Marco was doing okay.
Wyatt had taken all of Morgan's stuff, apparently. Michael honestly hadn't expected Wyatt to have gone that low already. He made a mental note to shoot the large scary man if he could get away with it.
"Mmm, so," he paused and looked down at the bag he'd dragged with him into the storeroom. It was his own, not Camila's. He hauled it up and slipped it over his back, stepping through the doorway. "Camila's bag probably has some stuff." He gestured the gun in Bearyl's general direction. "It's, uh, over by the dildo bear."
He realized he still felt worse about the fact that he and Beryl had never fucked than he did about literally murdering Camila.
Huh.
That was...
...Cool?
It was cool or whatever.
...No it fucking wasn't. This island had changed him. It had hollowed him out.
His head was fucked up beyond repair and -
- a memory popped into his mind. It went somewhere else. Not hallucinated; just thought about a lot really fucking fast.
It finally found a real answer.
((Michael's brain continued in True Affection))
He stood, zoned out for a few seconds.
((Michael's brain continued from True Affection))
He blinked.
He wasn't okay.
Hug released. No more tears. Face neutralized once more.
He was done running from himself. No matter who he was, he was done running. For real this time, he promised himself.
It really was the first day of his life.
"Shoulda done hugs instead of drugs." He forced a singular over-exaggerated laugh noise.
He hoped Marco was doing okay.
Wyatt had taken all of Morgan's stuff, apparently. Michael honestly hadn't expected Wyatt to have gone that low already. He made a mental note to shoot the large scary man if he could get away with it.
"Mmm, so," he paused and looked down at the bag he'd dragged with him into the storeroom. It was his own, not Camila's. He hauled it up and slipped it over his back, stepping through the doorway. "Camila's bag probably has some stuff." He gestured the gun in Bearyl's general direction. "It's, uh, over by the dildo bear."
He realized he still felt worse about the fact that he and Beryl had never fucked than he did about literally murdering Camila.
Huh.
That was...
...Cool?
It was cool or whatever.
...No it fucking wasn't. This island had changed him. It had hollowed him out.
His head was fucked up beyond repair and -
- a memory popped into his mind. It went somewhere else. Not hallucinated; just thought about a lot really fucking fast.
It finally found a real answer.
((Michael's brain continued in True Affection))
He stood, zoned out for a few seconds.
((Michael's brain continued from True Affection))
He blinked.
He wasn't okay.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
-
Ruggahissy
- Posts: 1593
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:13 pm
((Lori Martin continued from Don't Stray Off The Path ))
Life was unfair and had been stacked against Lori from the moment of her birth, which she was certain was an event that the world could have done without.
All she had found for her troubles after drugging the last group of idiots was a bag that had an owl costume inside of it -- the mascot of their high school. She'd worked hard to become a cheerleader, the best cheerleader on the whole lazy, stupid, squad, and in the end she was the mascot. The job that some of her classmates had said she deserved all along because it would hide her ugly fucking face.
Lori figured that she could put it on because it might hide her identity if she were to employ her gifts on others, maybe it could stop someone from shooting her on sight just because of how weird it was, but she also just wanted to put it on for some reason. Inside the costume, she had a barrier from the world, which she was not looking out at from the inside.
Not long after she put on the costume, it started to rain. The costume would become impossibly heavy to wear if it became wet, and even more difficult to lug around by hand. She took off, running to whatever structure seemed closest, taking care to try and travel until the cover of foliage.
Lori sprinted to the commissary, not knowing what it was and missing the bullet hole in the door and any blood. The door slammed loudly behind her and she leaned against the door, panting and crying. Her tears leaked hate from her body and she sobbed quietly inside the owl. She cried for herself, because things were unfair for her and she wondered why these things happened to her when she felt like she was doing everything right, everything she possibly could do, but wasn't seeing any improvement in her situation.
Lori missed the other two bodies in the room, consumed by her own self-pity. She dropped her bag and retracted her arms to be with her in the main chamber, covering her face. However, the suit muffled her sobs and hiccups. All that outside observers would see was the owl mascot staring at them with its glassy and unwavering eyes.
Life was unfair and had been stacked against Lori from the moment of her birth, which she was certain was an event that the world could have done without.
All she had found for her troubles after drugging the last group of idiots was a bag that had an owl costume inside of it -- the mascot of their high school. She'd worked hard to become a cheerleader, the best cheerleader on the whole lazy, stupid, squad, and in the end she was the mascot. The job that some of her classmates had said she deserved all along because it would hide her ugly fucking face.
Lori figured that she could put it on because it might hide her identity if she were to employ her gifts on others, maybe it could stop someone from shooting her on sight just because of how weird it was, but she also just wanted to put it on for some reason. Inside the costume, she had a barrier from the world, which she was not looking out at from the inside.
Not long after she put on the costume, it started to rain. The costume would become impossibly heavy to wear if it became wet, and even more difficult to lug around by hand. She took off, running to whatever structure seemed closest, taking care to try and travel until the cover of foliage.
Lori sprinted to the commissary, not knowing what it was and missing the bullet hole in the door and any blood. The door slammed loudly behind her and she leaned against the door, panting and crying. Her tears leaked hate from her body and she sobbed quietly inside the owl. She cried for herself, because things were unfair for her and she wondered why these things happened to her when she felt like she was doing everything right, everything she possibly could do, but wasn't seeing any improvement in her situation.
Lori missed the other two bodies in the room, consumed by her own self-pity. She dropped her bag and retracted her arms to be with her in the main chamber, covering her face. However, the suit muffled her sobs and hiccups. All that outside observers would see was the owl mascot staring at them with its glassy and unwavering eyes.
"The dildo bea—" Morgan cut himself off, deciding that he'd be better off not knowing what Michael meant until he actually saw it with his own eyes. He had scanned the room when first coming into the commissary, but all of his energy had been focused upon the corpse at the far end of it. Where the bag was truly wasn't important; what Morgan needed were the contents. If Camila had any use for it before, if Michael truly had shot her down then it was up for grabs, and right now he was starving.
"It's been a few days and I'm starting to get a pretty good idea of who we should probably stay away from going forward. I've seen a lot of —"
Talking as he exited the storage room, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him, his words falling silent almost immediately. Michael had said something about a dildo bear, and now he indeed saw the bear in front of him, holding the dildo and — dear God, why did it have so many eyes — sitting watching the door. But that wasn't why he stopped.
A giant, anthropomorphic owl stood, silently staring at them.
No more drugs for that man, indeed.
Morgan stared back, unable to come up with any kind of witty comment at all.
"It's been a few days and I'm starting to get a pretty good idea of who we should probably stay away from going forward. I've seen a lot of —"
Talking as he exited the storage room, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him, his words falling silent almost immediately. Michael had said something about a dildo bear, and now he indeed saw the bear in front of him, holding the dildo and — dear God, why did it have so many eyes — sitting watching the door. But that wasn't why he stopped.
A giant, anthropomorphic owl stood, silently staring at them.
No more drugs for that man, indeed.
Morgan stared back, unable to come up with any kind of witty comment at all.
Michael felt a kind of cold, cracking feeling radiating through his chest. He felt like his body was made out of lukewarm tar, stuck in place, unable to do anything except slowly sink to the ground and dissociate across the floor in slow-motion. He felt... numb? Yeah, numb sounded right.
He had nothing left to distract him from the fact that he had, at the most, a week and a half left to live.
He was gone. He was pretty much dead already.
Everyone had died the moment the bus pulled over. There was no point in pretending otherwise. Nobody made it off the island alive.
The golden age was over. Et cetera.
He didn't remember much about the person he'd been before the island. He wasn't sure it was the real him. He wasn't sure if there was a real him, or if he was just always some fluid full of personalities.
He had a good idea of who he'd become, though. His name was still legally Michael Froese. Whenever he thought about marine biology he started crying. He'd been holding a gun for the past two days. He'd murdered someone. He'd fallen in love. He'd gotten high for the first time. He'd maybe attempted suicide (he wasn't sure). He'd gone absolutely fucking insane at least once.
That was who he was now and there was jack shit he could do about it.
It wasn't too late for him to die young. It wasn't too late for him to live a little.
He was letting go of his dead dreams for now.
The door slammed. Michael blinked.
Oh no! Benny was right about the owls!
Owl? Owl. Its eyes reminded him of how Nick's eyes looked during the aftermath of Jeremiah's murder. It was just... kinda standing there like something out of a horror movie.
As with the many-eyed bear, he appreciated the aesthetic.
Well okay. Fine. This was his life now.
He just wanted to be alone.
He glanced up at a camera. He'd never be alone ever again. There was always somebody watching. That still burned at him.
Morgan was saying words.
Michael blinked again. Shark eyes. Fixed his hair again.
Morgan had seen a lot of... something, apparently. Probably not owl mascots or signs written in blood or many-eyed bears holding ADULT OBJECTS.
Whatever it was, Michael was sure he'd seen more. He'd seen, uh, way too much.
Well, actually there were some things Morgan had seen more of.
A pang of envy and contempt screamed though Michael's head.
Haha honestly he was gonna murder Morgan some day probably for real this time.
He looked back at the owl. "Get used to it, Morgan. Also, hey, I guess you could say we're out of the closet now. Badum tss."
Oh yikes there were probably people watching who wanted to see that. That was no bueno! Definitely not with Morgan! Michael quickly glanced back up at the camera. 'No.' he mouthed.
Eyes back to the owl again. It wasn't an immediate threat unless the person in it was wearing a suicide vest or something. It didn't look outwardly armed, and if the person was trying to aim a gun concealed in the owl's chest cavity Michael was pretty sure they'd have worse aim than him. He held the pistol at his side in his right hand; waved with his left.
He flicked the safety off.
"Hey, uh, owl!"
He still felt like a facade. Same as he ever fucking felt.
He had nothing left to distract him from the fact that he had, at the most, a week and a half left to live.
He was gone. He was pretty much dead already.
Everyone had died the moment the bus pulled over. There was no point in pretending otherwise. Nobody made it off the island alive.
The golden age was over. Et cetera.
He didn't remember much about the person he'd been before the island. He wasn't sure it was the real him. He wasn't sure if there was a real him, or if he was just always some fluid full of personalities.
He had a good idea of who he'd become, though. His name was still legally Michael Froese. Whenever he thought about marine biology he started crying. He'd been holding a gun for the past two days. He'd murdered someone. He'd fallen in love. He'd gotten high for the first time. He'd maybe attempted suicide (he wasn't sure). He'd gone absolutely fucking insane at least once.
That was who he was now and there was jack shit he could do about it.
It wasn't too late for him to die young. It wasn't too late for him to live a little.
He was letting go of his dead dreams for now.
The door slammed. Michael blinked.
Oh no! Benny was right about the owls!
Owl? Owl. Its eyes reminded him of how Nick's eyes looked during the aftermath of Jeremiah's murder. It was just... kinda standing there like something out of a horror movie.
As with the many-eyed bear, he appreciated the aesthetic.
Well okay. Fine. This was his life now.
He just wanted to be alone.
He glanced up at a camera. He'd never be alone ever again. There was always somebody watching. That still burned at him.
Morgan was saying words.
Michael blinked again. Shark eyes. Fixed his hair again.
Morgan had seen a lot of... something, apparently. Probably not owl mascots or signs written in blood or many-eyed bears holding ADULT OBJECTS.
Whatever it was, Michael was sure he'd seen more. He'd seen, uh, way too much.
Well, actually there were some things Morgan had seen more of.
A pang of envy and contempt screamed though Michael's head.
Haha honestly he was gonna murder Morgan some day probably for real this time.
He looked back at the owl. "Get used to it, Morgan. Also, hey, I guess you could say we're out of the closet now. Badum tss."
Oh yikes there were probably people watching who wanted to see that. That was no bueno! Definitely not with Morgan! Michael quickly glanced back up at the camera. 'No.' he mouthed.
Eyes back to the owl again. It wasn't an immediate threat unless the person in it was wearing a suicide vest or something. It didn't look outwardly armed, and if the person was trying to aim a gun concealed in the owl's chest cavity Michael was pretty sure they'd have worse aim than him. He held the pistol at his side in his right hand; waved with his left.
He flicked the safety off.
"Hey, uh, owl!"
He still felt like a facade. Same as he ever fucking felt.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
-
Ruggahissy
- Posts: 1593
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:13 pm
Lori hushed suddenly when she noticed the two other people in the room. She put her arms back into the owl wings and picked up her bag, dragging it on the floor towards the figures to see who they were.
One was Morgan. She sort of knew who he was, but didn't know him as a person. He was one of the losers and perhaps Ivy or Madison had said something mean about him before, but he didn't stand out as a big nuisance. Thinking as best she could, she couldn't really recall him being one of the mentioned names in the past few days and he seemed genial enough, for a loser, she supposed.
The other person was the unmistakably Slenderman-esque frame of Michael Froese. She hated the kid, who was a shit-talker and frankly annoyed her frequently with his clown routine. She couldn't tell if he was really an idiot or pretending to be one, but they were both equally bad to her. He said, "Hey owl," said to her like he didn't know that there was clearly a person in the owl. Someone who was upset and sad, she thought.
"Play in traffic, fuck head," she hissed inside the costume, thankfully muffled again because...
Then she saw that he had the gun, and realized that the clicking had come from the weapon. Lori didn't like the look she thought she saw.
Lori dropped the bag and waved her wings in front of her, making an X. Don't shoot, please!
One was Morgan. She sort of knew who he was, but didn't know him as a person. He was one of the losers and perhaps Ivy or Madison had said something mean about him before, but he didn't stand out as a big nuisance. Thinking as best she could, she couldn't really recall him being one of the mentioned names in the past few days and he seemed genial enough, for a loser, she supposed.
The other person was the unmistakably Slenderman-esque frame of Michael Froese. She hated the kid, who was a shit-talker and frankly annoyed her frequently with his clown routine. She couldn't tell if he was really an idiot or pretending to be one, but they were both equally bad to her. He said, "Hey owl," said to her like he didn't know that there was clearly a person in the owl. Someone who was upset and sad, she thought.
"Play in traffic, fuck head," she hissed inside the costume, thankfully muffled again because...
Then she saw that he had the gun, and realized that the clicking had come from the weapon. Lori didn't like the look she thought she saw.
Lori dropped the bag and waved her wings in front of her, making an X. Don't shoot, please!
Michael had the wherewithal to joke around; he quipped about the owl. If he were a little more prescient and not as utterly starving as he were, Morgan would probably have felt a large amount of relief at that fact. Having his best friend no longer looking and sounding like he was one loud sound away from shooting himself — or worse, Morgan and then himself — was about as good a reaction or response as he could have hoped for. Yet for all of that, there were other fish to fry at the moment.
Or other owls to fry... or something.
Christ, this whole thing felt like a bad fever dream that he couldn't quite wake up from. The owl noticed Michael's pistol; Morgan hearing it but not putting together what the clicking sound was until the owl started frantically crossing its arms. It was scared, evidently. Morgan couldn't blame it, either. The casual nature with which Michael operated the firearm almost confirmed what he'd been told. It confirmed that Michael had actually shot someone. There was still a chance, still a possibility that maybe he'd missed, maybe Camila had been bleeding already, maybe he'd hallucinated the whole thing?
His stomach growled. God, he was hungry, and this whole situation took the cake for ridiculousness. Ugh, cake. Everything he could think of at the moment was food. He was going to go utterly insane from hunger, evidently. The person in the owl suit may have said something, but any sounds from within were muffled by the head. Why on Earth would someone be running around in that?
"No, hey — it's okay, we're not going to shoot you! We're friendly," he turned to look at Michael, "right, Mike?"
Squinting at the mascot costume, he did a quick confirmation; this was no generic mascot suit, it was truly Hunter the Horned Owl, in the flesh. Or the feathers, he supposed. Did owls even have feathers? Sure they did, but this wasn't a real owl. In the felt?
Morgan blinked. Where the hell was his mind going with all of this? Who would have a mascot suit. Was this Reuben, in the suit? He was the school's mascot, after all. He'd always been on fairly decent terms with Reuben, so hey — this could be a good thing.
"Is that — Reuben, is that you under there?" His voice was cautious, but hopeful. Any allies they could find would help secure their own safety; for the moment at least. Beyond that? Any friendly faces would be crucial in helping secure their sanity as well.
It was that which worried him more right now.
Or other owls to fry... or something.
Christ, this whole thing felt like a bad fever dream that he couldn't quite wake up from. The owl noticed Michael's pistol; Morgan hearing it but not putting together what the clicking sound was until the owl started frantically crossing its arms. It was scared, evidently. Morgan couldn't blame it, either. The casual nature with which Michael operated the firearm almost confirmed what he'd been told. It confirmed that Michael had actually shot someone. There was still a chance, still a possibility that maybe he'd missed, maybe Camila had been bleeding already, maybe he'd hallucinated the whole thing?
His stomach growled. God, he was hungry, and this whole situation took the cake for ridiculousness. Ugh, cake. Everything he could think of at the moment was food. He was going to go utterly insane from hunger, evidently. The person in the owl suit may have said something, but any sounds from within were muffled by the head. Why on Earth would someone be running around in that?
"No, hey — it's okay, we're not going to shoot you! We're friendly," he turned to look at Michael, "right, Mike?"
Squinting at the mascot costume, he did a quick confirmation; this was no generic mascot suit, it was truly Hunter the Horned Owl, in the flesh. Or the feathers, he supposed. Did owls even have feathers? Sure they did, but this wasn't a real owl. In the felt?
Morgan blinked. Where the hell was his mind going with all of this? Who would have a mascot suit. Was this Reuben, in the suit? He was the school's mascot, after all. He'd always been on fairly decent terms with Reuben, so hey — this could be a good thing.
"Is that — Reuben, is that you under there?" His voice was cautious, but hopeful. Any allies they could find would help secure their own safety; for the moment at least. Beyond that? Any friendly faces would be crucial in helping secure their sanity as well.
It was that which worried him more right now.
The Owl was dancing.
Oh wait no. It was miming. Why would The Owl be dancing? That would be SILLY.
The Owl didn't want him to shoot. That was... a new experience, sort of? He felt weird about it being new because he'd already been asked not to shoot someone by someone else, asked someone to shoot him, asked someone if he could (but more like led them into letting him) shoot them, and then shot said someone to death.
"It's okay, we're not going to shoot you! We're friendly, right, Mike?" Morgan said. "Right." Michael did not say, because it would be a lie. Instead he sort of gave a half-shrug; a truth through omission.
Morgan asked The Owl if it was Reuben. Morgan's brain still thought it was at GHH. The Owl couldn't be Reuben; Reuben was over six feet tall. The Owl was not over six feet tall. Unless someone had cut Reuben's feet off, The Owl was not Reuben.
"Why the hell would Reuben wear the owl suit here? The terrorists probably just like, saw it in the luggage and thought it'd make a funny weapon draw because they're assholes. I think it's just someone who's like..." he trailed off as he speedwalked forward to the table The Many-Eyed Bear was sitting on. He couldn't keep calling it Bearyl in good conscience. "...they don't want us to know who they are. Incognito. That's the only reason someone'd be wearing a mascot costume here."
He grabbed The Many-Eyed Bear with his left hand. That was probably Camila's jacket that it was wearing. Camila was dead because he'd shot her in the gut after luring her into the building by playing dead. He'd literally talked her to death.
He'd try to carry The Many-Eyed Bear with him as long as he lived. His personal memorial to Camila. It wouldn't make sense to anybody but him, but he didn't care anymore. He couldn't let himself forget. He couldn't let himself feel okay about the fact he'd murdered her.
He approximated eye contact with The Owl, smiled with his mouth closed, and nodded. He flicked the safety on again and lightly nudged Camila's bag backwards toward Morgan. His voice was soft. "Owl, I dunno who you are or what you're hiding, but, uh... it's cool if you want to keep the costume on. I get it."
That last part was probably pretty confusing for Morgan but like whatever. Michael liked talking to The Owl. The anonymity let him be - or at least feel - candid.
Oh wait no. It was miming. Why would The Owl be dancing? That would be SILLY.
The Owl didn't want him to shoot. That was... a new experience, sort of? He felt weird about it being new because he'd already been asked not to shoot someone by someone else, asked someone to shoot him, asked someone if he could (but more like led them into letting him) shoot them, and then shot said someone to death.
"It's okay, we're not going to shoot you! We're friendly, right, Mike?" Morgan said. "Right." Michael did not say, because it would be a lie. Instead he sort of gave a half-shrug; a truth through omission.
Morgan asked The Owl if it was Reuben. Morgan's brain still thought it was at GHH. The Owl couldn't be Reuben; Reuben was over six feet tall. The Owl was not over six feet tall. Unless someone had cut Reuben's feet off, The Owl was not Reuben.
"Why the hell would Reuben wear the owl suit here? The terrorists probably just like, saw it in the luggage and thought it'd make a funny weapon draw because they're assholes. I think it's just someone who's like..." he trailed off as he speedwalked forward to the table The Many-Eyed Bear was sitting on. He couldn't keep calling it Bearyl in good conscience. "...they don't want us to know who they are. Incognito. That's the only reason someone'd be wearing a mascot costume here."
He grabbed The Many-Eyed Bear with his left hand. That was probably Camila's jacket that it was wearing. Camila was dead because he'd shot her in the gut after luring her into the building by playing dead. He'd literally talked her to death.
He'd try to carry The Many-Eyed Bear with him as long as he lived. His personal memorial to Camila. It wouldn't make sense to anybody but him, but he didn't care anymore. He couldn't let himself forget. He couldn't let himself feel okay about the fact he'd murdered her.
He approximated eye contact with The Owl, smiled with his mouth closed, and nodded. He flicked the safety on again and lightly nudged Camila's bag backwards toward Morgan. His voice was soft. "Owl, I dunno who you are or what you're hiding, but, uh... it's cool if you want to keep the costume on. I get it."
That last part was probably pretty confusing for Morgan but like whatever. Michael liked talking to The Owl. The anonymity let him be - or at least feel - candid.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.