I can see you're hurting, too.
Henry had probably meant it to be sympathetic, but there was some sort of mockery within those words. He saw, but he didn't understand. I can see you're hurting, they say standing as you're on the ground bleeding out. The slightest, lowest-effort attempt at empathy.
Diego scowled. And then, his chest heaved, he took in a deep parcel of air. His pain was not Henry's pain. Henry's pain was not his pain. And, Henry had plenty of pain. He'd also seen people die. He vaguely recalled Henry's name being on the announcements before. Henry had an idea of where Diego stood. He meant well, he thought at first.
Henry continued speaking. The scowl deepened on Diego's face.
"I didn't say anything about killing you, did I?"
The gun steadied.
"I really don't see what's so hard to understand. I wanted to live, she wanted me to die, so I killed her. There was no fucking other way out of it, Henry."
He breathed again, shaky.
"I tried. I really did.
"I just- look, I just want to make sure you won't hurt me. That gun you have with you looks big. Accident or not, you've been on the announcements too. Don't fucking assume I'm like Justin or Erika or Blaise or whatever."
Silent Key
Day 10 Afternoon ; Private
He didn't say anything about killing Henry. It would've been foolish to expect anything otherwise, given his actions. Given how little he knew about Diego, other than what how alone he was and how well-armed he was.
Still faced with the barrel of an Uzi, Henry shrugged. Unsettling at first, it was ultimately no greater a threat than the amalgam of metal, plastic, electronics, and explosives wrapped around his neck. What mattered was what it said in this particular moment.
"I'm just acting on what I know, and... pointing a gun at someone says a lot. The only way I'm a threat to you, for what it's worth, is that I'm still alive, and we're both still in SOTF. That's kind of my point."
No way out of it. The only way. I've heard that refrain too often. Just about every day we've been here.
There was no way to know if he was really like the more prolific killers - Henry hadn't heard them explain themselves, after all. But Henry imagined they would say something similar, at least in so many words. Aurelien and Morgan said pretty much the same.
"We have find one of the players."
"They need to be stopped."
Like the choice was so natural, like there wasn't any other option. As if nothing else really mattered. Not thinking past it, even a little. Not even considering if that was really the best use of their last days alive, or if that was what everyone wanted to know them for in the end. No, just making sure the right person survived all of this instead of the wrong person. As if such stark divisions between good and evil in their classmates even really existed before they came here. They were just kids.
Henry shifted uneasily in place. He ran a hand through the tangled mess of his hair, exasperated. He knew what he had to say but the way to do so seemed obscured, somehow.
"You wanted to live, so you killed her. Was that why you killed Mike, too? You're pointing a gun at me because you want to live. Like you said Diego, there's no fucking way out of it.
"So what's next? What are you doing?"
Still faced with the barrel of an Uzi, Henry shrugged. Unsettling at first, it was ultimately no greater a threat than the amalgam of metal, plastic, electronics, and explosives wrapped around his neck. What mattered was what it said in this particular moment.
"I'm just acting on what I know, and... pointing a gun at someone says a lot. The only way I'm a threat to you, for what it's worth, is that I'm still alive, and we're both still in SOTF. That's kind of my point."
No way out of it. The only way. I've heard that refrain too often. Just about every day we've been here.
There was no way to know if he was really like the more prolific killers - Henry hadn't heard them explain themselves, after all. But Henry imagined they would say something similar, at least in so many words. Aurelien and Morgan said pretty much the same.
"We have find one of the players."
"They need to be stopped."
Like the choice was so natural, like there wasn't any other option. As if nothing else really mattered. Not thinking past it, even a little. Not even considering if that was really the best use of their last days alive, or if that was what everyone wanted to know them for in the end. No, just making sure the right person survived all of this instead of the wrong person. As if such stark divisions between good and evil in their classmates even really existed before they came here. They were just kids.
Henry shifted uneasily in place. He ran a hand through the tangled mess of his hair, exasperated. He knew what he had to say but the way to do so seemed obscured, somehow.
"You wanted to live, so you killed her. Was that why you killed Mike, too? You're pointing a gun at me because you want to live. Like you said Diego, there's no fucking way out of it.
"So what's next? What are you doing?"
"Staying alive. I'm staying alive, and I'm making sure of it. That's all I need to do, right?"
Diego's teeth clenched. There was every reason to walk away. If he wanted, and part of him did, he could just step away, walking backwards, gun trained on Henry the entire time, and they would both be alive. This whole argument felt circular, after all, and the words they were trading with one another felt more and more like wasted air. Henry hadn't shown any intention of wanting to use his gun yet. Seemed too high and mighty for it. But, Diego's feet were rooted to the ground by a certain sort of pride, as if to walk away was to say that Henry was right, that he had no answer to any of his questions. And, he'd known Cam, if for a much shorter time than Diego had. It felt like there was a moral obligation to give him some answers, at least. He didn't know why he listened, but that part of him was worth holding onto for now.
Right?
"Look. It only takes a few seconds for you to pull out"—he tilted his head briefly, pointed his lips towards Henry's rifle—"that gun and pull the trigger, in case you decide on it. I'm just making sure you don't have those seconds. And, Mike..."
He swallowed a lump. Mike was impulse. Mike was impulse predicated by years of self-loathing and angst, all set in motion by a single word. Diego knew this, but, verbalizing it, explaining just how reckless and shitty a person he was was something he hadn't been able to do with either Cam or Ty. They accepted him for the time they had because he hadn't said anything, not despite it. Henry wouldn't get it. He wouldn't understand. He didn't even know Mike. There was no point.
The reasons would stay with Diego.
"He was a mistake. He was not an accident, but he was a mistake that I sincerely, sincerely regret making."
Diego's teeth clenched. There was every reason to walk away. If he wanted, and part of him did, he could just step away, walking backwards, gun trained on Henry the entire time, and they would both be alive. This whole argument felt circular, after all, and the words they were trading with one another felt more and more like wasted air. Henry hadn't shown any intention of wanting to use his gun yet. Seemed too high and mighty for it. But, Diego's feet were rooted to the ground by a certain sort of pride, as if to walk away was to say that Henry was right, that he had no answer to any of his questions. And, he'd known Cam, if for a much shorter time than Diego had. It felt like there was a moral obligation to give him some answers, at least. He didn't know why he listened, but that part of him was worth holding onto for now.
Right?
"Look. It only takes a few seconds for you to pull out"—he tilted his head briefly, pointed his lips towards Henry's rifle—"that gun and pull the trigger, in case you decide on it. I'm just making sure you don't have those seconds. And, Mike..."
He swallowed a lump. Mike was impulse. Mike was impulse predicated by years of self-loathing and angst, all set in motion by a single word. Diego knew this, but, verbalizing it, explaining just how reckless and shitty a person he was was something he hadn't been able to do with either Cam or Ty. They accepted him for the time they had because he hadn't said anything, not despite it. Henry wouldn't get it. He wouldn't understand. He didn't even know Mike. There was no point.
The reasons would stay with Diego.
"He was a mistake. He was not an accident, but he was a mistake that I sincerely, sincerely regret making."
Diego overestimated how quickly Henry could use his ad hoc weapon, because of course he did. Who he was, what his intentions were, that didn't matter. How dangerous he really was, that didn't matter either. All Diego had to know to see a threat was another human being with any kind of weapon. All Diego needed to do was stay alive. Any action that would keep him on that track, to the goal he'd set for himself, Henry was sure Diego could excuse.
They all did the same thing. Revenge, survival - just excuses to take the path that had been laid out in front of them, instead of trying anything different. Instead of being brave enough to try and fail, with some semblance of dignity intact.
Henry thought he'd done that. He wanted to believe he'd tried different, that the consequences of his actions were at least the product of best intentions, of trying to take any path other than the one the terrorists wanted them to take.
Mistakes. Accidents. I was just trying to do the right thing.
It didn't seem like he had any right to convince himself he'd done better, even as he listened to Diego's hollow accounting of Mike's death. Henry snapped back, feeling an uncomfortable absence of sympathy as Diego seemed to struggle at explaining why he'd done what he had done. It was too easy to demonize people here. Too tempting.
"So long term, you're just gonna keep doing that? You think about what that means, how many people you're gonna have to kill, just to make sure of it?
Do you ever think that maybe there's more to this than just surviving?"
Henry gestured out at their surroundings, towards their respective weapons, and the collars they both shared. It seemed more and more like all they had in common; as much as he wanted to see the person standing in front of him, he instead saw set of choices and perspectives he reviled. That way of thinking, that was what they wanted. That was why they gave them so little time, why they put them under the threat of imminent death, and why they gave them everything that they needed to accelerate any conflict to the worst possible end.
And he'd been a pawn, egging on Aurelien and Morgan as if telling them they were killing for the right reason somehow changed the outcome. Any road in that direction just meant that the AT wouldn't just take their lives away from them, but the reasons they'd kill and die as well.
No more.
"They didn't just leave us here with nothing, at least that'd give you some data you could use in the real world; whatever fucked up point they have to make about morality might mean something then. No, they're in control, still. They left us with bomb collars and weapons. Keeps us thinking in minutes and hours and days instead of years. So all we think about is survival. Revenge. Fear. It's a trap."
They all did the same thing. Revenge, survival - just excuses to take the path that had been laid out in front of them, instead of trying anything different. Instead of being brave enough to try and fail, with some semblance of dignity intact.
Henry thought he'd done that. He wanted to believe he'd tried different, that the consequences of his actions were at least the product of best intentions, of trying to take any path other than the one the terrorists wanted them to take.
Mistakes. Accidents. I was just trying to do the right thing.
It didn't seem like he had any right to convince himself he'd done better, even as he listened to Diego's hollow accounting of Mike's death. Henry snapped back, feeling an uncomfortable absence of sympathy as Diego seemed to struggle at explaining why he'd done what he had done. It was too easy to demonize people here. Too tempting.
"So long term, you're just gonna keep doing that? You think about what that means, how many people you're gonna have to kill, just to make sure of it?
Do you ever think that maybe there's more to this than just surviving?"
Henry gestured out at their surroundings, towards their respective weapons, and the collars they both shared. It seemed more and more like all they had in common; as much as he wanted to see the person standing in front of him, he instead saw set of choices and perspectives he reviled. That way of thinking, that was what they wanted. That was why they gave them so little time, why they put them under the threat of imminent death, and why they gave them everything that they needed to accelerate any conflict to the worst possible end.
And he'd been a pawn, egging on Aurelien and Morgan as if telling them they were killing for the right reason somehow changed the outcome. Any road in that direction just meant that the AT wouldn't just take their lives away from them, but the reasons they'd kill and die as well.
No more.
"They didn't just leave us here with nothing, at least that'd give you some data you could use in the real world; whatever fucked up point they have to make about morality might mean something then. No, they're in control, still. They left us with bomb collars and weapons. Keeps us thinking in minutes and hours and days instead of years. So all we think about is survival. Revenge. Fear. It's a trap."
Something between a smile and a grimace formed on Diego's face.
"Funny. Cam said that too, actually."
He wondered if Cam had said Henry's words or if Henry had said Cam's words. He wanted to believe it was the latter, for a moment, but then he remembered the context of Cam's words. His left arm itched under bloodied gauze. He stopped smiling entirely.
Some jealousy bubbled up from within Diego. That emotion felt omnipresent these days.
It had never occurred to Diego to think of why they were doing this, why the terrorists had done this to high schools seven times. After all, not everyone was like Henry. Not everyone had the time or luxury to ponder the philosophical motives of the terrorists, as if it mattered to them, the ones being made to demonstrate said philosophies. Not everyone had had the good fortune of having lived a good enough life to be satisfied with things ending as they were, to just give up and play nice for their last two weeks, as if that meant anything. Some people were just a bit preoccupied with other things, like fighting and mourning and surviving. Some people just wanted, deserved more. Diego was sorry he hadn't been more like Henry.
He took in a deep breath.
"There's- there's probably some point the people running this are trying to make, I'll give you that. There's probably some ideological reason behind why they're making us do this, something other than violence for violence's sake. But, no matter how much we theorize, no matter how much we pick and prod at why they're making us do this, at the end of the day, we're still doing this. At the end of the day, our classmates- we are still hurting and maiming and killing and fucking each other up. No one's been smart enough to come up with an escape plan, far as I know, so their way, this 'trap' you guys keep on talking about, is the only way out."
His arms hurt. The gun had been pointed for two, three solid minutes, at this point. It would be easier, physically, mentally, to walk away. Smarter. But, to walk away was to concede defeat. To walk away was to say, in some form or manner, that he had no answer to all of Henry's judgments and treatises, and, Diego had reasons, he had answers, he knew it.
He had to have them.
"I just want to live. I don't know why I have to keep on repeating that. I don't know why I have to fucking justify myself to you. No one ever has to justify that back out there, why should that change here? I don't think I'm better than you guys, I don't claim to have more of a right to live than you guys, I just want to live. That's all there is to it."
"Funny. Cam said that too, actually."
He wondered if Cam had said Henry's words or if Henry had said Cam's words. He wanted to believe it was the latter, for a moment, but then he remembered the context of Cam's words. His left arm itched under bloodied gauze. He stopped smiling entirely.
Some jealousy bubbled up from within Diego. That emotion felt omnipresent these days.
It had never occurred to Diego to think of why they were doing this, why the terrorists had done this to high schools seven times. After all, not everyone was like Henry. Not everyone had the time or luxury to ponder the philosophical motives of the terrorists, as if it mattered to them, the ones being made to demonstrate said philosophies. Not everyone had had the good fortune of having lived a good enough life to be satisfied with things ending as they were, to just give up and play nice for their last two weeks, as if that meant anything. Some people were just a bit preoccupied with other things, like fighting and mourning and surviving. Some people just wanted, deserved more. Diego was sorry he hadn't been more like Henry.
He took in a deep breath.
"There's- there's probably some point the people running this are trying to make, I'll give you that. There's probably some ideological reason behind why they're making us do this, something other than violence for violence's sake. But, no matter how much we theorize, no matter how much we pick and prod at why they're making us do this, at the end of the day, we're still doing this. At the end of the day, our classmates- we are still hurting and maiming and killing and fucking each other up. No one's been smart enough to come up with an escape plan, far as I know, so their way, this 'trap' you guys keep on talking about, is the only way out."
His arms hurt. The gun had been pointed for two, three solid minutes, at this point. It would be easier, physically, mentally, to walk away. Smarter. But, to walk away was to concede defeat. To walk away was to say, in some form or manner, that he had no answer to all of Henry's judgments and treatises, and, Diego had reasons, he had answers, he knew it.
He had to have them.
"I just want to live. I don't know why I have to keep on repeating that. I don't know why I have to fucking justify myself to you. No one ever has to justify that back out there, why should that change here? I don't think I'm better than you guys, I don't claim to have more of a right to live than you guys, I just want to live. That's all there is to it."
Cam saw it, and still took the path she did. Diego saw it, and he ignored it.
Only one way out.
So their plans worked. Of course they did. They worked so damn well, and no one wanted to really admit it. A few escape attempts, but the formula was solid. They got their results, they made their point. Diego admitted there was something beyond the violence and the fear and watching people die over and over and over again but he gave in all the same. Gave in to the way out. It didn't matter if it was a trip back home or the knowledge that some blood debt had been paid, all anyone could muster the courage to work towards was a way out. Ignore what was happening. Ignore their place in it. Just keep your head down. Kill and die.
Diego said he just wanted to live, and Henry exhaled sharply through his nose. Diego kept going, and he started to chuckle. By the time Diego suggested that the way out was all there was to it, Henry couldn't help but laugh in disbelief. It wasn't a joyful or pleasant sound. It was the kind of sound a person made when the only other options were crying and screaming.
Henry turned and stepped away, almost walking past Diego and ignoring the gun pointed to his back, as he repeatedly failed to compose himself. After a few moments the laughter had subsided, forced down into the fists he now tightly clenched.
Turning around, he snapped back with a mixture of fury and abject despair.
“You don’t have to justify yourself?! 'I just want to live, that’s all there is to it.' You cowardly piece of shit!
"Living for you means everyone else here doesn’t get to fucking make it! So if that’s what you want, then you’re damn right you have to justify it to me! Because all those people I’ve watched die, all those bodies I’ve walked over to get here, and dying without being able to stop any of it? Dying for you?! That better mean something, that better be for something, Diego."
Henry stepped towards Diego, his mocking plea spat out in ignorance of the gun still pointed towards him.
"So please, please tell me what you’re going to do with this life of yours. Is there something you have to live for? I - I mean I know I had plans, lots of us did. What were yours? Did you even know?!"
Only one way out.
So their plans worked. Of course they did. They worked so damn well, and no one wanted to really admit it. A few escape attempts, but the formula was solid. They got their results, they made their point. Diego admitted there was something beyond the violence and the fear and watching people die over and over and over again but he gave in all the same. Gave in to the way out. It didn't matter if it was a trip back home or the knowledge that some blood debt had been paid, all anyone could muster the courage to work towards was a way out. Ignore what was happening. Ignore their place in it. Just keep your head down. Kill and die.
Diego said he just wanted to live, and Henry exhaled sharply through his nose. Diego kept going, and he started to chuckle. By the time Diego suggested that the way out was all there was to it, Henry couldn't help but laugh in disbelief. It wasn't a joyful or pleasant sound. It was the kind of sound a person made when the only other options were crying and screaming.
Henry turned and stepped away, almost walking past Diego and ignoring the gun pointed to his back, as he repeatedly failed to compose himself. After a few moments the laughter had subsided, forced down into the fists he now tightly clenched.
Turning around, he snapped back with a mixture of fury and abject despair.
“You don’t have to justify yourself?! 'I just want to live, that’s all there is to it.' You cowardly piece of shit!
"Living for you means everyone else here doesn’t get to fucking make it! So if that’s what you want, then you’re damn right you have to justify it to me! Because all those people I’ve watched die, all those bodies I’ve walked over to get here, and dying without being able to stop any of it? Dying for you?! That better mean something, that better be for something, Diego."
Henry stepped towards Diego, his mocking plea spat out in ignorance of the gun still pointed towards him.
"So please, please tell me what you’re going to do with this life of yours. Is there something you have to live for? I - I mean I know I had plans, lots of us did. What were yours? Did you even know?!"
bang
For one blissful moment, after the loudest noise, everything fell silent.
No one was wounded. The gun in Diego's hand was pointed sideways from the both of them, towards the sea. But, it did the job. For a moment, it stopped Henry from laughing, mocking Diego. It stopped Henry from speaking as if he knew more than everyone else on this island, as if he was in on some grand, obvious secret that the rest of them, that Diego in particular was just too stupid to get. It stopped Henry from speaking as if he knew Diego more than he knew himself, as if he had the fucking right to invalidate his own life, belittle a future he knew fucking nothing about. It stopped Henry from indicting Diego as if Diego and Diego alone was responsible for all the hurt on this island, as if Diego had personally killed each of Henry's dead friends, and he knew he was a horrible person, he knew he was a bad person, but he wasn't that bad, he didn't deserve to be burdened, blamed for all of that, and, and,
The gun went back towards Henry, safety still off, Diego's grip on it choking.
"Shut the fuck up," he spat out. "Shut the fuck up right there. You don't fucking know me, you don't know who I am, you don't know what I had- what I have to live for. I was gonna move out. I was gonna move to the Philippines, I was gonna be with my mom, I was gonna leave this shitty town with its shitty buildings and its shitty people and I was gonna go to college. I was gonna go to college, I was gonna be a writer, I was gonna get myself a fucking boyfr- a fucking, a fucking boyfriend. I had goals, I had plans, I wanted-"
Diego's voice started breaking.
"I still want so much more than these 18 years I've lived so far."
His face felt hot now. Air wheezed in and out of his lungs for a few seconds. He wiped tears away with a fist, his hand returned to the gun immediately.
"I don't know why we're here, I don't know why we have to do this to one another, all I know is that we do. I did not choose to have literally all my friends die, to have to kill my best friend. I didn't want to be a murderer when I woke up here. The purpose of all of this? That's not for us to answer. That's on them. We're just lab rats. We're just- we're just lab rats, and there's only one way out. I'm not better than everyone else-”
For one blissful moment, after the loudest noise, everything fell silent.
No one was wounded. The gun in Diego's hand was pointed sideways from the both of them, towards the sea. But, it did the job. For a moment, it stopped Henry from laughing, mocking Diego. It stopped Henry from speaking as if he knew more than everyone else on this island, as if he was in on some grand, obvious secret that the rest of them, that Diego in particular was just too stupid to get. It stopped Henry from speaking as if he knew Diego more than he knew himself, as if he had the fucking right to invalidate his own life, belittle a future he knew fucking nothing about. It stopped Henry from indicting Diego as if Diego and Diego alone was responsible for all the hurt on this island, as if Diego had personally killed each of Henry's dead friends, and he knew he was a horrible person, he knew he was a bad person, but he wasn't that bad, he didn't deserve to be burdened, blamed for all of that, and, and,
The gun went back towards Henry, safety still off, Diego's grip on it choking.
"Shut the fuck up," he spat out. "Shut the fuck up right there. You don't fucking know me, you don't know who I am, you don't know what I had- what I have to live for. I was gonna move out. I was gonna move to the Philippines, I was gonna be with my mom, I was gonna leave this shitty town with its shitty buildings and its shitty people and I was gonna go to college. I was gonna go to college, I was gonna be a writer, I was gonna get myself a fucking boyfr- a fucking, a fucking boyfriend. I had goals, I had plans, I wanted-"
Diego's voice started breaking.
"I still want so much more than these 18 years I've lived so far."
His face felt hot now. Air wheezed in and out of his lungs for a few seconds. He wiped tears away with a fist, his hand returned to the gun immediately.
"I don't know why we're here, I don't know why we have to do this to one another, all I know is that we do. I did not choose to have literally all my friends die, to have to kill my best friend. I didn't want to be a murderer when I woke up here. The purpose of all of this? That's not for us to answer. That's on them. We're just lab rats. We're just- we're just lab rats, and there's only one way out. I'm not better than everyone else-”
The gunshot made Henry flinch, even though he watched the gun point away from him. Even though it was just a prop, a way to remind him who was in charge, the strength of the gesture quickly abated when Diego started speaking. If he could've shot him, he would've done it already. He must have needed the excuse, some way he could explain away as fighting for his life. Diego went on, listing off all the things he'd wanted out of his life as if he was the only one who felt those things. Missing the point of what Henry was saying - of course Diego had dreams. They all did. That was why one person didn't have any more right to win than anyone else. Winning meant nothing, it tainted any kind of a life that came afterwards. No one really ever won SOTF, except the AT.
He might've understood that, but it didn't matter. They were just lab rats, they were victims, they were murderers, they were helpless and
it didn't matter how hard he tried, the AT had already won.
Henry cut him off.
"You're right! You're not better than everyone else, you're worse! You have a responsibility to be more than what was taken from you, but instead you're just running scared, waving a gun around, playing a role they gave you. Maybe if you took a second and thought about it you'd admit that yeah, it is on you to find some purpose in this. Make all this shit actually mean something.
But you won't. You're too much of a coward to imagine there's anything else worth protecting other than yourself. You're going to let it all be for nothing, because you're afraid. If that's how you live your life, what the fuck kind of a life do you really have to save?"
Once again, there was silence. Two sets of glassy eyes staring down one another.
After a moment's hesitation, Henry turned and walked away from Diego, from his gun, and from any more involvement in the coordinated destruction of one hundred and fifty nine lives. He had more to say, but not to Diego. Walking at a steady pace, he began to make his way back to the Commissary.
He might've understood that, but it didn't matter. They were just lab rats, they were victims, they were murderers, they were helpless and
it didn't matter how hard he tried, the AT had already won.
Henry cut him off.
"You're right! You're not better than everyone else, you're worse! You have a responsibility to be more than what was taken from you, but instead you're just running scared, waving a gun around, playing a role they gave you. Maybe if you took a second and thought about it you'd admit that yeah, it is on you to find some purpose in this. Make all this shit actually mean something.
But you won't. You're too much of a coward to imagine there's anything else worth protecting other than yourself. You're going to let it all be for nothing, because you're afraid. If that's how you live your life, what the fuck kind of a life do you really have to save?"
Once again, there was silence. Two sets of glassy eyes staring down one another.
After a moment's hesitation, Henry turned and walked away from Diego, from his gun, and from any more involvement in the coordinated destruction of one hundred and fifty nine lives. He had more to say, but not to Diego. Walking at a steady pace, he began to make his way back to the Commissary.
When Henry had left the Commissary, it had taken a lot to resist traipsing out after him and spouting some rhetoric about staying together for safety reasons. It made sense, considering their plan was to put themselves directly in harm's way. There was no reason to do so beforehand, but the way that Henry had composed himself and stormed out, he knew that it was probably best to let his pal calm down. Aurelien had retreated to the far end of the room himself, grumbling under his breath as he did, and so Morgan let him be as well.
For the time being, he was alone with his thoughts.
Perhaps it was the post-traumatic stress just dulling his senses, or even the fact that he was just starting to get used to how horrible everything was, but sitting here having a moment to think wasn't actually that bad. Not as bad as it had been immediately after Lizzie had died. At that point, Morgan had alternated between swearing vengeance on anyone and everyone who had ever killed someone and failing miserably at concealing his tears as he remembered the good times with her.
Now, though? All of his good feelings were dull, replaced with the knowledge that what they were doing was all sorts of real-world wrong. They were actively and outwardly searching for people to kill. They were as bad as the ones that they sought, the only difference is that they hadn't had any luck finding their targets. Morgan and Aurelien had chosen a side, and for Henry, it seemed like that side was the one that he was least comfortable on.
So he understood — the guy needed a break, to collect himself and to try not to snap. To do so right now, in the presence of people who were prepared to commit murder? It wasn't intelligent; if there was one word to describe Henry Sparks, that was it.
"He's been gone a while now," Morgan murmured, the passage of time but a faint spectre in his mind. Whatever internal clock he had once possessed in the real world, it was only half-functional. Henry might have been gone twenty minutes; it could have been two hours. He couldn't tell.
Looking across the room, he saw that he had Aurelien's attention. The boy moved a bit closer as Morgan unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and fumbled with the buttons. Pressing down on what he thought was a button, nothing happened on the small screen. Grunting, he tried the other button on the side. That seemed to do the trick.
"Henry? Hey Henry, everything okay? You coming back," Morgan hesitated — what was the word, "uh, over?"
For the time being, he was alone with his thoughts.
Perhaps it was the post-traumatic stress just dulling his senses, or even the fact that he was just starting to get used to how horrible everything was, but sitting here having a moment to think wasn't actually that bad. Not as bad as it had been immediately after Lizzie had died. At that point, Morgan had alternated between swearing vengeance on anyone and everyone who had ever killed someone and failing miserably at concealing his tears as he remembered the good times with her.
Now, though? All of his good feelings were dull, replaced with the knowledge that what they were doing was all sorts of real-world wrong. They were actively and outwardly searching for people to kill. They were as bad as the ones that they sought, the only difference is that they hadn't had any luck finding their targets. Morgan and Aurelien had chosen a side, and for Henry, it seemed like that side was the one that he was least comfortable on.
So he understood — the guy needed a break, to collect himself and to try not to snap. To do so right now, in the presence of people who were prepared to commit murder? It wasn't intelligent; if there was one word to describe Henry Sparks, that was it.
"He's been gone a while now," Morgan murmured, the passage of time but a faint spectre in his mind. Whatever internal clock he had once possessed in the real world, it was only half-functional. Henry might have been gone twenty minutes; it could have been two hours. He couldn't tell.
Looking across the room, he saw that he had Aurelien's attention. The boy moved a bit closer as Morgan unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and fumbled with the buttons. Pressing down on what he thought was a button, nothing happened on the small screen. Grunting, he tried the other button on the side. That seemed to do the trick.
"Henry? Hey Henry, everything okay? You coming back," Morgan hesitated — what was the word, "uh, over?"
You cowardly piece of shit.
I don't
I just want to
You're just running scared.
I am but
You're too much of a coward.
You're not better than everyone else, you're worse.
I'm not a coward
I'm not a bad person
I just want to li
You're WORSE.
The words did not die in Diego's throat, because he had not even allocated any air for saying them. His breath had stayed stuck in his chest. He did not move as Henry stared at him, into him. Henry's face was neutral, then, but he imagined he was holding back a smug smile. I won, he didn't say. Because Diego didn't have an answer ready. And so he remained, speechless, frozen as Henry walked off into the distance, the only trace of life being the water streaking down his cheeks.
What was Diego saving, again?
Cam had warned him about that. She'd argued there was nothing left to save, that the Diego who'd gone on the trip would not be the Diego returning from the trip, if he returned at all. He would be a shell of himself, she had said. A monster in the skin of the Diego his family mourned, cared about. He'd believed back then that that was still better than nothing, that returning would still be worth it. He'd killed his last friend for that belief.
It had to be true still, right?
Henry called Diego a coward. Coward was just a less profane way of saying pussy. That was the word that had gotten Mike killed.
Pushing the shovel into Mike's neck had been a lot of things, but one of them was supposed to be the opposite of cowardice, the culmination of that path he had set foot on all the way back at the pier, back on day one. He had told himself then that he would numb himself to violence, that he would make himself a monster, that he would be strong and scary, like Lorenzo, like Ty. He had stayed with Lorenzo for that reason.
He said that Diego's continued existence invalidated the 158 other lives on this island. That he wasn't worth it. And, when you put it like that, it sounded true, and it was true that him living meant everyone else dying, but that was unfair to him. He didn't murder Henry's friends, as far as he knew. It wasn't his fault they were here. That wasn't on him. He didn't deserve to be reduced to this selfish, self-serving monster. Right?
What was he saving? Why was he saving it? What was he worth, if anything?
He didn't have the right to ask that.
He didn't have the right to say he wasn't worth it. He didn't have the right to take away the one thing that kept him going, the one thing he had. Because, if it wasn't true, if he was right, if Cam was right, if this was all some trick he could've avoided, some test he failed, if the right thing to do would've been to lay down arms and accept death and deal with that as he may, then he would've gone through all of this for nothing. He would've allied with a monster, become a monster for nothing. He would've outlasted, killed his friends for nothing. All the pain and suffering and self-hatred he'd endured would've been for nothing. The path he had set foot on since day one would've been for nothing. He would've degraded and dehumanized himself for nothing.
In the distance, he heard a chirp.
Henry had mentioned a walkie talkie before. He'd said it was with Cam before. He didn't recall finding a walkie talkie with Cam when he'd salvaged her supplies.
There was someone else on the end of that walkie talkie Henry held. He had allies with him. Henry believed he wasn't worth saving. Henry didn't believe Diego deserved to make it off the island.
Diego had told him his goals before. He wanted to stay alive, and he wanted to make sure of it.
He put down the gun, finally. Wiped his face clean of saltwater. And he walked towards Henry.
I don't
I just want to
You're just running scared.
I am but
You're too much of a coward.
You're not better than everyone else, you're worse.
I'm not a coward
I'm not a bad person
I just want to li
You're WORSE.
The words did not die in Diego's throat, because he had not even allocated any air for saying them. His breath had stayed stuck in his chest. He did not move as Henry stared at him, into him. Henry's face was neutral, then, but he imagined he was holding back a smug smile. I won, he didn't say. Because Diego didn't have an answer ready. And so he remained, speechless, frozen as Henry walked off into the distance, the only trace of life being the water streaking down his cheeks.
What was Diego saving, again?
Cam had warned him about that. She'd argued there was nothing left to save, that the Diego who'd gone on the trip would not be the Diego returning from the trip, if he returned at all. He would be a shell of himself, she had said. A monster in the skin of the Diego his family mourned, cared about. He'd believed back then that that was still better than nothing, that returning would still be worth it. He'd killed his last friend for that belief.
It had to be true still, right?
Henry called Diego a coward. Coward was just a less profane way of saying pussy. That was the word that had gotten Mike killed.
Pushing the shovel into Mike's neck had been a lot of things, but one of them was supposed to be the opposite of cowardice, the culmination of that path he had set foot on all the way back at the pier, back on day one. He had told himself then that he would numb himself to violence, that he would make himself a monster, that he would be strong and scary, like Lorenzo, like Ty. He had stayed with Lorenzo for that reason.
He said that Diego's continued existence invalidated the 158 other lives on this island. That he wasn't worth it. And, when you put it like that, it sounded true, and it was true that him living meant everyone else dying, but that was unfair to him. He didn't murder Henry's friends, as far as he knew. It wasn't his fault they were here. That wasn't on him. He didn't deserve to be reduced to this selfish, self-serving monster. Right?
What was he saving? Why was he saving it? What was he worth, if anything?
He didn't have the right to ask that.
He didn't have the right to say he wasn't worth it. He didn't have the right to take away the one thing that kept him going, the one thing he had. Because, if it wasn't true, if he was right, if Cam was right, if this was all some trick he could've avoided, some test he failed, if the right thing to do would've been to lay down arms and accept death and deal with that as he may, then he would've gone through all of this for nothing. He would've allied with a monster, become a monster for nothing. He would've outlasted, killed his friends for nothing. All the pain and suffering and self-hatred he'd endured would've been for nothing. The path he had set foot on since day one would've been for nothing. He would've degraded and dehumanized himself for nothing.
In the distance, he heard a chirp.
Henry had mentioned a walkie talkie before. He'd said it was with Cam before. He didn't recall finding a walkie talkie with Cam when he'd salvaged her supplies.
There was someone else on the end of that walkie talkie Henry held. He had allies with him. Henry believed he wasn't worth saving. Henry didn't believe Diego deserved to make it off the island.
Diego had told him his goals before. He wanted to stay alive, and he wanted to make sure of it.
He put down the gun, finally. Wiped his face clean of saltwater. And he walked towards Henry.
No one else would die because of him, or for him, or for anyone who had already gone. He would have no more a part in this. All that Henry had to do was to walk back to the Commissary, explain his position to Morgan and Aurelien, and leave. Maybe he’d leave them the radios, or his weapon, and they would let him go. Continuing on the path they were on, and whatever that brought them. He knew he'd never really understand it.
Henry stopped still as the building just started to come into view. He couldn't help but mentally prepare himself for the way the conversation would go, the way Aurelien would look at him, the questions they'd ask about why he hadn't tried to kill Diego on the spot, demands that they go after him. How he'd have to look at the two of them, with all of their pain and hurt, and tell them he wouldn't help them.
It might be easier if I just don’t come back. What are my words even worth to them?
The walkie-talkie on his belt buzzed to life, Morgan’s voice stirring him from his thoughts. Of course, he’d be concerned by now.
Retrieving the device from his belt, Henry pressed down and offered a shaky reply.
“Morgan, hey. I’m, uhh - I’m okay. I just needed time to clear my head.”
He continued to hold down the talk button, broadcasting only the sound of the wind blowing across the receiver. He couldn't quite find the words. There had to be a way to explain this to him, to make himself understood. Henry knew if he was there, and he said what he meant to say, Morgan wouldn’t be able to let him go.
Maybe this was the best way to do it. A final message to his friend: It wasn’t that he was giving up; he just wasn’t giving in.
“I've decided... I think there’s more to this than just revenge, or survival, or buying time. I think we were wrong. It’s not about us, anymore.
Listen, there’s a moment when everything-”
Henry stopped still as the building just started to come into view. He couldn't help but mentally prepare himself for the way the conversation would go, the way Aurelien would look at him, the questions they'd ask about why he hadn't tried to kill Diego on the spot, demands that they go after him. How he'd have to look at the two of them, with all of their pain and hurt, and tell them he wouldn't help them.
It might be easier if I just don’t come back. What are my words even worth to them?
The walkie-talkie on his belt buzzed to life, Morgan’s voice stirring him from his thoughts. Of course, he’d be concerned by now.
Retrieving the device from his belt, Henry pressed down and offered a shaky reply.
“Morgan, hey. I’m, uhh - I’m okay. I just needed time to clear my head.”
He continued to hold down the talk button, broadcasting only the sound of the wind blowing across the receiver. He couldn't quite find the words. There had to be a way to explain this to him, to make himself understood. Henry knew if he was there, and he said what he meant to say, Morgan wouldn’t be able to let him go.
Maybe this was the best way to do it. A final message to his friend: It wasn’t that he was giving up; he just wasn’t giving in.
“I've decided... I think there’s more to this than just revenge, or survival, or buying time. I think we were wrong. It’s not about us, anymore.
Listen, there’s a moment when everything-”
Morgan was filled with relief as the other end of the walkie-talkie crackled to life with Henry's familiar voice. It sounded stronger, more resolute. That was good — if at least one of them could snap out of the doldrums then perhaps they'd stand a better chance of things. Something in his voice sounded sad, though — so instead of saying a word, he listened.
Then, without warning, thunder, or something a lot like it struck somewhere close to them. The building shook, dust flying off the ceiling and the walls, making the air in the Commissary thick with a mix of rot and dust.
"Sorry, say that again? Something just — you're breaking up. A moment when everything what?"
Silence on the other end. Morgan looked at the walkie. It seemed to be working fine.
"Henry? Hello?"
Then, without warning, thunder, or something a lot like it struck somewhere close to them. The building shook, dust flying off the ceiling and the walls, making the air in the Commissary thick with a mix of rot and dust.
"Sorry, say that again? Something just — you're breaking up. A moment when everything what?"
Silence on the other end. Morgan looked at the walkie. It seemed to be working fine.
"Henry? Hello?"
In the silence that followed, a red mist drifted east, away from the coast, into the forest. Crimson droplets drifted to and fro, trajectory altered by the slightest shift in winds. Eventually, they landed onto the surrounding foliage, lending the nearby fern plants, philodendron leaves, hibiscus petals a sort of pinkish hue, intensifying the orange light given off by the setting sun. In the aftermath, the world turned red.
There was stinging in Diego's face, right arm, left shoulder as the scene made itself known. Red, his red, streamed its way down his body, unnoticed, droplets occasionally shaken free as he doubled over, rocked frantically, caught in fits of raucous laughter, screaming, something in between the two.
"Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!"
He was saying, screaming words he felt in his throat, soul, more than heard.
He had told Henry he wanted to make sure of it, make sure he survived. Shovels were messy, required getting close, too close. Guns were precise, too much so. It was too easy to miss.
The grenade launcher hung from his neck, down two rounds now. He won, allegedly.
The mist, smoke cleared eventually, revealing the lower half of a body, largely intact, reddened. Not much else above the waist. Nothing comprehensible.
Even if he wanted to get close to the body, there would be nothing to recover. There were fragments of metal, wood scattered amidst the gore, probably the remnants of the rifle Henry carried. Various other bits of debris littered the fauna that covered this island.
There was nothing left for Diego here. He had made his point, too much so. Henry had been talking to someone when he died. Diego didn't know how close by those allies were, if they were nearby at all, but he didn't want to stick around and find out.
He forced himself to look away from the corpse. He somehow found enough strength, willpower to pick up his feet, run into the forest once more.
((Diego Larrosa continues in it's ok we're just scared))
There was stinging in Diego's face, right arm, left shoulder as the scene made itself known. Red, his red, streamed its way down his body, unnoticed, droplets occasionally shaken free as he doubled over, rocked frantically, caught in fits of raucous laughter, screaming, something in between the two.
"Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!"
He was saying, screaming words he felt in his throat, soul, more than heard.
He had told Henry he wanted to make sure of it, make sure he survived. Shovels were messy, required getting close, too close. Guns were precise, too much so. It was too easy to miss.
The grenade launcher hung from his neck, down two rounds now. He won, allegedly.
The mist, smoke cleared eventually, revealing the lower half of a body, largely intact, reddened. Not much else above the waist. Nothing comprehensible.
Even if he wanted to get close to the body, there would be nothing to recover. There were fragments of metal, wood scattered amidst the gore, probably the remnants of the rifle Henry carried. Various other bits of debris littered the fauna that covered this island.
There was nothing left for Diego here. He had made his point, too much so. Henry had been talking to someone when he died. Diego didn't know how close by those allies were, if they were nearby at all, but he didn't want to stick around and find out.
He forced himself to look away from the corpse. He somehow found enough strength, willpower to pick up his feet, run into the forest once more.
((Diego Larrosa continues in it's ok we're just scared))
Henry had been saying something as Aurelien had stormed off. He didn’t have a clue what. The words had been for Morgan, not for him, and he didn’t want to know the bullshit justification or whatever that Henry was giving anyway. He was already in a shitty enough mood as it was. He didn’t need Henry’s defence to make him feel even shittier.
Not that it mattered in the end. He tried to keep himself occupied with busywork, rummaging through the same shelves and cabinets he’d already foraged through five times already. All that did was give his own thoughts more time to brew, more time for his anger to simmer, then bubble, then boil. He thought about how, if Henry got his way, it would be throwing away everything they’d been working towards and hurting for, just because he’d had a change of heart. It would render Ariana and Jackson’s deaths pointless.
It would make Dante just another number, as the remaining few dwindled and only B or G whatever remained.
He’d kicked around more pebbles and tin cans, put his foot through the side of damp cardboard boxes, come perilously close to swinging his mace around again, or aiming the crossbow at something and letting fly. He hadn’t quite. Something, he wasn’t sure what, had stopped him. But his finger had twitched. His hands had wrapped around the handle.
He was close to letting himself be consumed again.
It meant the time went by fast, though. So when Morgan spoke up, and mentioned how long it had been since Henry had left, it took a while for Aurelien to process. Just like it had been back at the beach. Grief did things to people. Apparently it threw his internal clock all out of whack.
“I guess so,” Aurelien said, after a while. He looked back at the corner of the room, the most recent target of his anger, a battered tin can, lying on its side. Then he looked back at Morgan.
He waited. And he knew that by waiting, he was going against what he had just been rallying for. If Henry had truly decided his goal lay elsewhere, then Aurelien and Morgan were already wasting time. They should have headed out already. They should have been on the move. They were in possession of one of the walkie-talkies; they could just tell Henry they’d already left, that they were going after Blaise and Michael, that they wished him luck.
But Aurelien couldn’t help but remember that Henry had been the one to keep him tethered, the one to keep him focused, the one who’d first put the plan to metaphorical paper and given him a goal, rather than let him be an uncontrollable wrecking ball of fury and vengeance. If… if he owed the other boy anything, it was making sure the last time they saw each other was a farewell of respect. Not one of bitterness.
So he listened, as Morgan unclipped the walkie-talkie and held it to his ear, waiting with baited breath for how the other boy would react, what he would say into the speaker. Everything seemed normal at first. The beginning of a conversation. A check for confirmation, that Henry was returning.
Then the earth shook, almost sending Aurelien sprawling, the ceiling spewing dust and plaster down onto them both. He could feel it, clinging to his hair, sticking to his sweat and blood soaked scalp. Even as everything settled, and even as Morgan started talking into the walkie-talkie again, Aurelien had already started moving, slipping the crossbow in between his back and his bag in order to carry the mace properly. He looked at Morgan for a moment as he spoke into the mouthpiece, questions that Aurelien knew in his gut would never get answered. Then he pushed past the other boy. As soon as he was outside the commissary, he started running.
It didn’t take him long. There was a body - or half of one anyway - collapsed in a heap. The ground was scorched, an uneven circle surrounding the carnage, small piles of viscera and flesh and twisted metal dotted around it. The smell in the air was acrid, poisonous. Aurelien could feel his chest rise and fall, his pulse quicken, his anger boil over. He recognised the lower half, what remained of the torso. The clothes. The fabric. Familiarities, surrounding him.
He turned around, fury in his eyes, making sure Morgan was behind him. Then he ran.
((Aurelien Valter continued in "Listen, there's a moment when everything—"))
Not that it mattered in the end. He tried to keep himself occupied with busywork, rummaging through the same shelves and cabinets he’d already foraged through five times already. All that did was give his own thoughts more time to brew, more time for his anger to simmer, then bubble, then boil. He thought about how, if Henry got his way, it would be throwing away everything they’d been working towards and hurting for, just because he’d had a change of heart. It would render Ariana and Jackson’s deaths pointless.
It would make Dante just another number, as the remaining few dwindled and only B or G whatever remained.
He’d kicked around more pebbles and tin cans, put his foot through the side of damp cardboard boxes, come perilously close to swinging his mace around again, or aiming the crossbow at something and letting fly. He hadn’t quite. Something, he wasn’t sure what, had stopped him. But his finger had twitched. His hands had wrapped around the handle.
He was close to letting himself be consumed again.
It meant the time went by fast, though. So when Morgan spoke up, and mentioned how long it had been since Henry had left, it took a while for Aurelien to process. Just like it had been back at the beach. Grief did things to people. Apparently it threw his internal clock all out of whack.
“I guess so,” Aurelien said, after a while. He looked back at the corner of the room, the most recent target of his anger, a battered tin can, lying on its side. Then he looked back at Morgan.
He waited. And he knew that by waiting, he was going against what he had just been rallying for. If Henry had truly decided his goal lay elsewhere, then Aurelien and Morgan were already wasting time. They should have headed out already. They should have been on the move. They were in possession of one of the walkie-talkies; they could just tell Henry they’d already left, that they were going after Blaise and Michael, that they wished him luck.
But Aurelien couldn’t help but remember that Henry had been the one to keep him tethered, the one to keep him focused, the one who’d first put the plan to metaphorical paper and given him a goal, rather than let him be an uncontrollable wrecking ball of fury and vengeance. If… if he owed the other boy anything, it was making sure the last time they saw each other was a farewell of respect. Not one of bitterness.
So he listened, as Morgan unclipped the walkie-talkie and held it to his ear, waiting with baited breath for how the other boy would react, what he would say into the speaker. Everything seemed normal at first. The beginning of a conversation. A check for confirmation, that Henry was returning.
Then the earth shook, almost sending Aurelien sprawling, the ceiling spewing dust and plaster down onto them both. He could feel it, clinging to his hair, sticking to his sweat and blood soaked scalp. Even as everything settled, and even as Morgan started talking into the walkie-talkie again, Aurelien had already started moving, slipping the crossbow in between his back and his bag in order to carry the mace properly. He looked at Morgan for a moment as he spoke into the mouthpiece, questions that Aurelien knew in his gut would never get answered. Then he pushed past the other boy. As soon as he was outside the commissary, he started running.
It didn’t take him long. There was a body - or half of one anyway - collapsed in a heap. The ground was scorched, an uneven circle surrounding the carnage, small piles of viscera and flesh and twisted metal dotted around it. The smell in the air was acrid, poisonous. Aurelien could feel his chest rise and fall, his pulse quicken, his anger boil over. He recognised the lower half, what remained of the torso. The clothes. The fabric. Familiarities, surrounding him.
He turned around, fury in his eyes, making sure Morgan was behind him. Then he ran.
((Aurelien Valter continued in "Listen, there's a moment when everything—"))
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017