He'd been here before. The three, maybe more, corpses (some fresher than others) were certainly an interesting new change in decor. He couldn't entirely recall how many days he had spent in here - two or three, at least. Just him, Nate, and Ben. He hadn't seen Nate in a while. He knew he was still alive. That could change, today. Ben was dead. He'd been dead for a long time, now. Almost a week.
For one brief moment, Matt felt something resembling sadness. Days after the fact, he mourned the death of someone he could consider a friend. A good ally, at least. He sat down, placing the gun he had just been rewarded onto the floor in front of him. He looked down at the buffalo wings. They looked delicious. Golden brown, slathered in sauce - he wondered if it was eating bread he'd taken off of dead bodies for days that was making them look so good.
He looked around for a camera. He was never particularly good at spotting them. Past a certain point, he just stopped caring about them. Eventually, he found one. He placed the basket of wings next to the gun and rose to his feet, moving towards it. He looked up at it, not entirely sure if anyone was watching him. Could they hear what he was saying?
He briefly glanced back at the spot he was just sitting in. He looked back to the camera and felt desperation welling up inside of him. The question that had been gnawing away at his sanity since he had first come here.
Quietly, Matt asked why this was happening.
He was met with silence. No answer.
Slowly, he moved back to where he was sitting.
Amen
Amen
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((Nate Turner continued from Talons))
He didn't have a direction. Of course he didn't have a direction: there was nowhere left to go.
The machete was still in his hands, he'd not let it go since he pulled it out of Jon. It had been horrible, the sickening noise as blade left flesh, the fresh blood dripping off it, the vomit that had made its way up through his throat. He could still taste it on his teeth.
He couldn't believe himself. He didn't understand it. He knew what it was: he didn't want to die, and this was his only choice, but it made no sense. He didn't make any sense.
Who was he anymore?
He was walking through the hallway, machete in hand, and it was there for a reason. He hated that reason, and he didn't want to act on it no matter what, but he just didn't want to die. When he thought about it, he almost threw up again. When he thought about Jon, he did.
He was tired. He was hungry. He didn't know what to do.
He wasn't going to last much longer.
He passed by a door. Stopped. Came back. Somehow, bizarrely, he recognised it.
Ben. Matt. Henry.
He didn't smile, or frown. He acknowledged it, stared at it, but he didn't have the strength to do any more. Remembering familiar faces was getting painful again, even when he'd thought he'd stopped caring. Remembering the morning announcements, that Clarice hadn't made it, that Enzo was dead, that there just weren't many of them left, wasn't something he wanted to do.
He rubbed his arm across his eyes, which were still able to get teary even after all this time. The last time he'd seen Enzo, he thought he was about to die. The last time he'd seen Clarice, he knew he was about to die. But, even knowing that it was the last time he'd meet either of them, he'd not done anything meaningful with it.
He'd never done anything meaningful, really. Even before all this, he hadn't done anything to help anyone. He was a burden on his family, and on his friends. This would just burden them further, with all the grief he was no doubt causing.
At the grief he was no doubt going to cause.
He looked down at the machete in his hands. He hated it, more than he'd hated anything, but it didn't make any difference.
He pushed on the door. Opened it. Stepped inside.
He didn't have a direction. Of course he didn't have a direction: there was nowhere left to go.
The machete was still in his hands, he'd not let it go since he pulled it out of Jon. It had been horrible, the sickening noise as blade left flesh, the fresh blood dripping off it, the vomit that had made its way up through his throat. He could still taste it on his teeth.
He couldn't believe himself. He didn't understand it. He knew what it was: he didn't want to die, and this was his only choice, but it made no sense. He didn't make any sense.
Who was he anymore?
He was walking through the hallway, machete in hand, and it was there for a reason. He hated that reason, and he didn't want to act on it no matter what, but he just didn't want to die. When he thought about it, he almost threw up again. When he thought about Jon, he did.
He was tired. He was hungry. He didn't know what to do.
He wasn't going to last much longer.
He passed by a door. Stopped. Came back. Somehow, bizarrely, he recognised it.
Ben. Matt. Henry.
He didn't smile, or frown. He acknowledged it, stared at it, but he didn't have the strength to do any more. Remembering familiar faces was getting painful again, even when he'd thought he'd stopped caring. Remembering the morning announcements, that Clarice hadn't made it, that Enzo was dead, that there just weren't many of them left, wasn't something he wanted to do.
He rubbed his arm across his eyes, which were still able to get teary even after all this time. The last time he'd seen Enzo, he thought he was about to die. The last time he'd seen Clarice, he knew he was about to die. But, even knowing that it was the last time he'd meet either of them, he'd not done anything meaningful with it.
He'd never done anything meaningful, really. Even before all this, he hadn't done anything to help anyone. He was a burden on his family, and on his friends. This would just burden them further, with all the grief he was no doubt causing.
At the grief he was no doubt going to cause.
He looked down at the machete in his hands. He hated it, more than he'd hated anything, but it didn't make any difference.
He pushed on the door. Opened it. Stepped inside.
The door opened. Nate came in with - of all things - a blood soaked machete. Matt was in the middle of reaching for his gun. Briefly, he hesitated, before picking it up and scrambling to his feet. Slowly, he started to back away from Nate. He raised the gun towards him, finger on the trigger.
All he really had to do was pull.
"Nate," he said. He tried to make idle, worthless conversation. "How's it going?"
All he really had to do was pull.
"Nate," he said. He tried to make idle, worthless conversation. "How's it going?"
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He flinched, just a little bit. He didn't drop the machete, or run out again. He just was taken aback. Seeing Matt, who looked so different from that first day, was unexpected.
Nate stared at him. Stared down the barrel of the gun, pointed squarely at his face. That lump was still in his throat, but he didn't flinch again.
This time, he could speak.
"Matt."
He swallowed, resolute. He didn't feel like pleasantries. He didn't feel like small talk.
"Are you going to do it this time?"
Nate stared at him. Stared down the barrel of the gun, pointed squarely at his face. That lump was still in his throat, but he didn't flinch again.
This time, he could speak.
"Matt."
He swallowed, resolute. He didn't feel like pleasantries. He didn't feel like small talk.
"Are you going to do it this time?"
He hadn't been keeping track of how long he'd been here.
All he knew was that he really needed to shave.
Nate stood in front of him. Just one pull. That was all it took. Change so many lives with so little effort.
He lowered the gun, slowly.
"No."
All he knew was that he really needed to shave.
Nate stood in front of him. Just one pull. That was all it took. Change so many lives with so little effort.
He lowered the gun, slowly.
"No."
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What?
He stood there. He didn't know what else to do.
He didn't know why, but he was angry. Matt wasn't trying to kill him.
"Why not?" he asked, a look of exasperation spread across his face. He was reliving when Matt had done this the first time, back at the beach. Back when he'd thought, hey, maybe Matt wasn't such a bad guy, that maybe there was still hope. Back before Matt had gone on to kill more people, even as recently as yesterday. Even if all the names were blending together, if individual sins seemed irrelevant, he knew Matt was still doing what he did.
"You've been killing everybody, you and the others. You don't want to be a loser, right? You and everyone else?"
The words were stammering out of his mouth, and he felt himself shaking. He was shaking with so much damn anger at Matt, and at everyone who'd been sucked into this stupid thing that he couldn't do a thing about. Just when things started to make sense, no matter how horrible it was, Matt decided to pull this.
"So why not just keep going, and kill me now? Isn't that what everyone wants?!"
He stood there. He didn't know what else to do.
He didn't know why, but he was angry. Matt wasn't trying to kill him.
"Why not?" he asked, a look of exasperation spread across his face. He was reliving when Matt had done this the first time, back at the beach. Back when he'd thought, hey, maybe Matt wasn't such a bad guy, that maybe there was still hope. Back before Matt had gone on to kill more people, even as recently as yesterday. Even if all the names were blending together, if individual sins seemed irrelevant, he knew Matt was still doing what he did.
"You've been killing everybody, you and the others. You don't want to be a loser, right? You and everyone else?"
The words were stammering out of his mouth, and he felt himself shaking. He was shaking with so much damn anger at Matt, and at everyone who'd been sucked into this stupid thing that he couldn't do a thing about. Just when things started to make sense, no matter how horrible it was, Matt decided to pull this.
"So why not just keep going, and kill me now? Isn't that what everyone wants?!"
Matt burst out laughing, slinking back to where he was sitting down. After all of this, he was looking for justification. After everything that he had done - this is what he was asking him about. He didn't need to justify anything to anyone. Slowly, he placed the gun on his lap, making sure the safety was off.
"You wanna know why. I can tell. You wanna know why your good buddy Matt killed four people."
He picked the gun up by the barrel and held it out for Nate.
"Look around you. That's your reason. I'm not a winner or a loser. I'm just one guy. What am I supposed to do in this situation? Heroically lay down and let someone else kill me? Start killing everyone for attention?" Slowly, Matt started to rise to his feet, still holding the gun out for Nate to take.
"I can't tell you why I won't kill you, Nate. I can't tell myself why I killed or didn't kill anybody. I can't even remember half the people I've killed." Slowly, he started yelling.
"I want to know the point of all this. I want to know what any of this is supposed to prove about who I am as a person. I don't want to win. You think that's what this is about? Winning some shitty little game?" He started approaching him. The gun was within reach.
"Trying to justify any of this is pathetic. It's just about the most thoughtless thing I can think of!"
"You wanna know why. I can tell. You wanna know why your good buddy Matt killed four people."
He picked the gun up by the barrel and held it out for Nate.
"Look around you. That's your reason. I'm not a winner or a loser. I'm just one guy. What am I supposed to do in this situation? Heroically lay down and let someone else kill me? Start killing everyone for attention?" Slowly, Matt started to rise to his feet, still holding the gun out for Nate to take.
"I can't tell you why I won't kill you, Nate. I can't tell myself why I killed or didn't kill anybody. I can't even remember half the people I've killed." Slowly, he started yelling.
"I want to know the point of all this. I want to know what any of this is supposed to prove about who I am as a person. I don't want to win. You think that's what this is about? Winning some shitty little game?" He started approaching him. The gun was within reach.
"Trying to justify any of this is pathetic. It's just about the most thoughtless thing I can think of!"
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He was still shaking, shaking as he watched Matt put the gun down, shaking as he listened to him rant and babble.
He remembered what Matt had said before, perfectly. The words were playing in his mind, loud and clear, running in the background as Matt launched his new tirade.
People had died, died at Matt's hands. Before, it had just been to prove he wasn't a loser. Killing his friends for no good reason was worth it, because that way he'd win. It didn't matter what that meant, that had been enough for him at the beach, and that's what he'd left Nate thinking about.
Now? Now he wanted to stand there with a straight face, tell him that that was stupid, that it didn't mean anything? That trying justify it, killing everyone, was pathetic?
People were dead. No matter how used to it he was, how much everyone wanted it to be happening, people were still dead.
Nate clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head, as the gun hovered between them. It begged to be fired.
He hated it. He hated the machete in his hand. He hated everything that had killed anyone here. But, most of all he hated –
There was only one thing he could do.
He stepped forward, the machete dropping out of his hand -- and punched Matt right in the gut.
He remembered what Matt had said before, perfectly. The words were playing in his mind, loud and clear, running in the background as Matt launched his new tirade.
People had died, died at Matt's hands. Before, it had just been to prove he wasn't a loser. Killing his friends for no good reason was worth it, because that way he'd win. It didn't matter what that meant, that had been enough for him at the beach, and that's what he'd left Nate thinking about.
Now? Now he wanted to stand there with a straight face, tell him that that was stupid, that it didn't mean anything? That trying justify it, killing everyone, was pathetic?
People were dead. No matter how used to it he was, how much everyone wanted it to be happening, people were still dead.
Nate clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head, as the gun hovered between them. It begged to be fired.
He hated it. He hated the machete in his hand. He hated everything that had killed anyone here. But, most of all he hated –
There was only one thing he could do.
He stepped forward, the machete dropping out of his hand -- and punched Matt right in the gut.
He fell backwards, reeling from Nate's surprisingly strong punch. The gun dropped to the ground, landing on the floor it would share with the corpses of people they both knew. Matt sat there for a moment, gasping and grunting in pain. He looked up at Nate.
"You don't have anything to say to that?" he asked, looking him right in the eyes.
He sat there silently for another moment. Winning at any cost no longer held any sort of appeal to him. He had the right to kill whoever he could on this island - exercising that right was his choice and his choice alone. No one could ever claim that he was forced to do it. Certainly, one could call this an extraordinary situation - only an extraordinary person could withstand the pressure of being here.
It was here, in the storage closet he shared with Nate Turner and Ben Fields only a week and a day ago, that Matthew Moradi realized he was not an extraordinary person. He was a weak, pathetic coward, one who rarely passed up the opportunity to ambush someone and murder them when he was put into a situation where he could feign a certain level of innocence.
Were he to ever leave this island he had planned to claim such. He was under the constant stress of potentially being attacked - he was in a kill or be killed situation - he was forced to kill at least one person, owing to the rules - and he was forced to kill others.
All of these were lies. The moment he decided to ambush Wade Cartwright and bash his skull in, splattering his brains onto the grass, he began to lie to himself. In place of having a motive for killing him - a lust for attention and fame, a mental breakdown, a laughable series of "accidents" - he elected that his motive would simply be that he was here.
When he chose to exercise his right to kill, he had lost. The cartoonish motives of their torturers were rendered all the more awful by the fact that some of the people here simply chose, almost consciously, to prove how eager they were to kill. He was counted among them. The person standing in front of him was not.
Sitting down on the floor, Matthew Moradi began to realize that winning wasn't possible. He wasn't fit to win - and, by proxy, he was not fit to live. It was a game where the person displaying the least humanity won. In his desperate attempts to prove how inhumane and terrible he was, he had lost.
He ran a hand through his hair. Quietly, he spoke up.
"I've made a mistake."
"You don't have anything to say to that?" he asked, looking him right in the eyes.
He sat there silently for another moment. Winning at any cost no longer held any sort of appeal to him. He had the right to kill whoever he could on this island - exercising that right was his choice and his choice alone. No one could ever claim that he was forced to do it. Certainly, one could call this an extraordinary situation - only an extraordinary person could withstand the pressure of being here.
It was here, in the storage closet he shared with Nate Turner and Ben Fields only a week and a day ago, that Matthew Moradi realized he was not an extraordinary person. He was a weak, pathetic coward, one who rarely passed up the opportunity to ambush someone and murder them when he was put into a situation where he could feign a certain level of innocence.
Were he to ever leave this island he had planned to claim such. He was under the constant stress of potentially being attacked - he was in a kill or be killed situation - he was forced to kill at least one person, owing to the rules - and he was forced to kill others.
All of these were lies. The moment he decided to ambush Wade Cartwright and bash his skull in, splattering his brains onto the grass, he began to lie to himself. In place of having a motive for killing him - a lust for attention and fame, a mental breakdown, a laughable series of "accidents" - he elected that his motive would simply be that he was here.
When he chose to exercise his right to kill, he had lost. The cartoonish motives of their torturers were rendered all the more awful by the fact that some of the people here simply chose, almost consciously, to prove how eager they were to kill. He was counted among them. The person standing in front of him was not.
Sitting down on the floor, Matthew Moradi began to realize that winning wasn't possible. He wasn't fit to win - and, by proxy, he was not fit to live. It was a game where the person displaying the least humanity won. In his desperate attempts to prove how inhumane and terrible he was, he had lost.
He ran a hand through his hair. Quietly, he spoke up.
"I've made a mistake."
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"Of course you made a mistake, you fucking idiot!"
He reached forward, grabbed Matt by the collar. He stared him in the face, as tears finally started streaming down his own. He started yelling through his twisted, anguished expression.
"You killed people! Lots of people! You stood there, and told me with a straight face that you were ok with it! Winning was good enough for you!"
He stood there, staring Matt right in the face, not letting go.
"You don't get to do this! You don't get to turn around, and say that you 'made a mistake'! You can't just change your mind like that! You can't just take it back!"
Nate was shaking as he yelled. His hand hurt from the unexpected punch, and his voice was already straining from the sudden yelling, but there was no way he was stopping now. It was overdue.
"I believed you! I was going to use that thing," he let one hand go, to indicate the machete on the floor "because you told me that's how things were! You and everyone else who bought into this whole stupid thing!"
He held tight a moment longer, then finally stopped shaking Matt, even as the tears kept streaming in full. He looked at someone he'd put so much faith in for no good reason, so disappointed, so betrayed. His grip relaxed, then let go.
"You could've just listened to me before, you didn't have to do any of this."
His head fell.
"None of us had to do any of this."
He reached forward, grabbed Matt by the collar. He stared him in the face, as tears finally started streaming down his own. He started yelling through his twisted, anguished expression.
"You killed people! Lots of people! You stood there, and told me with a straight face that you were ok with it! Winning was good enough for you!"
He stood there, staring Matt right in the face, not letting go.
"You don't get to do this! You don't get to turn around, and say that you 'made a mistake'! You can't just change your mind like that! You can't just take it back!"
Nate was shaking as he yelled. His hand hurt from the unexpected punch, and his voice was already straining from the sudden yelling, but there was no way he was stopping now. It was overdue.
"I believed you! I was going to use that thing," he let one hand go, to indicate the machete on the floor "because you told me that's how things were! You and everyone else who bought into this whole stupid thing!"
He held tight a moment longer, then finally stopped shaking Matt, even as the tears kept streaming in full. He looked at someone he'd put so much faith in for no good reason, so disappointed, so betrayed. His grip relaxed, then let go.
"You could've just listened to me before, you didn't have to do any of this."
His head fell.
"None of us had to do any of this."
What was there to say? In the face of insurmountable horror and tragedy, what words could suffice? With his hilariously simplistic motive discarded, anything that could justify what had been done vanished. So what could he say?
Nothing.
There was simply nothing for him to say - he had played the game and, as a result, proved his own inhumanity. The choice was always his.
Matt Moradi stood up and bent down to pick up the gun.
Looking at Nate, Matt spoke quickly. He had the eyes of someone who was desperate. "It's too late for me." He swallowed.
"You need to get out of here.. off the island. Alright?" Slowly, he started to unsling his rifle. He placed it on the ground in front of him.
"I can't explain why I did this.. or why anyone else did. I guess I'm just a bad person." Slowly, he started to unbutton his flannel jacket.
"You're not.. I, uh, don't really know how you did it.. but I figure there's less than ten people left right now." He looked over to the camera.
"Somehow, you've managed to make it this far without killing anyone.. you remember the rules, though, right?" He finished unbuttoning his jacket and took it off, slowly.
"You have to kill someone.. take my gun. Just make sure it's in self defense." He took a step forward and held out his jacket.
"I want you to have this. It's pretty cold, and.. uh, well, I won't need it. I'm giving up."
Nothing.
There was simply nothing for him to say - he had played the game and, as a result, proved his own inhumanity. The choice was always his.
Matt Moradi stood up and bent down to pick up the gun.
Looking at Nate, Matt spoke quickly. He had the eyes of someone who was desperate. "It's too late for me." He swallowed.
"You need to get out of here.. off the island. Alright?" Slowly, he started to unsling his rifle. He placed it on the ground in front of him.
"I can't explain why I did this.. or why anyone else did. I guess I'm just a bad person." Slowly, he started to unbutton his flannel jacket.
"You're not.. I, uh, don't really know how you did it.. but I figure there's less than ten people left right now." He looked over to the camera.
"Somehow, you've managed to make it this far without killing anyone.. you remember the rules, though, right?" He finished unbuttoning his jacket and took it off, slowly.
"You have to kill someone.. take my gun. Just make sure it's in self defense." He took a step forward and held out his jacket.
"I want you to have this. It's pretty cold, and.. uh, well, I won't need it. I'm giving up."
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Nate raised his head. He listened. Looked at Matt as he poured his heart out.
He wanted to interrupt, but he couldn't. There was nothing to argue with, or disagree over. Matt was admitting what Nate had been thinking about him, would've told him in due time. He hated to admit it, but he knew it was true.
So why? Why was Matt still trying to help him, if he was such a terrible person? He had all the guns, all the experience, he could've ended this as soon as he'd started. He didn't have to stand there, listen to Nate, let him punch him. He could've just kept going, doing what everyone wanted.
Nate stared down at the jacket held out between them. He reached out, and took it.
He looked back at Matt. The first person he'd met on the island, the person he'd wanted to help, the person he'd come to hate. Before all this, they hadn't been anything, had never met. Now?
He ran forwards, and hugged him tight.
"Don't talk like that! You don't have to die, or kill people, or anything like that! I don't care what you've done, ok? I don't care, so just stop it already!"
He wanted to interrupt, but he couldn't. There was nothing to argue with, or disagree over. Matt was admitting what Nate had been thinking about him, would've told him in due time. He hated to admit it, but he knew it was true.
So why? Why was Matt still trying to help him, if he was such a terrible person? He had all the guns, all the experience, he could've ended this as soon as he'd started. He didn't have to stand there, listen to Nate, let him punch him. He could've just kept going, doing what everyone wanted.
Nate stared down at the jacket held out between them. He reached out, and took it.
He looked back at Matt. The first person he'd met on the island, the person he'd wanted to help, the person he'd come to hate. Before all this, they hadn't been anything, had never met. Now?
He ran forwards, and hugged him tight.
"Don't talk like that! You don't have to die, or kill people, or anything like that! I don't care what you've done, ok? I don't care, so just stop it already!"
Matt looked down at Nate, putting a hand on his shoulder. He remembered that almost two weeks ago, he had woken up outside of the chapel. He found Nate inside, crying. He felt bad for him, so he tried - terribly, in all honesty - to calm him down. Nate proposed that they go for a walk. Then they ended up here. Ben was there. He hadn't seen Ben in a few days. He knew that he was dead. He'd heard the announcement.
Quietly, he started to talk again. "I need you to be strong for everyone who wasn't. I need you to prove them wrong. Prove me wrong."
Matt Moradi started crying. Of course Matt Moradi started crying. He was terrible, and a murderer, and he was going to die.
Quietly, he started to talk again. "I need you to be strong for everyone who wasn't. I need you to prove them wrong. Prove me wrong."
Matt Moradi started crying. Of course Matt Moradi started crying. He was terrible, and a murderer, and he was going to die.
B024: Matthew Moradi - Deceased
9 Students Remaining
9 Students Remaining
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((Blair Moore continued from Takasago))
Sleeping in a creepy asylum had been a wonderfully awful experience, but waking up to announcements that day had made it worse somehow.
Caedyn had been killed, by that suspicious girl Fiyori, and even Alba had killed that Emma girl (though Emma had killed someone the same day herself). It was all very elaborate and Blair wouldn't care about any of it if it wasn't for Caedyn.
So, why did she feel disappointed that Caedyn died? The thought had occurred to her only as she found herself near the storage closet door. Caedyn was, objectively, a horrible person; she'd even killed again that same day. Cass Prince was a nobody to Blair, but they hadn't killed or anything. Caedyn was definitely the aggressor. But all that meant that it was good she was dead, no matter who did the deed.
Blair kept finding herself picturing Caedyn's stupid dreadlocks and her smug face. And all this time, ever since seeing her in the library with Rene, it had felt like she was going to shoot that bitch. It was a fairytale, a shitty Young Adult novel, where the alpha bitch got taken down by the spunky heroine. She really should have known better, of course.
Whatever. She'd outlived that skank, and now there were only a few people left. Judging from Danya, this was nearly the end. Probably only a dozen or less people alive, and Blair could hear at least two of them in the 'closet'.
The door had been an obstacle, since she didn't want to make noise for obvious reasons. Luckily the two seemed to be talking and/or crying, and she wasn't sure they noticed. Her breathing was slow, controlled, silent. She moved very, very slowly, making sure to keep a close eye on each corner.
There. Around the doorway. She spied two people, either embracing or close to it. The back of one was turned to her; she tried to remember which guys were left. This one didn't look like Jae, and the only other in her memory was Matt, who had just won an award.
She'd been intent on killing in the interview rooms, but had been outnumbered, flanked by inattention. She had her back to a box now, and the boys were still in range. The one facing her was too short to identify facially, but that clued her in by itself. Nate Turner was a tiny, timid kid, and that he was still alive was pretty impressive for him. She had no idea if shooting Matt would hit or kill Nate. It felt cruel, the idea that she could take two birds with one stone. Nate hadn't done anything to anyone here.
Fuck it, none of them deserved this. Everyone knew that from Day 1. If it wasn't her, it would be someone else. Maybe she'd be doing him a favor, if it was quick. Blair raised the machine pistol in her hand, steadied it with her other hand, and held it against her shoulder for good measure.
The recoil was strong, but she was prepared enough for it that she didn't hurt herself. The spray of blood in front of her confirmed her ability to hit a still target only a few yards away.
She didn't want to stick around and see the aftermath, and if either person survived she was even less interested in dawdling. Blair oriented herself in a brief moment, dashing back the way she came and slamming the storage closet's door behind her. She took a moment to catch her breath, easing her lungs into normal function, and began to walk off. She'd need to find a place to reload and regroup. No time to rest on her ill-achieved victory. A tiny blossoming of pride filled her chest, which immediately wilted but did not truly die in spite of the overcasting of criticism and doubt inside.
Blair wanted to live, it was that simple. With nothing to rely on but herself, she was going to do anything it took.
((Blair Moore continued in A History of Bad Decisions))
Sleeping in a creepy asylum had been a wonderfully awful experience, but waking up to announcements that day had made it worse somehow.
Caedyn had been killed, by that suspicious girl Fiyori, and even Alba had killed that Emma girl (though Emma had killed someone the same day herself). It was all very elaborate and Blair wouldn't care about any of it if it wasn't for Caedyn.
So, why did she feel disappointed that Caedyn died? The thought had occurred to her only as she found herself near the storage closet door. Caedyn was, objectively, a horrible person; she'd even killed again that same day. Cass Prince was a nobody to Blair, but they hadn't killed or anything. Caedyn was definitely the aggressor. But all that meant that it was good she was dead, no matter who did the deed.
Blair kept finding herself picturing Caedyn's stupid dreadlocks and her smug face. And all this time, ever since seeing her in the library with Rene, it had felt like she was going to shoot that bitch. It was a fairytale, a shitty Young Adult novel, where the alpha bitch got taken down by the spunky heroine. She really should have known better, of course.
Whatever. She'd outlived that skank, and now there were only a few people left. Judging from Danya, this was nearly the end. Probably only a dozen or less people alive, and Blair could hear at least two of them in the 'closet'.
The door had been an obstacle, since she didn't want to make noise for obvious reasons. Luckily the two seemed to be talking and/or crying, and she wasn't sure they noticed. Her breathing was slow, controlled, silent. She moved very, very slowly, making sure to keep a close eye on each corner.
There. Around the doorway. She spied two people, either embracing or close to it. The back of one was turned to her; she tried to remember which guys were left. This one didn't look like Jae, and the only other in her memory was Matt, who had just won an award.
She'd been intent on killing in the interview rooms, but had been outnumbered, flanked by inattention. She had her back to a box now, and the boys were still in range. The one facing her was too short to identify facially, but that clued her in by itself. Nate Turner was a tiny, timid kid, and that he was still alive was pretty impressive for him. She had no idea if shooting Matt would hit or kill Nate. It felt cruel, the idea that she could take two birds with one stone. Nate hadn't done anything to anyone here.
Fuck it, none of them deserved this. Everyone knew that from Day 1. If it wasn't her, it would be someone else. Maybe she'd be doing him a favor, if it was quick. Blair raised the machine pistol in her hand, steadied it with her other hand, and held it against her shoulder for good measure.
The recoil was strong, but she was prepared enough for it that she didn't hurt herself. The spray of blood in front of her confirmed her ability to hit a still target only a few yards away.
She didn't want to stick around and see the aftermath, and if either person survived she was even less interested in dawdling. Blair oriented herself in a brief moment, dashing back the way she came and slamming the storage closet's door behind her. She took a moment to catch her breath, easing her lungs into normal function, and began to walk off. She'd need to find a place to reload and regroup. No time to rest on her ill-achieved victory. A tiny blossoming of pride filled her chest, which immediately wilted but did not truly die in spite of the overcasting of criticism and doubt inside.
Blair wanted to live, it was that simple. With nothing to rely on but herself, she was going to do anything it took.
((Blair Moore continued in A History of Bad Decisions))
Nate kept crying into Matt's chest. He couldn't do this to him, not after everything he'd done. He couldn't just say he'd given up, that it was all up to him. Nate couldn't handle that, he wasn't strong enough. He couldn't lose Matt.
But of course, he did. He heard the roar of the gun, the sound of bullets tearing into flesh. He felt Matt's blood pour down over his arms from the bullet holes in his back.
He couldn't move, but he had to look up. He saw Matt. He saw that there was nothing left.
Matt fell, because Nate couldn't hold him up. He hit the floor, and lay there. That was it.
Nate screamed.
He fell on top of Matt, grabbed at his shirt, screamed his name. He held on as tight as he could, he did everything he could think to do, but none of it mattered.
Everything fell away, as he screamed Matt's name.
But of course, he did. He heard the roar of the gun, the sound of bullets tearing into flesh. He felt Matt's blood pour down over his arms from the bullet holes in his back.
He couldn't move, but he had to look up. He saw Matt. He saw that there was nothing left.
Matt fell, because Nate couldn't hold him up. He hit the floor, and lay there. That was it.
Nate screamed.
He fell on top of Matt, grabbed at his shirt, screamed his name. He held on as tight as he could, he did everything he could think to do, but none of it mattered.
Everything fell away, as he screamed Matt's name.