((Blair Moore continued from Origin of Symmetry))
The constant companionship of death really puts things on their head, y'know? Like how going from yesterday morning until this afternoon without seeing anyone would normally be frustrating and depressing. Blair was hardly asocial, and she liked basic human interaction. At home, being sick for days would result in her relative isolation in her room, resigning her to chatrooms and Tumblr for her social life.
Now of course, being alone was a boon. She'd spent enough time musing about how isolation was a safer state here. If you never ran into anyone, you would probably be fine. So walking the long way around the island and ending up in the gardens again without saying anything to anyone was kind of nice from that perspective. She felt a little more at ease, honestly, though the ever-present paranoia that had developed led her to nervously bounce her gaze between any rustling foliage or oddly-shaped shadow.
She'd found herself hanging out on the side of the garden opposite of the chapel from Rene's body. Pragmatically, it meant she didn't have to put up with the decay, though in a sick and twisted sense some scientific curiosity might at one point have led her to scrutinize the corpse. But Rene had been her friend and companion, someone she'd grown fond of. Blair had killed her, at Rene's request but still, at the very least she could give her remains some privacy.
Of course, the drawback of the untamed colors of the gardens was that Blair was now all too aware that very large poisonous spiders could be found within, along with god knows what else. She'd been tempted to spend the night in the chapel, but the occasional noises from within made her nervous about its security. Sleeping under the willow tree with her own full back and the reluctantly-procured empty satchel from Rene ended up the most reassuring arrangement. At least, she hadn't died.
In a strange recursion, Johnny McKay was dead, which normally wouldn't have elicited great response from Blair except she'd seen him here when Rene died. She didn't think they'd even spoken, but it was still unsettling in that vague, coincidental way. It just lined up neatly, and that wasn't right.
The willow tree was admittedly lovely, and Blair had managed to find a comfortable sleeping position. She'd left the SMG from Scout next to her, within arm's reach but not directly under her. After waking up, Blair found herself extremely sore, alleviated slightly by some rigorous stretching. She rubbed her eyes and started eating some of her remaining rations. She had enough for two more days, but probably no more. She hadn't been dealing with awful hunger or anything, but by now she was pretty sure she'd lost some weight. Which might've been nice if she wasn't already stupidly scrawny. 5'4" and like, less than 100 pounds? Not good.
Blair finished up the food bar and started returning the majority of her dwindling supplies into her bag. She left the SMG, of course, and forced a couple of clips into her pocket. That was a small comfort at least; she had baggier clothing from not eating enough for over a week. Hmm, that was probably why the prizes included food.
As she was about to move, she spotted movement nearby. Startled, Blair raised the gun, but paused when she lost track of it. Had she been seeing things? God, as if there wasn't enough shit to deal with-oh shit!
The giant fucking spider had started darting towards her, and Blair pulled the trigger of the MAC-10. The recoil caught her off-guard, but luckily(?) she'd forgotten to put it on safety, so one moment and four bullets later there was no spider. Blair sighed and adjusted her shoulder strap.
Ugh. Time to go. Fucking murder bugs. 'Cause she needed the wildlife here to try to fuck her up too.
Toxic
Open, Day 10
It admittedly took her a couple of moments (or minutes, whatever) to work up the courage to start walking through the tall, unkempt grass and plants. Blair had never been much for gaming, but she spent enough time on the internet to see a Pokemon parallel here. Don't go into the tall grass, wild Pokemon will eat you or something. Wait, weren't they like smart? Fuck, if there were Pokemon on this island, taking off the collars would be easy, and then they could fly home or ride one or something.
Shit, she was losing it or something. It wasn't like her to go on elaborate fantasy tangents. While she was wishing, she might as well wish away this whole goddamn week and a half. Being stuck in Kingman was like paradise compared to here.
Moving briskly through the grass, Blair was wary of any movement, her head cracking like a whip towards anything in her peripheral vision. It was probably hysterical to watch, but it didn't feel funny to Blair. Way back on the beach, the last time she'd seen Noah, she'd rushed a killer on a whim, almost experimenting with the value of her own life. As she exited the obscured area and returned to more tame soil, she realized how idiotic that had been.
Of course she wanted to live. No sane person was happier dead than alive, right? Blair's lungs contorted and she coughed, feeling phlegm dislodge in her throat. It was a familiar sensation, aching and tense, but it was familiar. In a funny way, the weather here seemed to be less aggravating on her condition than the drier climate in Kingman. What a consolation prize.
The familiarity came with a morose reminder, though. Cystic fibrosis wasn't just going to go away. Winning just delayed death, technically true for anyone but the reprieve was far shorter for her. The nagging, whiny voice in her brain saying that she would squander life compared to any other survivor was starting to piss her off, though. What, was she just gonna shoot herself? Fuck that. She wasn't Caedyn, Alessio, Kimiko or any of the repeat killers who were now themselves dead. She wasn't going to place her own life over other people. The irony in doing so only meant she'd be proving her inferiority.
But Blair wasn't going to give up hope. If she won because everyone else died, great. If somehow she got to ensure a worthy person went home (who that might entail was another matter), also good. But Blair wasn't a quitter. She did a crazy-strenuous sport in defiance of her crippling medical issues. She'd survived a week and a half on a terrorist murder island. She was armed, she had supplies, and she was still going strong, relatively unscathed up until now. She had a shot.
A quick estimation in her head told her about 20 people were left, give or take. Of those twenty, 19 were doomed. Blair might well be one of them. But at this point, playing patty-cake waiting for rescue was inane, naive. Everyone left had to acknowledge that they were close. No doubt that everyone who didn't have strength to survive was gone, or would be soon.
The time for hope was past. Some philosopher said that the night was darkest just before dawn, which was quoted in that Batman movie. That time was right now. The darkest hour was upon them, a cliched thought she'd never include in a poem at home. But it was true. It was not going to get much worse. As Blair began to begrudgingly make her way towards the asylum standing visible despite the distance, all the pep talk and contemplation brought her to one inevitable conclusion.
Kill or be killed, right? She had killed, and hadn't been killed yet. All that she would need to survive was at her disposal. Blair had to fight on. She had found resolve, a bitter and merciless resolve born 10 days ago when she saw a girl fall off a bridge to her death and threw up all over herself. It was a long time coming, but she knew her purpose now.
Blair Moore was not going to go down without a hell of a fight.
((Blair Moore continued in Takasago))
Shit, she was losing it or something. It wasn't like her to go on elaborate fantasy tangents. While she was wishing, she might as well wish away this whole goddamn week and a half. Being stuck in Kingman was like paradise compared to here.
Moving briskly through the grass, Blair was wary of any movement, her head cracking like a whip towards anything in her peripheral vision. It was probably hysterical to watch, but it didn't feel funny to Blair. Way back on the beach, the last time she'd seen Noah, she'd rushed a killer on a whim, almost experimenting with the value of her own life. As she exited the obscured area and returned to more tame soil, she realized how idiotic that had been.
Of course she wanted to live. No sane person was happier dead than alive, right? Blair's lungs contorted and she coughed, feeling phlegm dislodge in her throat. It was a familiar sensation, aching and tense, but it was familiar. In a funny way, the weather here seemed to be less aggravating on her condition than the drier climate in Kingman. What a consolation prize.
The familiarity came with a morose reminder, though. Cystic fibrosis wasn't just going to go away. Winning just delayed death, technically true for anyone but the reprieve was far shorter for her. The nagging, whiny voice in her brain saying that she would squander life compared to any other survivor was starting to piss her off, though. What, was she just gonna shoot herself? Fuck that. She wasn't Caedyn, Alessio, Kimiko or any of the repeat killers who were now themselves dead. She wasn't going to place her own life over other people. The irony in doing so only meant she'd be proving her inferiority.
But Blair wasn't going to give up hope. If she won because everyone else died, great. If somehow she got to ensure a worthy person went home (who that might entail was another matter), also good. But Blair wasn't a quitter. She did a crazy-strenuous sport in defiance of her crippling medical issues. She'd survived a week and a half on a terrorist murder island. She was armed, she had supplies, and she was still going strong, relatively unscathed up until now. She had a shot.
A quick estimation in her head told her about 20 people were left, give or take. Of those twenty, 19 were doomed. Blair might well be one of them. But at this point, playing patty-cake waiting for rescue was inane, naive. Everyone left had to acknowledge that they were close. No doubt that everyone who didn't have strength to survive was gone, or would be soon.
The time for hope was past. Some philosopher said that the night was darkest just before dawn, which was quoted in that Batman movie. That time was right now. The darkest hour was upon them, a cliched thought she'd never include in a poem at home. But it was true. It was not going to get much worse. As Blair began to begrudgingly make her way towards the asylum standing visible despite the distance, all the pep talk and contemplation brought her to one inevitable conclusion.
Kill or be killed, right? She had killed, and hadn't been killed yet. All that she would need to survive was at her disposal. Blair had to fight on. She had found resolve, a bitter and merciless resolve born 10 days ago when she saw a girl fall off a bridge to her death and threw up all over herself. It was a long time coming, but she knew her purpose now.
Blair Moore was not going to go down without a hell of a fight.
((Blair Moore continued in Takasago))