Camille chuckled at the quip. It actually took Camille a second to register it as a quip - though she wouldn't have described it as a joke, more as an irreverent and morose one-liner darkly pointing at the absurdity of their current predicament - but once she clocked on that it wasn't meant to be taken as a sombre reflection, she allowed herself to smile. That was good. Humour. Subtle, depressing humour, but still humour.
As to what Camille was trying to do...
"Uh. Not die. I guess that's number one on my list."
She supposed meeting up with people could be high up on the list too, but Camille had accepted that that was largely out of her hands. She could set out now with a methodical and unerring devotion to finding, say, Lucas, and it would be no more effective or encouraging a strategy, Camille supposed, than the strategy of just milling about and seeing where things fell. That latter strategy had, at least, kept her alive and allowed her to reunite with Megan. The former strategy...well, she still remembered the hunt for Claudeson.
"And if I can find a cursory way to make life a little bit more irritating for the terrorists, that's fine."
Maybe she could read a spoken word fic of the terrorists having an orgy to the camera. That could be fun.
But her heart wasn't in it.
In the end, they stayed at the stables. Camille won on that front.
They were still there the next day.
Knight of Faith
Day 6, private
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General Goose
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- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
But now there was someone else there, too.
((Valerija Bogdanovic continued from Hippy Hill))
She'd spent most of the morning so far scouting the area surrounding her little home base. Wandering would have been a more apt term, perhaps, but 'scouting' sounded better on paper, so that was what she was going with. The announcements played at some point. Marco's place on the list of people who would need to die before the game ended peacefully was solidified, and Lorenzo was added as a maybe.
It was funny — well, no, not funny. Notable, perhaps — that Claudeson had killed again. Val remembered, that way back on the first day, after she'd made that speech about martyrdom and dying for a cause and all that stuff, Claude had talked about fear being a powerful motivator and said that perhaps those whose actions were dictated by fear would be unwilling to listen to reason. He was half-right. Fear was a powerful motivation. What he was wrong about was that they wouldn't be willing to listen to reason. He didn't seem to realize motive and reason were the same thing. Fear was reason, as she'd pointed out to him.
It was humanity's most dominant 'reason', she supposed. It was why capitalism was a thing; people were afraid of not having what they wanted. It didn't matter if they didn't need something, or if they already had enough of what they needed; they would always want more — because having more made them feel like they had security. It didn't matter if there was a threat or not; people craved security.
Humankind had evolved to live on the African savannah, an area rich with scarcity. It only made sense that their default state of mind was one under the illusion of scarcity. People looked out for number one. Fear was reason.
Fear was reason, and that was why Val needed a gun. The pickelhaube was nice, but a fancy helmet and a catchy slogan meant little to people who were operating on fear. If fear of death could motivate people to kill, it could motivate people to not kill. A gun was a megaphone. A gun was power. A gun was leverage. A gun was a way to motivate people. A gun was a way to deal with people whose motivations were too... motivationy.
Fear was reason, and that was why after Val saw the stables in the distance, approached, cupped her ear to the wall, and heard Camille's voice, she walked to the building's entrance, gripping the pickelhaube in her hand.
Camille had a gun, and Camille and Val had spent four-ish peaceful-ish days together. Val surmised Camille probably trusted her, at least a little. Val needed a gun, and Camille was probably her only safe shot at getting one. She hoped she could talk Camille into giving it to her, but if she couldn't -
- well, it would be like the trolley problem. One death to potentially prevent hundreds of deaths in future SOTF attacks. She cared for Camille — given a certain parameter of 'care' — and she didn't know what killing someone would do to her own psyche, but... well, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.
Fear was reason, and that was why when Val walked inside and called out Camille's name, her grasp on the spiked helmet tightened unconsciously.
((Valerija Bogdanovic continued from Hippy Hill))
She'd spent most of the morning so far scouting the area surrounding her little home base. Wandering would have been a more apt term, perhaps, but 'scouting' sounded better on paper, so that was what she was going with. The announcements played at some point. Marco's place on the list of people who would need to die before the game ended peacefully was solidified, and Lorenzo was added as a maybe.
It was funny — well, no, not funny. Notable, perhaps — that Claudeson had killed again. Val remembered, that way back on the first day, after she'd made that speech about martyrdom and dying for a cause and all that stuff, Claude had talked about fear being a powerful motivator and said that perhaps those whose actions were dictated by fear would be unwilling to listen to reason. He was half-right. Fear was a powerful motivation. What he was wrong about was that they wouldn't be willing to listen to reason. He didn't seem to realize motive and reason were the same thing. Fear was reason, as she'd pointed out to him.
It was humanity's most dominant 'reason', she supposed. It was why capitalism was a thing; people were afraid of not having what they wanted. It didn't matter if they didn't need something, or if they already had enough of what they needed; they would always want more — because having more made them feel like they had security. It didn't matter if there was a threat or not; people craved security.
Humankind had evolved to live on the African savannah, an area rich with scarcity. It only made sense that their default state of mind was one under the illusion of scarcity. People looked out for number one. Fear was reason.
Fear was reason, and that was why Val needed a gun. The pickelhaube was nice, but a fancy helmet and a catchy slogan meant little to people who were operating on fear. If fear of death could motivate people to kill, it could motivate people to not kill. A gun was a megaphone. A gun was power. A gun was leverage. A gun was a way to motivate people. A gun was a way to deal with people whose motivations were too... motivationy.
Fear was reason, and that was why after Val saw the stables in the distance, approached, cupped her ear to the wall, and heard Camille's voice, she walked to the building's entrance, gripping the pickelhaube in her hand.
Camille had a gun, and Camille and Val had spent four-ish peaceful-ish days together. Val surmised Camille probably trusted her, at least a little. Val needed a gun, and Camille was probably her only safe shot at getting one. She hoped she could talk Camille into giving it to her, but if she couldn't -
- well, it would be like the trolley problem. One death to potentially prevent hundreds of deaths in future SOTF attacks. She cared for Camille — given a certain parameter of 'care' — and she didn't know what killing someone would do to her own psyche, but... well, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.
Fear was reason, and that was why when Val walked inside and called out Camille's name, her grasp on the spiked helmet tightened unconsciously.
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.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
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More deaths. More tragedy. Each one was its own story, a story that Camille would never know. Camille couldn't deny that there was a morbid curiosity on her part, a desire to know the grisly details and spectate over these fights as they played out. There was no laudable motive for that, nothing virtuous or high-minded about it, just a tawdry desire to know what was going on. Obviously if she could wish for anything she'd wish for this saga to be over and everyone safe back home, but if she was doomed to this fate, it would have been a nice luxury to be able to indulge her vulgar appetite for gossip along the way.
Danya was an unreliable narrator, and everything that could be gathered here was little more than conjecture and hearsay. But there were some conclusions that Camille was pretty confident in internalising. She couldn't be certain, of course she couldn't, but some people were dangerous. Maybe Claudeson hadn't gone off the deep end - a story Camille would have believed if his sole victim had been Bret, but was rather harder to accept as plausible with everything else she knew about him. Maybe there was some universe in which killing Nathan Coleman wasn't a horrendous act of cruelty. Erika and Quinn and Marco all seemed especially terrifying, what with the murder sprees and the chainsawing and everything else.
She was instinctively alarmed for a second when she heard 'Lucas', but realised that it couldn't be Abernathy before he heard the surname - the 'promising show' stuff, as macabre a euphemism as it was, at least made it clear that it wasn't Lucas A in danger.
She was having a smoke in the aftermath of the announcement. As was her custom now. Camille had never been much of a person of habit and routine, at least not consciously. She worked best, after all, when working sporadically, attending to whims as they arose and tasks as they neared the deadline. It worked. But she'd settled into a rather rote schedule here, largely thanks to the (admittedly appreciated) absence of any big threats or disruptions. But smoking as the announcements played, that was something that had become a norm for her. She didn't know how or why, but it was useful. Served as a de facto form of rationing, too.
The terrorists had provided lighters, but not cigarettes.
"Alright, this is going to be a fucking shit day," Camille murmured, half to Megan, half to the cameras. It helped her to think that Lionel and Farah were listening. She knew it wasn't in real time, but it was a useful conceit. Helped ground her.
And then Val entered. By instinct, Camille picked up her gun.
And like she'd done when she saw Megan, she lowered it after seeing it was Val.
"Oh. Hi Val. Sorry. How're you?" Camille turned to Megan. Addressing her and solely her, because only she needed to be updated like this. "I was Val for a few days. She's good people."
Danya was an unreliable narrator, and everything that could be gathered here was little more than conjecture and hearsay. But there were some conclusions that Camille was pretty confident in internalising. She couldn't be certain, of course she couldn't, but some people were dangerous. Maybe Claudeson hadn't gone off the deep end - a story Camille would have believed if his sole victim had been Bret, but was rather harder to accept as plausible with everything else she knew about him. Maybe there was some universe in which killing Nathan Coleman wasn't a horrendous act of cruelty. Erika and Quinn and Marco all seemed especially terrifying, what with the murder sprees and the chainsawing and everything else.
She was instinctively alarmed for a second when she heard 'Lucas', but realised that it couldn't be Abernathy before he heard the surname - the 'promising show' stuff, as macabre a euphemism as it was, at least made it clear that it wasn't Lucas A in danger.
She was having a smoke in the aftermath of the announcement. As was her custom now. Camille had never been much of a person of habit and routine, at least not consciously. She worked best, after all, when working sporadically, attending to whims as they arose and tasks as they neared the deadline. It worked. But she'd settled into a rather rote schedule here, largely thanks to the (admittedly appreciated) absence of any big threats or disruptions. But smoking as the announcements played, that was something that had become a norm for her. She didn't know how or why, but it was useful. Served as a de facto form of rationing, too.
The terrorists had provided lighters, but not cigarettes.
"Alright, this is going to be a fucking shit day," Camille murmured, half to Megan, half to the cameras. It helped her to think that Lionel and Farah were listening. She knew it wasn't in real time, but it was a useful conceit. Helped ground her.
And then Val entered. By instinct, Camille picked up her gun.
And like she'd done when she saw Megan, she lowered it after seeing it was Val.
"Oh. Hi Val. Sorry. How're you?" Camille turned to Megan. Addressing her and solely her, because only she needed to be updated like this. "I was Val for a few days. She's good people."
Camille had wanted to stay. Camille had wanted to stay, and Megan couldn't hurt Camille by leaving her, and so Megan had stayed. She couldn't do anything while she was still here with Camille, but Camille could distract her from that, and sometimes she even forgot that she was supposed to be feeling guilty. She deserved worse, but of course she was too weak to do anything about that.
Speak when you're spoken to. Don't talk back. She did her best.
When morning came, when Camille took out her cigarette and smoked all through the announcements (don't cough, Megan) and Megan tried and probably failed to accurately remember who had been on the announcements before, cried at the idea that students were dying (she didn't know any of the people who died, but still), Megan was still here. Still still here. Still wondering when Camille would give up the charade and realize that Megan didn't need her to pretend that she didn't want Megan to leave, that Megan being here with Camille was to anyone's benefit besides Megan. Why wasn't Megan allowed to stop taking? She was beginning to think again that everyone really would be better off with her dead, since despite her best efforts this was what things had come to.
Not that she could do it now, of course.
And so, again, the excitement when Val came in. When dying guiltlessly was again an option--though she did feel guilty for being excited about the prospect of dying guiltlessly, since it would probably mean Camille dead. Not that it mattered. Val was safe, according to Camille.
"Okay. I'll take your word for it."
And so the misery party expands. Or perhaps this is a chance for the source of misery to leave without causing more undue misery.
God, why did Megan dread leaving so much?
Speak when you're spoken to. Don't talk back. She did her best.
When morning came, when Camille took out her cigarette and smoked all through the announcements (don't cough, Megan) and Megan tried and probably failed to accurately remember who had been on the announcements before, cried at the idea that students were dying (she didn't know any of the people who died, but still), Megan was still here. Still still here. Still wondering when Camille would give up the charade and realize that Megan didn't need her to pretend that she didn't want Megan to leave, that Megan being here with Camille was to anyone's benefit besides Megan. Why wasn't Megan allowed to stop taking? She was beginning to think again that everyone really would be better off with her dead, since despite her best efforts this was what things had come to.
Not that she could do it now, of course.
And so, again, the excitement when Val came in. When dying guiltlessly was again an option--though she did feel guilty for being excited about the prospect of dying guiltlessly, since it would probably mean Camille dead. Not that it mattered. Val was safe, according to Camille.
"Okay. I'll take your word for it."
And so the misery party expands. Or perhaps this is a chance for the source of misery to leave without causing more undue misery.
God, why did Megan dread leaving so much?
Val almost threw the helmet at Camille on reflex as the gun went up. It felt like the opening at the end of its barrel was boring into her skull from a distance. She stared at the pistol (Val didn't know anything about guns and she didn't know it wasn't a pistol) as it was lowered, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in.
Camille addressed her. She glanced away from the gun, and looked at Camille for the first time since entering the building. "I'm, uh...," her thumbnail scratched repeatedly against the outside of the helmet, "...I'm okay."
It was a lie — or, well, she figured it would be a lie soon.
Camille's first reaction upon seeing another human being had been to point a gun at them, which told Val she was using it as a security crutch. It told Val she probably wouldn't be willing to part with it peacefully. She figured she could get her to, like... accompany her, but...
...but Val was the one who needed the gun and Camille wasn't going to give her the gun and that meant -
- that meant she'd have to do a bad thing in order to be able to do the good thing, but the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few and that meant Camille would need to give the gun up and that Val'd need to take that... hit?, and she hoped she could get it without hurting Camille — just, like knocking it out of her hands and taking it and the ammo — but she knew that was naive and that meant -
- her thoughts were cut off by Camille addressing somebody else, who Val honestly hadn't noticed yet even though she was standing literally right there next to Camille. It was a girl. It wasn't Stephanie or Jessica. Of course it wasn't Jessica. Jessica was dead. It was... Val wasn't sure what her name was, but she recognized her, vaguely. Something with an... N? Nancy? Nancy sounded right. She didn't look threatening at an immediate glance, but still... Val needed her to be somewhere else while she and Camille, uh, hashed things out.
She nodded her head and made eye contact with Nancy. "Hi," she stated curtly, before looking back to Camille. "Camille, I, uh... need to - Stephanie's - I need to talk to you about Stephanie - away from - away from Nancy."
Camille addressed her. She glanced away from the gun, and looked at Camille for the first time since entering the building. "I'm, uh...," her thumbnail scratched repeatedly against the outside of the helmet, "...I'm okay."
It was a lie — or, well, she figured it would be a lie soon.
Camille's first reaction upon seeing another human being had been to point a gun at them, which told Val she was using it as a security crutch. It told Val she probably wouldn't be willing to part with it peacefully. She figured she could get her to, like... accompany her, but...
...but Val was the one who needed the gun and Camille wasn't going to give her the gun and that meant -
- that meant she'd have to do a bad thing in order to be able to do the good thing, but the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few and that meant Camille would need to give the gun up and that Val'd need to take that... hit?, and she hoped she could get it without hurting Camille — just, like knocking it out of her hands and taking it and the ammo — but she knew that was naive and that meant -
- her thoughts were cut off by Camille addressing somebody else, who Val honestly hadn't noticed yet even though she was standing literally right there next to Camille. It was a girl. It wasn't Stephanie or Jessica. Of course it wasn't Jessica. Jessica was dead. It was... Val wasn't sure what her name was, but she recognized her, vaguely. Something with an... N? Nancy? Nancy sounded right. She didn't look threatening at an immediate glance, but still... Val needed her to be somewhere else while she and Camille, uh, hashed things out.
She nodded her head and made eye contact with Nancy. "Hi," she stated curtly, before looking back to Camille. "Camille, I, uh... need to - Stephanie's - I need to talk to you about Stephanie - away from - away from Nancy."
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.
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General Goose
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- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Camille knew that 'I'm okay' was, at the best of times, usually a lie, just designed to deflect from questions of an intimacy or a sensitivity that the speaker didn't want to get into at the time and with that person. On the island, it was always a lie. A white lie, one of those mistruths that sowed no deception and helped things flow easier. The mere fact they were on the island made 'okay' a mere distant memory, but no matter.
She knew that Megan wasn't okay. But there was nothing Camille could do to change that. Just stay with her. Make it so it didn't get any worse. Add the salving presence of company.
And she knew that Val wouldn't be okay. Camille had no way of knowing what she'd been up to in the time that they'd been apart - just no murders, that was all - but there was no way it was anything pleasant. At best, a reunion that was as wistful as it was nostalgic, or a day that was safe and boring and allowed her some time to focus on monologing to those back home and dealing with supply shortages. At worst, some great trauma that had irrevocably scarred her. There was no way of knowing.
Talking about Stephanie seemed wise. "That seems wise," Camille said, accordingly.
Camille couldn't resist the chance to make a slightly flippant comment though. "Just so you know, unless there's someone else in here and you've just notified me of an intruder, there's nobody named Nancy here. Guess again."
She took a step forward, however, willing to have that sought after private conversation.
She knew that Megan wasn't okay. But there was nothing Camille could do to change that. Just stay with her. Make it so it didn't get any worse. Add the salving presence of company.
And she knew that Val wouldn't be okay. Camille had no way of knowing what she'd been up to in the time that they'd been apart - just no murders, that was all - but there was no way it was anything pleasant. At best, a reunion that was as wistful as it was nostalgic, or a day that was safe and boring and allowed her some time to focus on monologing to those back home and dealing with supply shortages. At worst, some great trauma that had irrevocably scarred her. There was no way of knowing.
Talking about Stephanie seemed wise. "That seems wise," Camille said, accordingly.
Camille couldn't resist the chance to make a slightly flippant comment though. "Just so you know, unless there's someone else in here and you've just notified me of an intruder, there's nobody named Nancy here. Guess again."
She took a step forward, however, willing to have that sought after private conversation.
Megan thought about saying her name to confirm, which felt like it might add sting to the joke. It wasn't like telling the truth would be of much help to Val.
Megan tried to breathe normally as Camille started to get ready. This was what she was waiting for; this was her chance to leave quietly--I am going outside and may be some time. A way that was dignified, gentle. She'd always wanted to be the latter.
Only thing was: now that she could do it, now that she had it in her power to do the right thing...god, this was going to hurt. She tried to breathe normally. No hints. No indications that thoughts were going through Megan's head.
She should be thanking Val right now, internally. And it wasn't like Megan hated Val's guts now; the thought of being vindictive was...bad thought. Yeah.
But Camille would be okay. She'd have someone who cared about her. She'd have someone to watch her back with Megan gone. She'd have someone she shared secrets with--proof, even if no one would admit it, that Camille would never get as much out of a friendship with Megan as she would out of a genuine, two-sided friendship.
Her face was calm, really. She was breathing normally. Just a little longer.
Megan tried to breathe normally as Camille started to get ready. This was what she was waiting for; this was her chance to leave quietly--I am going outside and may be some time. A way that was dignified, gentle. She'd always wanted to be the latter.
Only thing was: now that she could do it, now that she had it in her power to do the right thing...god, this was going to hurt. She tried to breathe normally. No hints. No indications that thoughts were going through Megan's head.
She should be thanking Val right now, internally. And it wasn't like Megan hated Val's guts now; the thought of being vindictive was...bad thought. Yeah.
But Camille would be okay. She'd have someone who cared about her. She'd have someone to watch her back with Megan gone. She'd have someone she shared secrets with--proof, even if no one would admit it, that Camille would never get as much out of a friendship with Megan as she would out of a genuine, two-sided friendship.
Her face was calm, really. She was breathing normally. Just a little longer.
Val made kind of a >:/ face. It wasn't her fault she was bad at names; American names were weird. There was no need to be rude about it.
"Listen, I don't care what her name is," she stated to Camille, nodding her head towards not-Nancy. "This is a conversation we need to have alone."
Her grip on the helmet tightened even further. She'd just made a slip.
"Just - let's talk about it over there. Please?" she pointed to a horse stall thingamajig at the farthest corner of the building, and began to walk to the aforementioned thingamajig. Camille followed her. Val stepped inside.
Shelter from... unnecessary observers? Something eyes? Crying eyes? Prying eyes.
Shelter from prying eyes.
As Camille stepped into the stall, Val turned around and looked her in the eyes. "Ssssssstephanie is - was - Jessica - uhhhhhhhhh," she sputtered out. Her mouth was just making noises; she hadn't particularly thought much about what she was saying. Her mouth hung half-open for a few seconds, then closed into a tiny, sheepish pout, and her eyes darted down to the gun in Camille's hand, then back up to her eyes, then back down to the gun, then back up to her eyes again.
This whole thing had sounded a lot easier on paper.
She shut her eyes tight, and with her right hand, blindly swang the pickelhaube in Camille's general direction.
"Listen, I don't care what her name is," she stated to Camille, nodding her head towards not-Nancy. "This is a conversation we need to have alone."
Her grip on the helmet tightened even further. She'd just made a slip.
"Just - let's talk about it over there. Please?" she pointed to a horse stall thingamajig at the farthest corner of the building, and began to walk to the aforementioned thingamajig. Camille followed her. Val stepped inside.
Shelter from... unnecessary observers? Something eyes? Crying eyes? Prying eyes.
Shelter from prying eyes.
As Camille stepped into the stall, Val turned around and looked her in the eyes. "Ssssssstephanie is - was - Jessica - uhhhhhhhhh," she sputtered out. Her mouth was just making noises; she hadn't particularly thought much about what she was saying. Her mouth hung half-open for a few seconds, then closed into a tiny, sheepish pout, and her eyes darted down to the gun in Camille's hand, then back up to her eyes, then back down to the gun, then back up to her eyes again.
This whole thing had sounded a lot easier on paper.
She shut her eyes tight, and with her right hand, blindly swang the pickelhaube in Camille's general direction.
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.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Honestly, that sudden bout of hostility should have made Camille warier about following Val. Of course Camille's guard was up anyway - it was a good default position to be in, a useful new normality to settle into - and of course she did not appreciate the newfound frostiness that Val was exhibiting. Megan was Camille's friend and she did not deserve to be spoken off with such curt dismissal.
"Well, it's Megan," Camille answered. If Val didn't care, then she had to be told. It was a petty, but just, rebuke to her coldness. Megan deserved to be known by her name, at the very least. The whole Nancy situation was, in Camille's mind, a subject of humour and lightheartedness. An innocuous guess that missed the mark, one that could have been politely corrected, that Val had now made a point of contention, a space of nastiness.
"I was only being facetious - no need to be rude to her." Making her displeasure explicit was probably unwise, but Camille needed to make the state of affairs clear. Clarity was important. Communicating her thoughts as a general rule was an effective way to avoid potential disasters of miscommunication, as well as a way - however trivial and however morbid - of leaving a kind of legacy. It would allow her family to know what she was thinking. To travel along her journey with her. Maybe that would have some kind of consoling effect, demonstrating to them that she was still fundamentally the same person, that her mental health had not been left in a state of ruin, that she was not concealing some secrets or suppressing some emotions in what would likely be her final days.
The notion that it might have been some kind of struggle with American names did occur to Camille. After all, she had the experience with changing languages, shifting between different linguistic traditions, having to learn the norms of nomenclature in different cultures. That could have explained the confusion, but that was never what was at stake. Instead, what had irritated Camille was the sudden nasty streak that Val seemed to have adopted. Hardly something she would have expected from someone who was friends with Regina. But the situation around them encouraged terseness and impatience, Camille forced herself to remember. Val had, in all likelihood, been through more than Camille.
"I'm sorry about the rancour," Camille spoke softly as they talked, wanting her words to be intelligible to Val but the benign tone of her voice still audible to Megan. "I know we're all stressed out, and I apologise for my own short temper. I know we're both likely still on the same page about how to think about this situation."
When they were in the stable cubicle (Camille had definitely settled on a more plausible terminology in her mind, but she had forgotten it now), things turned awkward. Val mumbled. She mentioned Stephanie. Jessica. She was speaking more awkwardly, with more babbling and pauses and odd breaks in diction and syntax, than ever before.
Camille saw her eyes flit between Camille's gun and the eyes. A curious move, but she was still caught off guard when Val attacked.
She darted to the side. Yelled 'shit' in Arabic or French, Camille wasn't sure which. Felt the spike of the pickelhaube tear through her jacket and her blouse. Felt a splatter of blood betray that she'd been cut. A flesh wound. Or at least one that could she treat as such for now.
Her dodge had been ungainly, uncoordinated, lacking much in the way of dexterity and agility. It ended with her falling to the floor, letting another furious profanity leave her lips. She had to get back up onto her feet. Grabbing some dirt from the ground, she threw it in the general direction of Val's eyes. And, as she tried rolling into a position where she could better climb to her feet and hopefully beat a speedy exit, Camille swung her gun through the air. A reminder that she still held it, and hopefully swung with enough force to counter any attempted punches and kicks.
"Megan!" Camille yelled. She didn't know what she wanted Megan to do. Just that Megan had to do something.
"Well, it's Megan," Camille answered. If Val didn't care, then she had to be told. It was a petty, but just, rebuke to her coldness. Megan deserved to be known by her name, at the very least. The whole Nancy situation was, in Camille's mind, a subject of humour and lightheartedness. An innocuous guess that missed the mark, one that could have been politely corrected, that Val had now made a point of contention, a space of nastiness.
"I was only being facetious - no need to be rude to her." Making her displeasure explicit was probably unwise, but Camille needed to make the state of affairs clear. Clarity was important. Communicating her thoughts as a general rule was an effective way to avoid potential disasters of miscommunication, as well as a way - however trivial and however morbid - of leaving a kind of legacy. It would allow her family to know what she was thinking. To travel along her journey with her. Maybe that would have some kind of consoling effect, demonstrating to them that she was still fundamentally the same person, that her mental health had not been left in a state of ruin, that she was not concealing some secrets or suppressing some emotions in what would likely be her final days.
The notion that it might have been some kind of struggle with American names did occur to Camille. After all, she had the experience with changing languages, shifting between different linguistic traditions, having to learn the norms of nomenclature in different cultures. That could have explained the confusion, but that was never what was at stake. Instead, what had irritated Camille was the sudden nasty streak that Val seemed to have adopted. Hardly something she would have expected from someone who was friends with Regina. But the situation around them encouraged terseness and impatience, Camille forced herself to remember. Val had, in all likelihood, been through more than Camille.
"I'm sorry about the rancour," Camille spoke softly as they talked, wanting her words to be intelligible to Val but the benign tone of her voice still audible to Megan. "I know we're all stressed out, and I apologise for my own short temper. I know we're both likely still on the same page about how to think about this situation."
When they were in the stable cubicle (Camille had definitely settled on a more plausible terminology in her mind, but she had forgotten it now), things turned awkward. Val mumbled. She mentioned Stephanie. Jessica. She was speaking more awkwardly, with more babbling and pauses and odd breaks in diction and syntax, than ever before.
Camille saw her eyes flit between Camille's gun and the eyes. A curious move, but she was still caught off guard when Val attacked.
She darted to the side. Yelled 'shit' in Arabic or French, Camille wasn't sure which. Felt the spike of the pickelhaube tear through her jacket and her blouse. Felt a splatter of blood betray that she'd been cut. A flesh wound. Or at least one that could she treat as such for now.
Her dodge had been ungainly, uncoordinated, lacking much in the way of dexterity and agility. It ended with her falling to the floor, letting another furious profanity leave her lips. She had to get back up onto her feet. Grabbing some dirt from the ground, she threw it in the general direction of Val's eyes. And, as she tried rolling into a position where she could better climb to her feet and hopefully beat a speedy exit, Camille swung her gun through the air. A reminder that she still held it, and hopefully swung with enough force to counter any attempted punches and kicks.
"Megan!" Camille yelled. She didn't know what she wanted Megan to do. Just that Megan had to do something.
She felt the swing connect. There was no going back now.
Necessary evils. She had to remember that.
She opened her eyes just in time to receive a faceful of decomposed horse manure and she made an undignified squawking kind of noise and stumbled back a little and her back hit a wall and she blinked and sputtered and blinked and she could see again kind of and - SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT CAMILLE STILL HAD THE GUN AND SHE WAS MOVING IT AND CALLING OUT MORGAN(?)'S NAME!
"Čekaj ne -" Val instinctively shot her arms out and felt the pickelhaube slip from her grip, sending it careening towards (hopefully) Camille's gun hand.
Necessary evils. She had to remember that.
She opened her eyes just in time to receive a faceful of decomposed horse manure and she made an undignified squawking kind of noise and stumbled back a little and her back hit a wall and she blinked and sputtered and blinked and she could see again kind of and - SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT CAMILLE STILL HAD THE GUN AND SHE WAS MOVING IT AND CALLING OUT MORGAN(?)'S NAME!
"Čekaj ne -" Val instinctively shot her arms out and felt the pickelhaube slip from her grip, sending it careening towards (hopefully) Camille's gun hand.
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.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Camille had a chance now. She had a shot.
She wasn't sure what Val's motivation was. Didn't matter, really, not in the heat of the moment, but it was informing a certain edge to her strategy, one that was either petty or fixated on the big picture, no middle ground. If she wanted an easy first kill to cement her start of darkness, she would not go easily into the night. If she wanted her gun or her supplies, she'd make them as unattractive as possible. Scorched earth. If she had some quixotic vendetta against Camille, then Camille would make vengeance as drawn out and unsatisfying as possible. If she wanted a twofer, well, fuck off, Megan would be ready to run or attack or whatever.
Camille fired the gun. It missed, and little fragments of splintered wood rained down upon them. Camille couldn't hear for a few seconds. Her arm was hurting now. She'd probably dislocated something. In the heat of the moment, had forgotten to account for just how loud guns were, how powerful a force recoil was. Whatever. It would have been discombobulated Val too. That was important.
The pickelhaube thumped into the ground next to her, spike embedded in shit.
Camille dropped the gun. Swept her hand to the side, pushing it outside of the stall. "Megan!" she yelled again, her ears still ringing, unable to tell just how loud she was. Her hands wrapped around the circumference of the helmet. Yanked it out of the ground. Thrust it forward at Val, just to push her away. Camille moved to the wall of the stall, pushing herself up against it, trying to get a footing.
She wasn't sure what Val's motivation was. Didn't matter, really, not in the heat of the moment, but it was informing a certain edge to her strategy, one that was either petty or fixated on the big picture, no middle ground. If she wanted an easy first kill to cement her start of darkness, she would not go easily into the night. If she wanted her gun or her supplies, she'd make them as unattractive as possible. Scorched earth. If she had some quixotic vendetta against Camille, then Camille would make vengeance as drawn out and unsatisfying as possible. If she wanted a twofer, well, fuck off, Megan would be ready to run or attack or whatever.
Camille fired the gun. It missed, and little fragments of splintered wood rained down upon them. Camille couldn't hear for a few seconds. Her arm was hurting now. She'd probably dislocated something. In the heat of the moment, had forgotten to account for just how loud guns were, how powerful a force recoil was. Whatever. It would have been discombobulated Val too. That was important.
The pickelhaube thumped into the ground next to her, spike embedded in shit.
Camille dropped the gun. Swept her hand to the side, pushing it outside of the stall. "Megan!" she yelled again, her ears still ringing, unable to tell just how loud she was. Her hands wrapped around the circumference of the helmet. Yanked it out of the ground. Thrust it forward at Val, just to push her away. Camille moved to the wall of the stall, pushing herself up against it, trying to get a footing.
There was a gunshot. Val blinked. Was she - where was - wh-
There was just this incessant 'EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE' noise and -
- and Camille dropped the gun. The pickelhaube didn't hit her but it didn't matter because she dropped the gun and it was outside the stall and Camille had the pickelhaube and she shoved it forwards at Val and she jumped back a little and almost tripped over her own feet and she could feel a stinging on her stomach but -
The greater good
The gun the gun the gun she needed the gun so she screamed but she wasn't sure what she was screaming at and she didn't know where Camille was or what she was doing but she needed the gun and -
- and so she dove for it.
There was just this incessant 'EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE' noise and -
- and Camille dropped the gun. The pickelhaube didn't hit her but it didn't matter because she dropped the gun and it was outside the stall and Camille had the pickelhaube and she shoved it forwards at Val and she jumped back a little and almost tripped over her own feet and she could feel a stinging on her stomach but -
The greater good
The gun the gun the gun she needed the gun so she screamed but she wasn't sure what she was screaming at and she didn't know where Camille was or what she was doing but she needed the gun and -
- and so she dove for it.
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.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Camille was halfway through the motions of getting up when she saw Val dive. It didn't take much deduction to work out what it was she was going for. It gave Camille a second to think, to catch her thoughts, to ponder tactics and what exactly was going on here. She doubted Val had a capacity to actually strike her for a second, so it'd be the perfect time for Camille to get on her feet, reclaim the high ground, get in a position where she could neutralise - preferably non-lethally, but Camille was prepared to see where her instincts took her - her aggressor.
She'd liked Val. She'd seemed reasonable. Aware of the brutality and savage callousness of the island that was now their life, yet also aware that the rules of island life were not self-justifying, that who they had been back home and who they could be were still relevant, that they could still show a bit of imagination and a bit of fortitude and just find a way of fighting back against this. But Val had changed. Whatever her reasons, whatever her story, she had adopted the vicious amorality that embodied Survival of the Fittest.
Camille hated to see what Val had become. Val had given up on any independent thought, any principled stance. Instead, she had so clearly adopted - behind a perfunctory veneer of civility that had faded at the first sign of things not going to plan - the ideas and strategies that Danya wanted them to adopt. Camille knew that she couldn't hate Val. That Val, in this moment, was a mere pawn of the terrorists, a personification of everything that was going wrong. Camille still had that lingering sentiment for Val, memories of how she'd been pleasant, if not exactly exciting, company. But that was merely academic. Camille still felt rage. Still felt betrayed. All of the pettiness, the nastiness, the brutish and unsporting manner with which she'd tried to off Camille, that was all on Val. And she was a threat regardless.
So she didn't feel too bad when she saw Val's leg stretched out. A nice long target.
She gave up on climbing to her feet and lunged forward, aiming the spike of the pickelhaube straight at Val's leg. A sadistic move, Camille realised once she'd started moving. Too late to fret abou that now, though.
She'd liked Val. She'd seemed reasonable. Aware of the brutality and savage callousness of the island that was now their life, yet also aware that the rules of island life were not self-justifying, that who they had been back home and who they could be were still relevant, that they could still show a bit of imagination and a bit of fortitude and just find a way of fighting back against this. But Val had changed. Whatever her reasons, whatever her story, she had adopted the vicious amorality that embodied Survival of the Fittest.
Camille hated to see what Val had become. Val had given up on any independent thought, any principled stance. Instead, she had so clearly adopted - behind a perfunctory veneer of civility that had faded at the first sign of things not going to plan - the ideas and strategies that Danya wanted them to adopt. Camille knew that she couldn't hate Val. That Val, in this moment, was a mere pawn of the terrorists, a personification of everything that was going wrong. Camille still had that lingering sentiment for Val, memories of how she'd been pleasant, if not exactly exciting, company. But that was merely academic. Camille still felt rage. Still felt betrayed. All of the pettiness, the nastiness, the brutish and unsporting manner with which she'd tried to off Camille, that was all on Val. And she was a threat regardless.
So she didn't feel too bad when she saw Val's leg stretched out. A nice long target.
She gave up on climbing to her feet and lunged forward, aiming the spike of the pickelhaube straight at Val's leg. A sadistic move, Camille realised once she'd started moving. Too late to fret abou that now, though.
Val landed a few inches short of the gun and she was sprawled out on the ground and she clawed against the dirt and tried to crawl forward but then there was this pain in the back of her knee and it wasn't just a pain it was more a stinging layered over an unimaginably horrific ache and
the pickelhaube. Camille had - Camille had stabbed her in the back of the leg and
Val shrieked in pain or fear or offence or something else and she used her arms to lurch forward and her nails felt like they were being torn off but the gun was in reach now and she grabbed for it and she had it in her hand and Camille was going to kill her so she awkwardly fumbled with the gun and it was difficult to maneuver her own body but she managed to roll onto her side and she clutched the gun tight against her chest and then she was pointing it blindly at something or somewhere and her finger managed to the trigger and
and then there was a series of explosions that went off in her hands.
the pickelhaube. Camille had - Camille had stabbed her in the back of the leg and
Val shrieked in pain or fear or offence or something else and she used her arms to lurch forward and her nails felt like they were being torn off but the gun was in reach now and she grabbed for it and she had it in her hand and Camille was going to kill her so she awkwardly fumbled with the gun and it was difficult to maneuver her own body but she managed to roll onto her side and she clutched the gun tight against her chest and then she was pointing it blindly at something or somewhere and her finger managed to the trigger and
and then there was a series of explosions that went off in her hands.
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.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Val ended up missing more shots than Camille had.
But her agonised frenzy of spray and pray fire ended up being more effective than the single - unduly cautious, damn that had been a grave mistake - shot that Camille had fired. Camille had missed her shot, and failed to make it count. Val had - though many more misses - many more chances. Chances that Camille could have denied her if she'd been less austere about emptying the clip.
Most of the bullets flew harmlessly above Camille. A couple embedded in the ground beneath her. Splinters were firing everywhere, and dried manure was being dug out from the ground by the ballistics, but that was all survivable.
One bullet hit her. In the stomach. She cried out. Profanities and expletives in every language she knew, prayers to deities she did not believe in, pleas for family to come rescue her, curses of the inane injustice of Val's turn to violence. They all left her lips. Jumbled and confused and indecipherable.
She crumpled to the ground.
Looked at Val. Her eyes had lost the fight. Had lost the sympathy for Val. Had lost the awareness of their predicament. Had lost the recognition that Megan, too, was in danger. She was just scared. Allowing herself to be scared, for just a few awful agonising moments.
But her agonised frenzy of spray and pray fire ended up being more effective than the single - unduly cautious, damn that had been a grave mistake - shot that Camille had fired. Camille had missed her shot, and failed to make it count. Val had - though many more misses - many more chances. Chances that Camille could have denied her if she'd been less austere about emptying the clip.
Most of the bullets flew harmlessly above Camille. A couple embedded in the ground beneath her. Splinters were firing everywhere, and dried manure was being dug out from the ground by the ballistics, but that was all survivable.
One bullet hit her. In the stomach. She cried out. Profanities and expletives in every language she knew, prayers to deities she did not believe in, pleas for family to come rescue her, curses of the inane injustice of Val's turn to violence. They all left her lips. Jumbled and confused and indecipherable.
She crumpled to the ground.
Looked at Val. Her eyes had lost the fight. Had lost the sympathy for Val. Had lost the awareness of their predicament. Had lost the recognition that Megan, too, was in danger. She was just scared. Allowing herself to be scared, for just a few awful agonising moments.