Dust particles glinted in the rays of the evening sun that were filtering through the aged window that Marceline was sitting beneath. She slipped her list back into her bag as she listened to Larrosa speak, the item having served its purpose in jogging her memory. According to him, his first kill—Mike—had been impulse, his second—Camilla—had been self-defense, and his third—Henry—had been intentional murder. Assuming he was telling the truth—because for all she knew he could easily be embellishing the truth or straight up lying to her—the path he walked made sense as a somewhat natural progression in terms of slowly becoming a monster.
It was also somewhat chilling how plainly he had confessed all of it to her. Not so much because she was listening to a killer speaking openly about his past murders, but rather because he had said as much to her with very little required provocation on her part. If there had been any doubt before, it was obvious now that he could clearly see the blackened, dead-hearted stains she carried on her soul. He knew without a doubt that he was speaking to a fellow monster, so why would he feel the need to hold anything back?
Now he wanted to ask questions of his own. He had answered her, so she supposed it was only fair for her to answer him.
"No, I don't have any more questions for now. Ask away."
life's alright in devil town
Closed, afternoon, day 11 to morning, day 12, post-announcements
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VoltTurtle
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"Okay."
Diego tapped the fingers of his right hand against the wooden floor while thinking of a question. Pinky to pointer finger, again and again. The sound, the feeling relaxed him. Even the way the scar on his palm stung as he made the motion, as the skin stretched and tugged at the wound.
He stopped. Reciprocity, when in doubt. And, there were many kinds of killers on the island. Those made into ones through circumstance, and those who had chosen said circumstances. Self-defense, impulse, deliberate murder, neglect, cowardice. He wanted to know the kind of company he had invited into the bedroom with him. The kind of company that would be keeping watch over him as he slept.
It also helped that the question would probably be as uncomfortable for Marceline as it had been for him. He had to lean into it, after all, even in small ways.
"What were your reasons for Amelia? I said mine, so... yeah."
Diego tapped the fingers of his right hand against the wooden floor while thinking of a question. Pinky to pointer finger, again and again. The sound, the feeling relaxed him. Even the way the scar on his palm stung as he made the motion, as the skin stretched and tugged at the wound.
He stopped. Reciprocity, when in doubt. And, there were many kinds of killers on the island. Those made into ones through circumstance, and those who had chosen said circumstances. Self-defense, impulse, deliberate murder, neglect, cowardice. He wanted to know the kind of company he had invited into the bedroom with him. The kind of company that would be keeping watch over him as he slept.
It also helped that the question would probably be as uncomfortable for Marceline as it had been for him. He had to lean into it, after all, even in small ways.
"What were your reasons for Amelia? I said mine, so... yeah."
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
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She winced. There it was.
Marceline had known what Larrosa was going to ask before he had even opened his mouth. It was only fair, after all, for him to pose the same question she had just asked back to her. Of course, explaining the full details of what had transpired between them was unlikely to win Larrosa's trust. She didn't need to outright lie per se, just omit certain details.
"She... uh..."
She didn't want to continue. Back with Nick, she had been so full of adrenaline that she likely could have said anything she wanted to anyone. Now that she was having to bear the full weight of her crimes with no chemical courage to help her, she felt like there was no way she could adequately explain what had happened. In her hesitation, she was suddenly hyperaware of the saliva building up in her mouth. Seizing the opportunity to delay her confession, she paused and swallowed it.
"I uh..."
Of course, that was the problem with any kind of delay. It was temporary at best, a mere distraction from what was to come. Delay and distract all she wanted, there would be no getting around spilling her guts. He was obviously expecting her to tell him at least some version of what happened. Perhaps she could just start from the beginning.
"Amelia was... not in a good state, when I found her. I still don't quite know what had happened to her and what was wrong with her, but she thought that Dolly," she briefly stopped, wincing after saying her girlfriend's name. "She thought my girlfriend was still alive, and we were all back at George Hunter, in the lunch room."
All of that was true.
"I realized after a bit that she was already too far gone. She was my friend, so I didn't like the idea of somebody like Erika, say, catching up with her and killing her. So I decided to put her out of her misery."
That wasn't entirely true. Nothing of what she had said had been a lie, but she was leaving out the fact that she had killed Amelia primarily for the gun that was now sitting in her pocket, and also to prove to herself that she had what it took to become the last person left.
"It didn't really go how I had planned."
Her voice broke when she spoke those last few words, her mind forcing her to relive the sound of Amelia crying out in pain over and over again. That statement had been more painfully true than anything else she had said so far, in more ways than just one. Her heart rate started to pick up as her throat tightened, the rise and fall of her chest subtly speeding up alongside it. She took a moment to breathe, inhaling deeply to steady her nerves, doing her best to remind herself that she had only done what she had needed to do.
"When it was over, and I was salvaging what I could of her stuff, I found this," she said, before gesturing to the pistol resting in her pocket. "That was that."
She stopped for a moment, reaching up to scratch the side of her face. There was more than she had already told him. The announcements had simply not yet caught up to her latest killing. Perhaps volunteering more information than Larrosa had asked for could win her some of his trust. As much as the trust of a fellow predator among prey mattered, anyway.
"There was another, too, on the way here, you should hear about it next morning. I encountered Nick Ogilvie in the temple. He had killed Beryl, my bandmate and one of my best friends. So I killed him in return."
The tone did not waver from the rest of her little impromptu speech, but that was without a doubt a bold-faced lie. Maybe it had been somewhat true when she had initially entered the temple, but it definitely hadn't stayed that way by the time she had actually pulled the trigger. She had said so herself, out loud, just before she had executed Nick, but telling the truth about how she was shooting straight for the win would likely not win her any favors.
"Is that enough of an answer?"
Marceline had known what Larrosa was going to ask before he had even opened his mouth. It was only fair, after all, for him to pose the same question she had just asked back to her. Of course, explaining the full details of what had transpired between them was unlikely to win Larrosa's trust. She didn't need to outright lie per se, just omit certain details.
"She... uh..."
She didn't want to continue. Back with Nick, she had been so full of adrenaline that she likely could have said anything she wanted to anyone. Now that she was having to bear the full weight of her crimes with no chemical courage to help her, she felt like there was no way she could adequately explain what had happened. In her hesitation, she was suddenly hyperaware of the saliva building up in her mouth. Seizing the opportunity to delay her confession, she paused and swallowed it.
"I uh..."
Of course, that was the problem with any kind of delay. It was temporary at best, a mere distraction from what was to come. Delay and distract all she wanted, there would be no getting around spilling her guts. He was obviously expecting her to tell him at least some version of what happened. Perhaps she could just start from the beginning.
"Amelia was... not in a good state, when I found her. I still don't quite know what had happened to her and what was wrong with her, but she thought that Dolly," she briefly stopped, wincing after saying her girlfriend's name. "She thought my girlfriend was still alive, and we were all back at George Hunter, in the lunch room."
All of that was true.
"I realized after a bit that she was already too far gone. She was my friend, so I didn't like the idea of somebody like Erika, say, catching up with her and killing her. So I decided to put her out of her misery."
That wasn't entirely true. Nothing of what she had said had been a lie, but she was leaving out the fact that she had killed Amelia primarily for the gun that was now sitting in her pocket, and also to prove to herself that she had what it took to become the last person left.
"It didn't really go how I had planned."
Her voice broke when she spoke those last few words, her mind forcing her to relive the sound of Amelia crying out in pain over and over again. That statement had been more painfully true than anything else she had said so far, in more ways than just one. Her heart rate started to pick up as her throat tightened, the rise and fall of her chest subtly speeding up alongside it. She took a moment to breathe, inhaling deeply to steady her nerves, doing her best to remind herself that she had only done what she had needed to do.
"When it was over, and I was salvaging what I could of her stuff, I found this," she said, before gesturing to the pistol resting in her pocket. "That was that."
She stopped for a moment, reaching up to scratch the side of her face. There was more than she had already told him. The announcements had simply not yet caught up to her latest killing. Perhaps volunteering more information than Larrosa had asked for could win her some of his trust. As much as the trust of a fellow predator among prey mattered, anyway.
"There was another, too, on the way here, you should hear about it next morning. I encountered Nick Ogilvie in the temple. He had killed Beryl, my bandmate and one of my best friends. So I killed him in return."
The tone did not waver from the rest of her little impromptu speech, but that was without a doubt a bold-faced lie. Maybe it had been somewhat true when she had initially entered the temple, but it definitely hadn't stayed that way by the time she had actually pulled the trigger. She had said so herself, out loud, just before she had executed Nick, but telling the truth about how she was shooting straight for the win would likely not win her any favors.
"Is that enough of an answer?"
The satisfaction wasn't in the pain itself. Diego still felt some traces of guilt as Marceline stammered over her words, much like he had done a few seconds before, as the memory of her dead girlfriend appeared to physically pain her. Traces of jealousy, too. It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, et cetera. The saying could fuck off. But the sentiment stood. He wished he had a loved one to mourn.
That aside, he didn't really seek Marceline's pain. Just the fact that it existed, the fact that she felt as uncomfortable as him was enough.
Diego didn't look her in the eyes while she talked. He didn't really want to take in her sorrow, her regret. He had enough of his own. And he didn't want her to look at him any further. Sometimes it felt like people could read his mind when they looked him in the eye. See the ugly parts of him. Would she stay if she saw his spite?
Outside, the rain seemed to level off as the sun peeked through the clouds. There might be a rainbow soon. That seemed like a more interesting sight. A safer sight.
He looked back at her, raised his eyebrows slightly at the mention of Nick. Not at the guy himself, he just knew that Nick was another gay guy adjacent to the other gay men he'd envied for so long. He vaguely remembered drama involving a break-up, it wasn't relevant anymore. What had caught Diego's attention was the volunteering of information he hadn't asked for. They could've gone a few more hours without him knowing that. He didn't see the purpose in her telling him that. It felt deliberate though, calculated. He'd think about it more later on, he told himself.
Once she finished, he nodded slowly.
"Yeah." She'd said more than enough.
His fingers tapped against the floor again. Left hand this time. He wanted to leave the palm scar alone for now.
"I'm... sorry about Amelia, by the way. I didn't really want to... with Cam, I'd been left no choice. She was gone too, in a way. She wanted to..."
He shook his head. She didn't ask. He didn't want to talk about it. So he didn't.
"Never mind. It was self-defense, like I told you. It. Hurt. Still hurts."
He wasn't looking at her again, he realized. His vision felt blurry. He let his eyes stay on the wall.
"I get where you're coming from, is what I'm trying to say, yeah."
There was a bit of silence that followed after, punctuated by a tapping on wood. More hollow, more steady, the nails making sounds this time.
He wanted to know more about her. He knew her past, but he didn't know her future. If she was just holding on for the sake of holding on, or if she wanted more. That felt important.
He looked her in the eye this time. It was his turn to read.
"So... you good with that?"
He shook his head, waved his hand away.
"Not good, poor wording. I mean, like. Your first kill was a mercy kill, and your second kill was revenge. All of them were justified in one way or another. In some sense of the word 'justified,' I guess. They weren't a spur of the moment. So, I mean, are you laying low, now that you've got your one kill? Or do you have other plans?"
That aside, he didn't really seek Marceline's pain. Just the fact that it existed, the fact that she felt as uncomfortable as him was enough.
Diego didn't look her in the eyes while she talked. He didn't really want to take in her sorrow, her regret. He had enough of his own. And he didn't want her to look at him any further. Sometimes it felt like people could read his mind when they looked him in the eye. See the ugly parts of him. Would she stay if she saw his spite?
Outside, the rain seemed to level off as the sun peeked through the clouds. There might be a rainbow soon. That seemed like a more interesting sight. A safer sight.
He looked back at her, raised his eyebrows slightly at the mention of Nick. Not at the guy himself, he just knew that Nick was another gay guy adjacent to the other gay men he'd envied for so long. He vaguely remembered drama involving a break-up, it wasn't relevant anymore. What had caught Diego's attention was the volunteering of information he hadn't asked for. They could've gone a few more hours without him knowing that. He didn't see the purpose in her telling him that. It felt deliberate though, calculated. He'd think about it more later on, he told himself.
Once she finished, he nodded slowly.
"Yeah." She'd said more than enough.
His fingers tapped against the floor again. Left hand this time. He wanted to leave the palm scar alone for now.
"I'm... sorry about Amelia, by the way. I didn't really want to... with Cam, I'd been left no choice. She was gone too, in a way. She wanted to..."
He shook his head. She didn't ask. He didn't want to talk about it. So he didn't.
"Never mind. It was self-defense, like I told you. It. Hurt. Still hurts."
He wasn't looking at her again, he realized. His vision felt blurry. He let his eyes stay on the wall.
"I get where you're coming from, is what I'm trying to say, yeah."
There was a bit of silence that followed after, punctuated by a tapping on wood. More hollow, more steady, the nails making sounds this time.
He wanted to know more about her. He knew her past, but he didn't know her future. If she was just holding on for the sake of holding on, or if she wanted more. That felt important.
He looked her in the eye this time. It was his turn to read.
"So... you good with that?"
He shook his head, waved his hand away.
"Not good, poor wording. I mean, like. Your first kill was a mercy kill, and your second kill was revenge. All of them were justified in one way or another. In some sense of the word 'justified,' I guess. They weren't a spur of the moment. So, I mean, are you laying low, now that you've got your one kill? Or do you have other plans?"
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VoltTurtle
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Marceline had plenty of choices when it came to what to say in response to that. She could mention the fact that she was shooting for the win, or that she was ready and willing to kill each and every person remaining by herself if she absolutely had to. Telling Larrosa either of those things wasn't likely to earn her any of his favor, however.
"I'm just trying to live to see the next day," she stated, a hint of tiredness in her voice.
Once again she was telling the truth while being careful to omit and curate her words to her present audience's liking. Outwardly she might come across as a master manipulator, though she had never taken herself to be one, and she most certainly wasn't one in reality. Lies of omission were by far the easiest lies to tell, simply sprinkle a bit of truth into your statements and suddenly it becomes so much easier to say without giving yourself away. The catch was that if any of the omitted details came to light that could be disastrous, but she thought it unlikely that Larrosa would find out anything she had omitted thus far.
However, there was one other detail that she could share with him, given that they were already talking. She had already spoken of getting vengeance on Nick, so it was only logical to mention the ever burning grudge that she would never dare to let go. As far as she knew, d'Aramitz was still drawing breath, and that was a crime against humanity. It didn't matter that killing here wasn't wrong like it was in the outside world, and that the blame for d'Aramitz's murders lied squarely on the backs of the terrorists as much as Marceline's own. She still hated them with a burning intensity for what they did to Dolly and for all the pain they inflicted upon her.
Perhaps it was hypocritical, to swear vengeance upon d'Aramitz while making a big deal of the amorality of this place and its lack of a social contract like she had. However, she wouldn't begrudge Marco if he tried to kill her because of her slaying of Nick, and thus she wouldn't begrudge herself for trying to kill d'Aramitz because they killed Dolly. They needed to die if she were to win anyway, so what would it matter if she happened to take some pleasure in that one, specific kill?
"There is one other thing, though, or rather one person. Blaise d'Aramitz. They killed my girlfriend, so I want to see them die. I'd prefer to be the one to do them in myself, but I'll take what I can get."
She paused, briefly reaching her hand up to absentmindedly play with her hair, a behavioral tic that she had possessed basically all her life, only for her to remember that her formerly long hair was almost all gone. Now reduced to a thin smattering of locks clung tightly to her skull courtesy of built-up grease and heat-induced sweat. She put her hand back down without touching her hair, resting it in her lap.
Now that she was thinking about it, the first thing she was going to do once she was out of here was take a shower. She had a lot of built up grime that she needed to cleanse, both literally and metaphorically.
"That's it, though."
"I'm just trying to live to see the next day," she stated, a hint of tiredness in her voice.
Once again she was telling the truth while being careful to omit and curate her words to her present audience's liking. Outwardly she might come across as a master manipulator, though she had never taken herself to be one, and she most certainly wasn't one in reality. Lies of omission were by far the easiest lies to tell, simply sprinkle a bit of truth into your statements and suddenly it becomes so much easier to say without giving yourself away. The catch was that if any of the omitted details came to light that could be disastrous, but she thought it unlikely that Larrosa would find out anything she had omitted thus far.
However, there was one other detail that she could share with him, given that they were already talking. She had already spoken of getting vengeance on Nick, so it was only logical to mention the ever burning grudge that she would never dare to let go. As far as she knew, d'Aramitz was still drawing breath, and that was a crime against humanity. It didn't matter that killing here wasn't wrong like it was in the outside world, and that the blame for d'Aramitz's murders lied squarely on the backs of the terrorists as much as Marceline's own. She still hated them with a burning intensity for what they did to Dolly and for all the pain they inflicted upon her.
Perhaps it was hypocritical, to swear vengeance upon d'Aramitz while making a big deal of the amorality of this place and its lack of a social contract like she had. However, she wouldn't begrudge Marco if he tried to kill her because of her slaying of Nick, and thus she wouldn't begrudge herself for trying to kill d'Aramitz because they killed Dolly. They needed to die if she were to win anyway, so what would it matter if she happened to take some pleasure in that one, specific kill?
"There is one other thing, though, or rather one person. Blaise d'Aramitz. They killed my girlfriend, so I want to see them die. I'd prefer to be the one to do them in myself, but I'll take what I can get."
She paused, briefly reaching her hand up to absentmindedly play with her hair, a behavioral tic that she had possessed basically all her life, only for her to remember that her formerly long hair was almost all gone. Now reduced to a thin smattering of locks clung tightly to her skull courtesy of built-up grease and heat-induced sweat. She put her hand back down without touching her hair, resting it in her lap.
Now that she was thinking about it, the first thing she was going to do once she was out of here was take a shower. She had a lot of built up grime that she needed to cleanse, both literally and metaphorically.
"That's it, though."
If that was her answer, then she was holding on, he decided. That meant she would let go sooner or later.
Suicide was surprisingly rare on the announcements. It was understood by most on the island that only one person would be making it out of here alive, so, that meant that if you were here, the odds were overwhelmingly against you. And some, like Diego, Blaise, Erika, Justin, and so on, had done their best to tilt the odds in their favor somehow. Put the work in, Ty had told him.
Most didn't. There were plenty of people that had died on this island without a kill to their name. Probably plenty of people still living without a kill. Diego wasn't sure. The names all blended together. But he was sure they were out there. And, killing was the only way out of here, given that nobody had thought of an escape plan. So, why bother staying alive if you didn't plan on killing, making it out of here? Some people had plans, ideologies, points to make, like Henry. But he didn't think they were all like that.
Diego had bashed his head against a bench after finding out what Lorenzo had done. The scar on his forehead still stung sometimes. It stung right now. It felt like nail pricks. And now, sometimes, if he stood up too quickly, his vision would fade out for a bit, colored static, and he wondered if that was just low blood iron, general fatigue, or if it was his actions in that moment finally catching up to him. And that thought deepened a pit in his stomach.
Even at that lowest moment, he'd stepped away from the edge. He wasn't the best at reading other people, empathizing with them, but if he had to guess, he would say that suicide was more a last resort than an option. The bench had felt like the only choice remaining at the moment. He didn't want it, but he'd felt like he deserved nothing else. Once he'd been pulled away by Ty, once another option had presented itself, he'd gone for that option. He'd wanted more, it turned out. And, that was probably how it was for most people. Given the option of another day or death, most people kept going, no matter what. Even if they didn't particularly feel like killing, making it out, 'putting in the work,' they still wanted more. Inertia did not refer only to stillness.
And so it was, for Marceline. The idea of killing Blaise kept them going. Considering all the spite and envy he'd experienced on this island, he was surprised he hadn't felt the need to avenge a lost friend so far. Lack of opportunity, he supposed. Gervais had shot Drew, and he was dead. Myles had killed Declyn, and he was dead. Cam had killed Theo, and she... was self-defense. Not revenge. He didn't feel like avenging Cam. The closest thing he'd gotten to revenge had been with Lorenzo's corpse just earlier, and it felt empty immediately after.
In short, there was no one left for Diego to take revenge on. Not that he'd mention it to her. It felt like gloating, even if the joy in it was non-existent.
After thinking over her answer for a moment, Diego nodded. He decided.
"Alright. I... get that, yeah," even if he didn't get it at all.
His heart started to beat faster. Her entering the bedroom meant she accepted his company for the moment. This would be more than that. He wanted more than that.
"And, I can help you with that. Two brains are better than one. And, I think whatever we have"—he gestured towards all the weapons they had with them—"is more than what they can handle."
And, once they were done with them, he would leave. He didn't want to be around to see when more wasn't enough. Ripping off Band-aids and all. He was getting ahead of himself.
He gripped his wrist.
"You up for that?"
Suicide was surprisingly rare on the announcements. It was understood by most on the island that only one person would be making it out of here alive, so, that meant that if you were here, the odds were overwhelmingly against you. And some, like Diego, Blaise, Erika, Justin, and so on, had done their best to tilt the odds in their favor somehow. Put the work in, Ty had told him.
Most didn't. There were plenty of people that had died on this island without a kill to their name. Probably plenty of people still living without a kill. Diego wasn't sure. The names all blended together. But he was sure they were out there. And, killing was the only way out of here, given that nobody had thought of an escape plan. So, why bother staying alive if you didn't plan on killing, making it out of here? Some people had plans, ideologies, points to make, like Henry. But he didn't think they were all like that.
Diego had bashed his head against a bench after finding out what Lorenzo had done. The scar on his forehead still stung sometimes. It stung right now. It felt like nail pricks. And now, sometimes, if he stood up too quickly, his vision would fade out for a bit, colored static, and he wondered if that was just low blood iron, general fatigue, or if it was his actions in that moment finally catching up to him. And that thought deepened a pit in his stomach.
Even at that lowest moment, he'd stepped away from the edge. He wasn't the best at reading other people, empathizing with them, but if he had to guess, he would say that suicide was more a last resort than an option. The bench had felt like the only choice remaining at the moment. He didn't want it, but he'd felt like he deserved nothing else. Once he'd been pulled away by Ty, once another option had presented itself, he'd gone for that option. He'd wanted more, it turned out. And, that was probably how it was for most people. Given the option of another day or death, most people kept going, no matter what. Even if they didn't particularly feel like killing, making it out, 'putting in the work,' they still wanted more. Inertia did not refer only to stillness.
And so it was, for Marceline. The idea of killing Blaise kept them going. Considering all the spite and envy he'd experienced on this island, he was surprised he hadn't felt the need to avenge a lost friend so far. Lack of opportunity, he supposed. Gervais had shot Drew, and he was dead. Myles had killed Declyn, and he was dead. Cam had killed Theo, and she... was self-defense. Not revenge. He didn't feel like avenging Cam. The closest thing he'd gotten to revenge had been with Lorenzo's corpse just earlier, and it felt empty immediately after.
In short, there was no one left for Diego to take revenge on. Not that he'd mention it to her. It felt like gloating, even if the joy in it was non-existent.
After thinking over her answer for a moment, Diego nodded. He decided.
"Alright. I... get that, yeah," even if he didn't get it at all.
His heart started to beat faster. Her entering the bedroom meant she accepted his company for the moment. This would be more than that. He wanted more than that.
"And, I can help you with that. Two brains are better than one. And, I think whatever we have"—he gestured towards all the weapons they had with them—"is more than what they can handle."
And, once they were done with them, he would leave. He didn't want to be around to see when more wasn't enough. Ripping off Band-aids and all. He was getting ahead of himself.
He gripped his wrist.
"You up for that?"
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
Well, that was sudden and unexpected.
So Larrosa wanted to form a temporary alliance with her, ostensibly to help her kill d'Aramitz. Marceline couldn't help but wonder what exactly his agenda was behind his proposal. It didn't seem like he had any reason to go after d'Aramitz himself, judging by the way he spoke of them with seemingly casual indifference. Rather, his interest seemed to lie with just being beside Marceline, but that called into question why he was being so awfully quick to trust someone he basically just met and didn't really know all that well. Was this some kind of bizarre long con on his part, or was he just that desperate for any kind of company?
Perhaps there were in reality no lurking, sinister intentions behind Larrosa's words. This place had made her awfully paranoid about the intentions of others, but she had to remember that the people around her were still just as human and broken and lonely as she was. Maybe he genuinely just wanted someone by his side, with no strings attached, all to make the burden of existence here a little easier to tolerate.
Beyond that, on a more pragmatic level, Larrosa's words rang true, and that made the offer quite tempting. Against their combined might, temperaments, and weaponry, it was doubtful that any one individual would stand a chance against them. More than that, having an extra set of eyes and ears to observe their surroundings and an extra pair of hands to fight with would be invaluable to her continued survival. As an ally, Larrosa could certainly be far more useful to her than Roxanne ever was, due to the latter's unwillingness or perhaps psychological inability to actually put her shotgun to any kind of real use.
"...Sure," she replied, after a long period of silent deliberation.
With that, the pact was sealed. She still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Larrosa yet, but what was the harm in accepting his companionship for now? If push came to shove and she decided she regretted it, there was nothing stopping her from simply leaving in the dead of night, perhaps with a few extra supplies in tow. She had plenty of time to arrive at a final decision. For now, she could have the boy elucidate the intentions behind his request, and hopefully help her deliberate on her future course of action.
"I have to ask, though," she began, quizzically tilting her head slightly to the right. "That seems like a really one-sided deal to me. What exactly are you getting out of it?"
So Larrosa wanted to form a temporary alliance with her, ostensibly to help her kill d'Aramitz. Marceline couldn't help but wonder what exactly his agenda was behind his proposal. It didn't seem like he had any reason to go after d'Aramitz himself, judging by the way he spoke of them with seemingly casual indifference. Rather, his interest seemed to lie with just being beside Marceline, but that called into question why he was being so awfully quick to trust someone he basically just met and didn't really know all that well. Was this some kind of bizarre long con on his part, or was he just that desperate for any kind of company?
Perhaps there were in reality no lurking, sinister intentions behind Larrosa's words. This place had made her awfully paranoid about the intentions of others, but she had to remember that the people around her were still just as human and broken and lonely as she was. Maybe he genuinely just wanted someone by his side, with no strings attached, all to make the burden of existence here a little easier to tolerate.
Beyond that, on a more pragmatic level, Larrosa's words rang true, and that made the offer quite tempting. Against their combined might, temperaments, and weaponry, it was doubtful that any one individual would stand a chance against them. More than that, having an extra set of eyes and ears to observe their surroundings and an extra pair of hands to fight with would be invaluable to her continued survival. As an ally, Larrosa could certainly be far more useful to her than Roxanne ever was, due to the latter's unwillingness or perhaps psychological inability to actually put her shotgun to any kind of real use.
"...Sure," she replied, after a long period of silent deliberation.
With that, the pact was sealed. She still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Larrosa yet, but what was the harm in accepting his companionship for now? If push came to shove and she decided she regretted it, there was nothing stopping her from simply leaving in the dead of night, perhaps with a few extra supplies in tow. She had plenty of time to arrive at a final decision. For now, she could have the boy elucidate the intentions behind his request, and hopefully help her deliberate on her future course of action.
"I have to ask, though," she began, quizzically tilting her head slightly to the right. "That seems like a really one-sided deal to me. What exactly are you getting out of it?"
Company.
"Numbers.
"Their name's shown up an awful lot on the announcements, don't you think? Yet no mention of any allies, no team kills. Two brains are better than one, like I said. We corner them when they're sleeping, and they have to sleep eventually, and they're gone. One of the biggest players on this island done with. Less competition for you and me."
Never mind the fact that they were competition to one another. That wasn't a bridge they'd arrived at yet. A bridge they'd hopefully never arrive at together, to be honest. He'd leave when he would. He promised.
"Simpler said than done, obviously. But, you see what I'm getting at here, right?"
The words Diego had just said came out too smoothly, too rehearsed, the spiel he'd just said sickly familiar. He wondered for a moment if he should directly bring up Lorenzo or not, how he'd witnessed the boy almost outmaneuvered by a group of three. He decided against. That was the one good thing about having no living allies, though the fact that there were any positives to be taken from that fact made him want to throw up. He had a fresh start. Old shames could stay buried or torn apart beyond recognition in the past, where they belonged.
"Numbers are mutually beneficial to you and me. We'd have one another to watch our backs, multiple pairs of eyes, multiple weapons, and so on."
He felt that he should have said more, felt compelled to fill in the silence. There was some old anecdote that came to mind about a priest overpreaching, about how the donations went from 1 to 10 to 20 bucks to nothing. The words would stand on their own. He'd done this before, anyways. His life had been much more at risk then. He'd seen much less back then, had been through less. Knew less. The stakes were lesser here, now.
He gripped his wrist regardless, his heart beat fast regardless.
"Numbers.
"Their name's shown up an awful lot on the announcements, don't you think? Yet no mention of any allies, no team kills. Two brains are better than one, like I said. We corner them when they're sleeping, and they have to sleep eventually, and they're gone. One of the biggest players on this island done with. Less competition for you and me."
Never mind the fact that they were competition to one another. That wasn't a bridge they'd arrived at yet. A bridge they'd hopefully never arrive at together, to be honest. He'd leave when he would. He promised.
"Simpler said than done, obviously. But, you see what I'm getting at here, right?"
The words Diego had just said came out too smoothly, too rehearsed, the spiel he'd just said sickly familiar. He wondered for a moment if he should directly bring up Lorenzo or not, how he'd witnessed the boy almost outmaneuvered by a group of three. He decided against. That was the one good thing about having no living allies, though the fact that there were any positives to be taken from that fact made him want to throw up. He had a fresh start. Old shames could stay buried or torn apart beyond recognition in the past, where they belonged.
"Numbers are mutually beneficial to you and me. We'd have one another to watch our backs, multiple pairs of eyes, multiple weapons, and so on."
He felt that he should have said more, felt compelled to fill in the silence. There was some old anecdote that came to mind about a priest overpreaching, about how the donations went from 1 to 10 to 20 bucks to nothing. The words would stand on their own. He'd done this before, anyways. His life had been much more at risk then. He'd seen much less back then, had been through less. Knew less. The stakes were lesser here, now.
He gripped his wrist regardless, his heart beat fast regardless.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
Marceline absentmindedly stared at her hands as she listened, running one of her index fingers down the length of her sweatpants, wincing slightly at the texture of Amelia's long-dried blood. When he finished talking, she turned her attention back to him and gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement.
"Alright, fair enough."
Assuming Larrosa's words about his own intentions could be trusted, then she could support a purely pragmatic—and likely somewhat uneasy—alliance. The terms were favorable for her too, he seemed to be set on the idea of specifically helping her kill d'Aramitz, and if he wanted to believe that was her main priority, then she would allow him to think that. She did appreciate it of course, she had wanted d'Aramitz dead for a long time, but the far more tantalizing aspect of an alliance was the fact that having someone by her side would be a boon to her chances of making it to the end. Should she manage to survive this ordeal and keep her promise, then her side goal of ensuring d'Aramitz's death would come naturally as a part of that.
That being said, while he was right that they were stronger together than apart, his proposed strategy wasn't the best. She had already spent plenty of time actively looking for d'Aramitz—among the many other killers—and trekking around the island with Roxanne, speeding up the disappearance of their rapidly dwindling rations. All that energy wasted for what amounted to absolutely nothing in the end, not to mention just how risky it had been to be out in the open like they were. Moving about, actively searching, would obviously get them nowhere. Indeed, it was only when the duo had finally grown too tired to continue and opted to stay in one place did they finally encounter one of the people they had been looking for.
With that in mind-
"I don't see any reason we should go anywhere else, though."
Staying put would be a far better alternative to Larrosa's plan, for numerous reasons. For one, the manor was much easier to defend than most places on the island, due to its aged, noisy infrastructure and numerous corners and choke points, while also being much more suitable to her weaponry than the outdoors. For two, the active space that they were all allowed to move in was being steadily and systematically cut off in what she believed to be a predictable pattern. She had taken note of it that morning after the announcements, but the terrorists seemed to be cutting off areas in order of lowest elevation to highest. The manor was at the pinnacle of the island, so if she was correct, then that would mean that everyone else would be forced to come to them, giving them plenty of opportunity to pick them off, if need be.
For three-
"Blaise hasn't really struck me as the type to stay in one spot," she continued. "From what little I've been able to gather, they seem to roam around a lot. They were long gone by the time I caught up to Dolly and she-" Marceline's voice wavered "-died in my arms. They killed Alex, another member of my band, later that same day, probably far away from where everything with Dolly went down."
She rolled her neck a bit, doing her best to keep her breathing steady. Every time she reminded herself of the fact that half of her band and her girlfriend were dead, she felt the grief all over again. The initial shock might have worn off ages ago, and she might have long-since hardened herself to the horrors of this place through her own actions, but in a way it still didn't feel real to her that people she had known for so long were just gone. Even Amelia, whom Marceline had murdered with her own two hands, still lived on within her head. It made her wonder if, should she leave this place, would it ever manage to feel real to her? Or would she just spend the rest of her life in the same kind of haze, never able to mentally leave this place behind?
She blinked, before shaking her head to clear her thoughts, returning mentally to the conversation at hand, and refocusing her attention on the person in front of her, rather than those she had lost. "This house seems easy to defend, especially between the two of us, so I think it would be better to let them come to us. It would help keep the both of us safe in the meantime, too."
"Alright, fair enough."
Assuming Larrosa's words about his own intentions could be trusted, then she could support a purely pragmatic—and likely somewhat uneasy—alliance. The terms were favorable for her too, he seemed to be set on the idea of specifically helping her kill d'Aramitz, and if he wanted to believe that was her main priority, then she would allow him to think that. She did appreciate it of course, she had wanted d'Aramitz dead for a long time, but the far more tantalizing aspect of an alliance was the fact that having someone by her side would be a boon to her chances of making it to the end. Should she manage to survive this ordeal and keep her promise, then her side goal of ensuring d'Aramitz's death would come naturally as a part of that.
That being said, while he was right that they were stronger together than apart, his proposed strategy wasn't the best. She had already spent plenty of time actively looking for d'Aramitz—among the many other killers—and trekking around the island with Roxanne, speeding up the disappearance of their rapidly dwindling rations. All that energy wasted for what amounted to absolutely nothing in the end, not to mention just how risky it had been to be out in the open like they were. Moving about, actively searching, would obviously get them nowhere. Indeed, it was only when the duo had finally grown too tired to continue and opted to stay in one place did they finally encounter one of the people they had been looking for.
With that in mind-
"I don't see any reason we should go anywhere else, though."
Staying put would be a far better alternative to Larrosa's plan, for numerous reasons. For one, the manor was much easier to defend than most places on the island, due to its aged, noisy infrastructure and numerous corners and choke points, while also being much more suitable to her weaponry than the outdoors. For two, the active space that they were all allowed to move in was being steadily and systematically cut off in what she believed to be a predictable pattern. She had taken note of it that morning after the announcements, but the terrorists seemed to be cutting off areas in order of lowest elevation to highest. The manor was at the pinnacle of the island, so if she was correct, then that would mean that everyone else would be forced to come to them, giving them plenty of opportunity to pick them off, if need be.
For three-
"Blaise hasn't really struck me as the type to stay in one spot," she continued. "From what little I've been able to gather, they seem to roam around a lot. They were long gone by the time I caught up to Dolly and she-" Marceline's voice wavered "-died in my arms. They killed Alex, another member of my band, later that same day, probably far away from where everything with Dolly went down."
She rolled her neck a bit, doing her best to keep her breathing steady. Every time she reminded herself of the fact that half of her band and her girlfriend were dead, she felt the grief all over again. The initial shock might have worn off ages ago, and she might have long-since hardened herself to the horrors of this place through her own actions, but in a way it still didn't feel real to her that people she had known for so long were just gone. Even Amelia, whom Marceline had murdered with her own two hands, still lived on within her head. It made her wonder if, should she leave this place, would it ever manage to feel real to her? Or would she just spend the rest of her life in the same kind of haze, never able to mentally leave this place behind?
She blinked, before shaking her head to clear her thoughts, returning mentally to the conversation at hand, and refocusing her attention on the person in front of her, rather than those she had lost. "This house seems easy to defend, especially between the two of us, so I think it would be better to let them come to us. It would help keep the both of us safe in the meantime, too."
Diego nodded passively while Marceline recounted the sins Blaise had exacted on her: the sins Marceline wished to avenge. It hurt her to speak about her dead loved ones. Her voice was uncertain. She stared into the distance for a bit, before returning to this world, abruptly changing the topic. She still seemed somewhat lost as she talked to him about logistics. And, that's all it was to him: things happening to other people, pain other people were feeling. He didn't want to take on other people's pain, that was true. But, he didn't know if this passivity he was experiencing was voluntary or not, if eleven days on this island had been enough to completely erode his sense of empathy or not.
For a moment, he made an attempt at empathy, just to see if he could. A mental experiment. What if he were recounting his own traumas to Marceline? Would he want her to feel bad for him? He thought he would have answered yes at first, but the idea of her feeling bad for him made him feel vulnerable, stripped bare, it made him squirm in his own skin, and so the experiment ended just like that.
He nodded when she finished speaking, replied "Sounds good."
The plan made sense. She obviously knew them better than he did, even if she didn't seem to know them all that well, and the prospect of getting to rest indoors, on an actual bed for the first time on this island, it felt way too tempting to pass up, really.
He would have to pass it up for the first night, though. Everyone was most vulnerable in their sleep. If she had any malice in mind, night would be when she'd take her opportunity.
But, for the meantime, they passed the time by, watched as the sunlight shifted from orange to red to nothing. The darkness felt oddly comfortable that night. Diego set himself up on top of the bed (he'd found the room first, he felt he was in the right to claim that first), Marcy leaned herself against the dresser. They did their own things most of the time. Marcy messed with her chopped-off hair, Diego messed with the scar on his palm. Marcy played catch with her knife, and then her pencil, once she caught the knife blade-first, Diego disinfected and redressed the wounds on his face, shoulder, and arm. He used a small, pink compact mirror to examine his face, smudged it red with his fingers. Cam wouldn't have appreciated that, probably, she liked taking care of her belongings, but she wasn't here anymore so it didn't matter. When that was done with, when he no longer risked gangrene, he stared off into space, letting his brain go wherever. It too often went places he didn't like it going. it was one of the worst parts of being alone, having no one to talk with.
But he had someone now.
Marceline initiated the conversations most of the time, actually. Diego asked questions of his own accord once or twice. That was good for him, that was a bit more than he'd ever done back at school. They'd talk about books they'd read back home, books they'd been looking forward to. It was a safe enough topic. Startlingly mundane, though. Part of him felt he didn't have the right to have a normal conversation about normal things in this normal day, after everything he'd done, after what he'd just done a couple hours ago. But, he'd sought this out, he'd wanted it. He did not just have to lean into extreme violence and sadism. He also had to learn how to lean into selfishness, even for the smallest of things. He wanted a little normality. He deserved a little normality. And he would take it.
The conversations more often than not would trail off with 'Cool,' 'Oh that's nice,' and then they'd start back up again after minutes of silence, an ebbing and flowing of words. As the night deepened, the spaces between their words, the rests between beats lengthened.
Eventually, Diego brought up the idea of taking watch. Marcy volunteered to take watch first, thankfully. Diego volunteering to take watch second would be a second display of selfishness, and it would be risky for their alliance, if it was genuine.
And if it wasn't, he'd find out soon enough anyways.
Diego let himself lie down on the bed fully, once they'd had the discussion on taking watch. The dusty, mildewed bed cover made the bare skin on his back itch, but the mattress beneath him was incredibly soft. It felt like lying on clouds. He'd slept on the floor, the dirt all the other nights. He would never take a bed for granted again.
He wrapped the blanket around his torso. For the first time since the pier, five days or so ago, he had something covering his body. He wasn't exposed. The stagnant night air was sweltering, sweat drops started forming all over his skin soon enough, but it felt comforting too, in its own way. He felt safer.
Too much comfort was forbidden, of course. Marceline could just be very patient. She'd have all the time tonight, if she wanted to rob him, kill him. He still had the bag, grenade launcher, and gun with him in the bed. He let the same old company dig their blunt edges into his ribs, deal him more bruises. Their way of keeping him awake, alert, their way of watching out for him.
And, he listened. He let his eyes close, of course. He hadn't had a good night's rest in two days, his eyelids had been starting to feel heavy during the latter part of their conversations. But he listened. The dresser would make a creaking sound occasionally, probably Marceline shifting her weight against it. There would be periodic shuffling against the wooden floor. All on Marceline's side of the room though. It never approached him, lingered near him.
All of this happened occasionally. In between, Diego let himself savor the softness of the mattress, the feeling of fabric around his body. He let himself sink deeper into the bed. The grenade launcher would keep him awake, he told himself. He was allowed a little luxury. He just had to stay vigilant. He had to stay alert. He would get to sleep some other time, it was just this night he had to keep watch. His hip made a little depression in the mattress. He had to be careful. The pillow felt so good too. He had to stay awake. God, it was comfortable. He had to...
A light snoring emanated from Diego's side of the room, eventually.
For a moment, he made an attempt at empathy, just to see if he could. A mental experiment. What if he were recounting his own traumas to Marceline? Would he want her to feel bad for him? He thought he would have answered yes at first, but the idea of her feeling bad for him made him feel vulnerable, stripped bare, it made him squirm in his own skin, and so the experiment ended just like that.
He nodded when she finished speaking, replied "Sounds good."
The plan made sense. She obviously knew them better than he did, even if she didn't seem to know them all that well, and the prospect of getting to rest indoors, on an actual bed for the first time on this island, it felt way too tempting to pass up, really.
He would have to pass it up for the first night, though. Everyone was most vulnerable in their sleep. If she had any malice in mind, night would be when she'd take her opportunity.
But, for the meantime, they passed the time by, watched as the sunlight shifted from orange to red to nothing. The darkness felt oddly comfortable that night. Diego set himself up on top of the bed (he'd found the room first, he felt he was in the right to claim that first), Marcy leaned herself against the dresser. They did their own things most of the time. Marcy messed with her chopped-off hair, Diego messed with the scar on his palm. Marcy played catch with her knife, and then her pencil, once she caught the knife blade-first, Diego disinfected and redressed the wounds on his face, shoulder, and arm. He used a small, pink compact mirror to examine his face, smudged it red with his fingers. Cam wouldn't have appreciated that, probably, she liked taking care of her belongings, but she wasn't here anymore so it didn't matter. When that was done with, when he no longer risked gangrene, he stared off into space, letting his brain go wherever. It too often went places he didn't like it going. it was one of the worst parts of being alone, having no one to talk with.
But he had someone now.
Marceline initiated the conversations most of the time, actually. Diego asked questions of his own accord once or twice. That was good for him, that was a bit more than he'd ever done back at school. They'd talk about books they'd read back home, books they'd been looking forward to. It was a safe enough topic. Startlingly mundane, though. Part of him felt he didn't have the right to have a normal conversation about normal things in this normal day, after everything he'd done, after what he'd just done a couple hours ago. But, he'd sought this out, he'd wanted it. He did not just have to lean into extreme violence and sadism. He also had to learn how to lean into selfishness, even for the smallest of things. He wanted a little normality. He deserved a little normality. And he would take it.
The conversations more often than not would trail off with 'Cool,' 'Oh that's nice,' and then they'd start back up again after minutes of silence, an ebbing and flowing of words. As the night deepened, the spaces between their words, the rests between beats lengthened.
Eventually, Diego brought up the idea of taking watch. Marcy volunteered to take watch first, thankfully. Diego volunteering to take watch second would be a second display of selfishness, and it would be risky for their alliance, if it was genuine.
And if it wasn't, he'd find out soon enough anyways.
Diego let himself lie down on the bed fully, once they'd had the discussion on taking watch. The dusty, mildewed bed cover made the bare skin on his back itch, but the mattress beneath him was incredibly soft. It felt like lying on clouds. He'd slept on the floor, the dirt all the other nights. He would never take a bed for granted again.
He wrapped the blanket around his torso. For the first time since the pier, five days or so ago, he had something covering his body. He wasn't exposed. The stagnant night air was sweltering, sweat drops started forming all over his skin soon enough, but it felt comforting too, in its own way. He felt safer.
Too much comfort was forbidden, of course. Marceline could just be very patient. She'd have all the time tonight, if she wanted to rob him, kill him. He still had the bag, grenade launcher, and gun with him in the bed. He let the same old company dig their blunt edges into his ribs, deal him more bruises. Their way of keeping him awake, alert, their way of watching out for him.
And, he listened. He let his eyes close, of course. He hadn't had a good night's rest in two days, his eyelids had been starting to feel heavy during the latter part of their conversations. But he listened. The dresser would make a creaking sound occasionally, probably Marceline shifting her weight against it. There would be periodic shuffling against the wooden floor. All on Marceline's side of the room though. It never approached him, lingered near him.
All of this happened occasionally. In between, Diego let himself savor the softness of the mattress, the feeling of fabric around his body. He let himself sink deeper into the bed. The grenade launcher would keep him awake, he told himself. He was allowed a little luxury. He just had to stay vigilant. He had to stay alert. He would get to sleep some other time, it was just this night he had to keep watch. His hip made a little depression in the mattress. He had to be careful. The pillow felt so good too. He had to stay awake. God, it was comfortable. He had to...
A light snoring emanated from Diego's side of the room, eventually.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
The small amount of conversation that Marceline had managed to squeeze out of Larrosa was refreshing. It was completely banal small talk about their one shared interest, of course, but at least the words shared between them didn't need to carry with them the immense burden of the death of mutual friends. It was a nice contrast from before, as most of her attempts to converse with Roxanne during their time together had been colored by Alex and Beryl being oh-so-freshly gone. With their spirits haunting the two of them, trying to talk about any topic felt disingenuous at best and almost disrespectful to their memory at worst.
Thankfully, talking with Larrosa didn't have that problem. The two of them barely knew each other, so they were unfettered by the burdens of George Hunter and all the drama therein. They could exist and interact as equals in this place, two utterly broken murderers, talking about what they would have liked to read, were they not stuck here. The conversation had reminded her that she had brought a book with her on the trip, specifically Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer, but unfortunately that had been taken from her belongings by the terrorists. It hardly registered in the face of everything else that they had stolen from her, but having it would have made the dragging, seemingly endless days much more tolerable. She was bored enough of the endless misery at this point that she would be happy to have even a math textbook to read.
Larrosa had ostensibly gone to bed, though she doubted that he had actually fallen asleep. She wouldn't have allowed herself to fall unconscious in his presence so soon after becoming properly acquainted, so she would expect the same of him. He was likely pretending to sleep, trying to see if she would betray him, and given what she had done up to this point, he was absolutely right not to trust her.
She absentmindedly flexed her fingers in the dark, wincing a little in response to the slight pain in her left hand. Playing catch with the knife to sate her boredom had been a bad idea in hindsight. As her father often said to her many times throughout her life, play stupid games, win stupid prizes. At least the cut across her palm had been fairly minor, only requiring a bit of antiseptic and one of the basic adhesive bandages to deal with. All it would be in the end was a minor annoyance.
Although, it did make Marceline wonder if Amelia had possessed some kind of bloodborne illness that she hadn't know about. The knife may have previously been washed in the waterfall's river and wiped off, but it hadn't exactly been sanitized, so had Amelia had some kind of virus, that would mean Marceline likely had it now, too. She did doubt that this vague concern would actually wind up being an issue, but she also supposed that it would serve her right as a sort of ironic karmic retribution for what she did, if it was indeed the case.
Marceline's thoughts were interrupted by the quiet sound of snoring coming from Larrosa's end of the room. She sat up from where she was leaning against the dresser and turned her head to face the noise, despite the fact that she was unable to actually make out either Larrosa or the bed in the darkness. Had he actually fallen asleep?
She stood up, moved nearer to the bed, deliberately making noise as she did so, listening closely all the while. She didn't hear the boy shift in the bed, or hear his breathing change even the slightest bit. He wasn't faking it, he was actually asleep. Did that mean he trusted her?
She could rob him, or kill him. It would be easy, and far more justifiable than either of her other murders in terms of the benefits to her own survival. By his own admission, Larrosa was clearly willing to kill in order to survive, which could only mean that he wanted to win, either actively or through gradual attrition. He was competition in a way that Amelia and Nick were nowhere close to being, and should Larrosa survive in her company long term, he would likely become a major threat to her life. If she were to kill him now, and take all of his stuff, then he would never be able to get in her way.
But...
He had fallen asleep in her presence, so that must mean he—probably mistakenly—trusted her enough that he would be unlikely to want to kill her, later. She supposed it could be some kind of strange ploy on his part to make her let her guard down, but no rational person would take a gamble that risky for such little payoff. As it stood, Larrosa—Diego—wasn't yet a threat to her, and given his demonstration of trust, he was definitely more useful to her alive than dead. There was safety and strength afforded by numbers, and it was unlikely she would find anyone else left like him.
Beyond that, more than anything, she felt so very, very lonely, and Diego's presence could help alleviate that, for a time.
She shook her head and turned away from the sleeping boy, moving back over to the dresser to retrieve her flashlight out of her bag. She was going to take the initiative and patrol the manor, to make sure that anyone hadn't quietly made their way in and stowed themselves away during the waning hours of the afternoon. She flicked the flashlight on and exited the room, pistol in hand, before making her way down the steps, each one creaking under her weight. She scanned the environment, going from room to room and hallway to hallway not unlike she had when she had initially entered.
Dust glinted in the flashlight beam as it went from floor to wall to ceiling, room to hallway to room. The manor looked surprisingly different in the dark, but it seemed that everything therein had been left undisturbed since she last saw it all. It was only when she arrived in the room that held Mortimer's corpse that she noticed anything different, the flashlight beam catching a dark metallic glint poking out from behind one of the chairs. She proceeded towards it immediately to investigate, only to find a shotgun and a duffel bag, laying there on the wooden floor undisturbed.
Had that been there before?
She crouched down to examine them, running her index finger along the length of the shotgun's barrel, coming away with a minute but noticeable layer of dust. These clearly hadn't been left here by a new arrival, these must have been there for at least a day, maybe two. Which could only mean that she had completely overlooked them when she came in originally. A perfectly good gun, sitting here, ripe for the taking, and she had completely missed it.
This was the kind of weapon that she had been so desperately seeking before, one that she rightfully believed to be vital for her to have any chance of survival. She had backstabbed both Roxanne and Amelia back to back, all for the chance to have one of these, because she hadn't thought there was any other way. Yet, here this one was, completely free for the taking. Had there been other guns just sitting there that she hadn't noticed before? Did that mean that, had she just been paying a bit more attention, all the hurt she had caused to two of her dearest friends could have been avoided?
She began to tremble at the thought, choosing instead to push it out of her mind. She just found a free gun that would further improve her chances of keeping her promise, especially since she was much more used to firing long guns rather than handguns like her pistol. That was what she would focus on, instead.
Pocketing her pistol, she hoisted the new bag over her shoulder, before delicately picking up the shotgun with her newly freed hand. Perhaps it would be best to end her patrol here. She had covered most of the first floor already and had found something of importance, so she saw no reason to continue. Should anyone else be in here, the creaky floorboards would likely reveal them far more effectively than she could with a flashlight.
Heading back up the stairs and into the master bedroom, Marceline sat back down next to the dresser, positioning the new bag behind her back to let her recline slightly more comfortably. She held the shotgun close to her chest, feeling the cool metal and plastic in her hands, as Diego continued to snore, undisturbed.
Some time passed as she leaned back against the bag and the dresser, her eyelids beginning to grow heavy as she remained there in the dark. She had no intention of falling asleep. Diego had allowed himself to make the mistake of trusting her, and she wouldn't let herself make the same blunder in turn. She still couldn't afford to trust him, after all. All it would take was one minor error for it to all be over, and she couldn't let that happen. She had a promise to keep.
Despite that, Marceline could not resist the call of the void forever. After some time passed, she found herself drifting off once again, in spite of her best efforts.
Thankfully, talking with Larrosa didn't have that problem. The two of them barely knew each other, so they were unfettered by the burdens of George Hunter and all the drama therein. They could exist and interact as equals in this place, two utterly broken murderers, talking about what they would have liked to read, were they not stuck here. The conversation had reminded her that she had brought a book with her on the trip, specifically Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer, but unfortunately that had been taken from her belongings by the terrorists. It hardly registered in the face of everything else that they had stolen from her, but having it would have made the dragging, seemingly endless days much more tolerable. She was bored enough of the endless misery at this point that she would be happy to have even a math textbook to read.
Larrosa had ostensibly gone to bed, though she doubted that he had actually fallen asleep. She wouldn't have allowed herself to fall unconscious in his presence so soon after becoming properly acquainted, so she would expect the same of him. He was likely pretending to sleep, trying to see if she would betray him, and given what she had done up to this point, he was absolutely right not to trust her.
She absentmindedly flexed her fingers in the dark, wincing a little in response to the slight pain in her left hand. Playing catch with the knife to sate her boredom had been a bad idea in hindsight. As her father often said to her many times throughout her life, play stupid games, win stupid prizes. At least the cut across her palm had been fairly minor, only requiring a bit of antiseptic and one of the basic adhesive bandages to deal with. All it would be in the end was a minor annoyance.
Although, it did make Marceline wonder if Amelia had possessed some kind of bloodborne illness that she hadn't know about. The knife may have previously been washed in the waterfall's river and wiped off, but it hadn't exactly been sanitized, so had Amelia had some kind of virus, that would mean Marceline likely had it now, too. She did doubt that this vague concern would actually wind up being an issue, but she also supposed that it would serve her right as a sort of ironic karmic retribution for what she did, if it was indeed the case.
Marceline's thoughts were interrupted by the quiet sound of snoring coming from Larrosa's end of the room. She sat up from where she was leaning against the dresser and turned her head to face the noise, despite the fact that she was unable to actually make out either Larrosa or the bed in the darkness. Had he actually fallen asleep?
She stood up, moved nearer to the bed, deliberately making noise as she did so, listening closely all the while. She didn't hear the boy shift in the bed, or hear his breathing change even the slightest bit. He wasn't faking it, he was actually asleep. Did that mean he trusted her?
She could rob him, or kill him. It would be easy, and far more justifiable than either of her other murders in terms of the benefits to her own survival. By his own admission, Larrosa was clearly willing to kill in order to survive, which could only mean that he wanted to win, either actively or through gradual attrition. He was competition in a way that Amelia and Nick were nowhere close to being, and should Larrosa survive in her company long term, he would likely become a major threat to her life. If she were to kill him now, and take all of his stuff, then he would never be able to get in her way.
But...
He had fallen asleep in her presence, so that must mean he—probably mistakenly—trusted her enough that he would be unlikely to want to kill her, later. She supposed it could be some kind of strange ploy on his part to make her let her guard down, but no rational person would take a gamble that risky for such little payoff. As it stood, Larrosa—Diego—wasn't yet a threat to her, and given his demonstration of trust, he was definitely more useful to her alive than dead. There was safety and strength afforded by numbers, and it was unlikely she would find anyone else left like him.
Beyond that, more than anything, she felt so very, very lonely, and Diego's presence could help alleviate that, for a time.
She shook her head and turned away from the sleeping boy, moving back over to the dresser to retrieve her flashlight out of her bag. She was going to take the initiative and patrol the manor, to make sure that anyone hadn't quietly made their way in and stowed themselves away during the waning hours of the afternoon. She flicked the flashlight on and exited the room, pistol in hand, before making her way down the steps, each one creaking under her weight. She scanned the environment, going from room to room and hallway to hallway not unlike she had when she had initially entered.
Dust glinted in the flashlight beam as it went from floor to wall to ceiling, room to hallway to room. The manor looked surprisingly different in the dark, but it seemed that everything therein had been left undisturbed since she last saw it all. It was only when she arrived in the room that held Mortimer's corpse that she noticed anything different, the flashlight beam catching a dark metallic glint poking out from behind one of the chairs. She proceeded towards it immediately to investigate, only to find a shotgun and a duffel bag, laying there on the wooden floor undisturbed.
Had that been there before?
She crouched down to examine them, running her index finger along the length of the shotgun's barrel, coming away with a minute but noticeable layer of dust. These clearly hadn't been left here by a new arrival, these must have been there for at least a day, maybe two. Which could only mean that she had completely overlooked them when she came in originally. A perfectly good gun, sitting here, ripe for the taking, and she had completely missed it.
This was the kind of weapon that she had been so desperately seeking before, one that she rightfully believed to be vital for her to have any chance of survival. She had backstabbed both Roxanne and Amelia back to back, all for the chance to have one of these, because she hadn't thought there was any other way. Yet, here this one was, completely free for the taking. Had there been other guns just sitting there that she hadn't noticed before? Did that mean that, had she just been paying a bit more attention, all the hurt she had caused to two of her dearest friends could have been avoided?
She began to tremble at the thought, choosing instead to push it out of her mind. She just found a free gun that would further improve her chances of keeping her promise, especially since she was much more used to firing long guns rather than handguns like her pistol. That was what she would focus on, instead.
Pocketing her pistol, she hoisted the new bag over her shoulder, before delicately picking up the shotgun with her newly freed hand. Perhaps it would be best to end her patrol here. She had covered most of the first floor already and had found something of importance, so she saw no reason to continue. Should anyone else be in here, the creaky floorboards would likely reveal them far more effectively than she could with a flashlight.
Heading back up the stairs and into the master bedroom, Marceline sat back down next to the dresser, positioning the new bag behind her back to let her recline slightly more comfortably. She held the shotgun close to her chest, feeling the cool metal and plastic in her hands, as Diego continued to snore, undisturbed.
Some time passed as she leaned back against the bag and the dresser, her eyelids beginning to grow heavy as she remained there in the dark. She had no intention of falling asleep. Diego had allowed himself to make the mistake of trusting her, and she wouldn't let herself make the same blunder in turn. She still couldn't afford to trust him, after all. All it would take was one minor error for it to all be over, and she couldn't let that happen. She had a promise to keep.
Despite that, Marceline could not resist the call of the void forever. After some time passed, she found herself drifting off once again, in spite of her best efforts.
Daylight.
"Fuck"—his arms were stuck what the fuck—"shit"—god why was it so hard to move?—"shit"—wait did Marcy tie him up?—"fuck, fuck"—he fucking knew this would happen fucking knew it—"shit shit shit shit shit shit shit"—wait no his arms were just in the blanket get it off get it off—"FUCK."
Diego's chest heaved up and down after he finally freed himself. He looked down at his bare body, untied arms. Okay, he wasn't tied up. He looked up. Marceline was across him, slumped against the dresser, eyes closed. He stared at her for several seconds. Her eyes were definitely closed, as opposed to force shut. She was breathing, he thought, naturally, the same pace of an ocean lapping against the coast. Asleep, alive.
Just to make sure, just to make extra sure this wasn't some ruse, he looked at the old company he'd had with him in his bed. The grenade launcher was still with him, as was the pistol. The bag's zipper was closed, as he'd left it, but it wouldn't hurt to check. It zipped open, the sound seemingly quieter now that dawn light began to enter the house. Rations complete, medical supplies complete, map and flashlight and all the other essentials complete as far as he could tell. At the bottom, he glimpsed the dull glimmer of the shovel blade, and promptly covered it back up with everything else. Everything was there.
Marceline hadn't robbed him while asleep. She had had all the time to do so last night, but she hadn't.
She'd stayed with him.
Diego cried into his hands for a little bit after that. It meant nothing. He didn't know why he was being sensitive about this, why he was letting himself get so affected. She could always rob or try to kill him any time. Later today. Tomorrow. The day after. This was temporary. He'd told himself it was temporary, it would always be temporary. God, he just needed to get over himself, get real.
He rubbed his eyes after, felt the puffiness. He looked back up, saw Marceline still asleep. It would've been embarrassing if she'd seen that, he thought for a moment, but why did he think that? He'd shown off much worse sides of himself to the cameras, to his friends. He'd cried in front of his friends several times already on the island.
It was irrational, sure. But acknowledging something was irrational was not the same as remedying it. The potential shame remained anyways.
He stayed staring at her. Was she awake yet?
"Fuck"—his arms were stuck what the fuck—"shit"—god why was it so hard to move?—"shit"—wait did Marcy tie him up?—"fuck, fuck"—he fucking knew this would happen fucking knew it—"shit shit shit shit shit shit shit"—wait no his arms were just in the blanket get it off get it off—"FUCK."
Diego's chest heaved up and down after he finally freed himself. He looked down at his bare body, untied arms. Okay, he wasn't tied up. He looked up. Marceline was across him, slumped against the dresser, eyes closed. He stared at her for several seconds. Her eyes were definitely closed, as opposed to force shut. She was breathing, he thought, naturally, the same pace of an ocean lapping against the coast. Asleep, alive.
Just to make sure, just to make extra sure this wasn't some ruse, he looked at the old company he'd had with him in his bed. The grenade launcher was still with him, as was the pistol. The bag's zipper was closed, as he'd left it, but it wouldn't hurt to check. It zipped open, the sound seemingly quieter now that dawn light began to enter the house. Rations complete, medical supplies complete, map and flashlight and all the other essentials complete as far as he could tell. At the bottom, he glimpsed the dull glimmer of the shovel blade, and promptly covered it back up with everything else. Everything was there.
Marceline hadn't robbed him while asleep. She had had all the time to do so last night, but she hadn't.
She'd stayed with him.
Diego cried into his hands for a little bit after that. It meant nothing. He didn't know why he was being sensitive about this, why he was letting himself get so affected. She could always rob or try to kill him any time. Later today. Tomorrow. The day after. This was temporary. He'd told himself it was temporary, it would always be temporary. God, he just needed to get over himself, get real.
He rubbed his eyes after, felt the puffiness. He looked back up, saw Marceline still asleep. It would've been embarrassing if she'd seen that, he thought for a moment, but why did he think that? He'd shown off much worse sides of himself to the cameras, to his friends. He'd cried in front of his friends several times already on the island.
It was irrational, sure. But acknowledging something was irrational was not the same as remedying it. The potential shame remained anyways.
He stayed staring at her. Was she awake yet?
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
???
The Rose-Haired Wanderer laid face down on burnt carpet along a rocky precipice, the sky above her filled with brilliant, twinkling stars, and the drop below falling directly into inky blackness that seemed to swallow up any light that dared enter it. Surrounding her were the broken and scorched remains of what appeared to be someone's bedroom, bits of torn curtains and demolished furniture lining the blackened carpet, the walls of the room having been reduced to ash. Only the frame—an outline of what used to be there—still remained.
She began to shift, her eyes opening, her arms pushing herself up as her head swiveled, surveying her surroundings. A large, gleaming knife appeared on the carpet next to her. She reached out, snatching it up off the ground, before beginning to push herself up to stand and patting down her soot-coated clothing. In front of where she stood, opposite the cliffs, a dense jungle stretched along the horizon, interrupted only by a lighthouse towering over everything else in the far distance, its ever-watchful eye standing vigil over the world below.
The Rose-Haired Wanderer turned to look behind where she stood, staring down and into the great abyssal maw at the bottom of the drop below. She gazed into it, unblinking, for an indeterminate amount of time, the expression on her face blank and unreadable. This came to an end when a voice rang out in the far distance, bearing the sound of the distinctive, contralto tones of the Sapphic Sweetheart.
"Marceline," the voice intoned. "This way."
The Wanderer turned to face the direction of the voice, staring into the dense jungle ahead, sparing passing glances at the ever-vigilant lighthouse. She licked at her chapped lips, before reaching to adjust her sweat-slick, black tank top, the fabric continuing to cling tightly to her skin. Without a word, she began marching forward through the jungle, towards the lighthouse. Then, seemingly as soon as she began her journey, she was already there, standing beneath it. It towered over her, the Wanderer appearing ant-like in comparison.
She swiveled her head to once again survey the environment she was in, suddenly now surrounded on all sides by nothing but sand and the endless ocean, waves gently lapping at the shore. She turned away from the impossibly large lighthouse, facing the dark waters and the milky brilliance of the starry sky above.
"Marceline," the voice intoned, once more, from under the sea. "This way."
The Wanderer nodded, marching off of the sandy beach and into the warm waters, her head sinking beneath the blackened waves. The rise and fall of her chest continued unperturbed as the darkness embraced her, the muffled sounds of her footsteps on the sea floor reverberating through the water. The stars were still visible, far above. Briefly, she stopped and craned her head up to gaze upon them, admiring their beauty, only to lower her head and be taken aback by the sudden appearance of the Star Child in front of her.
The Child's eyes were red and raw, and her smile sorrowful but sweet. The stars were all around them now, on all sides above and below, having replaced the crushing depths of the ocean floor. The Child's body blended with the starry visage, almost as if the shimmering, distant lights were a part of her, and she a part of them. She reached her arms out towards the Wanderer, love and warmth visible on her face, unclouded by her sorrow.
"Stay with me," she said.
The Wanderer stared at her silently, swallowing a mouthful of spit. She tried to continue her forward march, only to come to a stop as the Star Child remained in her way. She turned, trying to navigate around the Child, only to find that no matter how she twisted or where she walked, the Star Child remained directly in front of her.
"Stay with me, please," the Child pleaded, quietly.
The Rose-Haired Wanderer took a step back, drawing breaths much more quickly. She stared at the Star Child, a confounded look on her face, her eyes flicking between her and their surroundings, seemingly looking for a way out.
"This way, Marceline," the voice intoned, from behind the Star Child.
The Wanderer's fingers curled around the knife's hilt, still clutched tightly in her hand. She squeezed it hard, her knuckles turning white, before letting out a deep, exhausted sigh. Then, she took a step forward, her resolve unbroken.
"...in my way," she finally responded.
With a quick swipe from the Wanderer's blade, the Star Child's neck burst open, a tidal wave of red, glittering stardust spilling forth. With tears in her eyes, the Star Child silently faded into the starry sky, only for the distant lights to begin going out, one by one. Before long, they were all gone, burying the Wanderer in the inky black. She stood there in the dark as still as a statue, the only sound being her ragged breaths and the beating of her heart.
Suddenly, a light appeared in the distance, illuminating a small patch of rotting, wooden floor. With slight hesitation, the Rose-Haired Wanderer began to approach it, taking unsteady step after unsteady step forward, into the spotlight. In the light, it became apparent that her features had grown gnarled and gaunt, and her skin and clothes were coated in dried blood from tip to toe. From the dark in front of her, a Scottish Gentleman emerged, his considerable height causing him to tower over her. Although he did not attack her, the look in his eyes bore a considerable amount of barely concealed hatred.
Some distance behind him, another light appeared, illuminating another small patch of rotting, wooden floor. A distinctive shadow was cast along it, but the figure it originated from was concealed from the Wanderer's view, behind the Scottish Gentleman.
"This way," the voice intoned, once more.
This time, the Wanderer did not bother to try to go around. Instead, she raised the knife at the boy in front of her, the blade having transformed into a silver, dual barreled pistol.
"In my way," she repeated, more forcefully.
She squeezed the twin triggers twice, conjuring forth two thunderous roars. The Scottish Gentleman fell in response to the gunfire, tumbling backwards and disappearing into the abyssal darkness. Behind where he once stood, the figure of the Sapphic Sweetheart was situated underneath the second spotlight. A circle of red appeared on her clothes, before it began to rapidly expand. The girl's eyes began to drift closed, before she crumpled to the ground below.
The Wanderer's eyelids flew wide open as she let out a primal screech, tossing the gun away and sprinting forwards. Despite her best efforts, however, the space between them only seemed to grow, the Sweetheart's broken, bleeding body getting further and further away. The Wanderer screamed and cried and pleaded as she continued to run, arm outstretched and hand grasping, to no avail.
Then, both the lights went out, burying the Wanderer in darkness once again. A new voice could be heard in the distance, sounding of crackling speakers and bearing the cadence of pure malice.
"Marceline," the new voice intoned. "Marceline... why are you so mean?"
The blare of the announcements coming online caused Marceline to jar awake, her limbs flailing, the SPAS-12 flying out of her grasp and clattering onto the dusty wooden floor. Her breathing was rapid and panicked, her head swiveling, as she tried her best to reorient herself. She gripped her bag hard as she tried to steady her breathing, the fog of sudden awakening clouding her ability to properly think. Through the grogginess, she only dimly recognized that the announcements had begun to play, only realizing that she needed to get out her list when the voice of her tormentor—the only constant throughout her stay here—began to fill her ears.
Without acknowledging Diego's presence, she fumbled to get her pencil and list out from her bag before she missed anything, almost falling over as she violently yanked it out from behind her. Before too long she was crossing out names and adding new tallies next to others, the fog that she had been stuck in gradually clearing as the announcements played. She winced slightly in response to hearing her own name said aloud as Nick's killer, but did her best to power through and ignore it.
Roxanne's name still hadn't come up since their parting, something that brought Marceline both relief and discomfort in equal measure. While she was glad that her sole remaining friend was still alive, the rapidly dwindling student body combined with the rapidly shrinking space made a new encounter between them more and more likely, and she dreaded the thought. Just what would Roxanne say to her, if they saw each other again? What would she say to Roxanne, in kind? Would she have anything to say to begin with? Or would they wordlessly engage in a firefight, no longer considering the other anything more than an obstacle?
She stared at her list, contemplating the idea, taking note of the sheer number of tallies and names that had been crossed out. There couldn't be much more than twenty of them left alive at this point, right? Which could only mean that the coming days would likely be their last, for all but one of them. It was a harrowing thought, especially knowing that even if she played perfectly, her odds of being the sole survivor were still quite low. Would she be able to keep her promise?
If not, then how much time did she have left?
She didn't like thinking about that. Putting her list away and banishing the thought to somewhere within the recesses of her mind, she finally turned her attention to her new companion. Both of them had survived the night, which meant that they might as well be best friends, under the circumstances. Perhaps she should start treating him like one, for a time.
"I see you're awake," she began to say, her hand absentmindedly reaching up to paw at her key pendant. "Did you sleep well?"
"FUCK."
Diego scrambled away from Marceline, from the gun clanging towards him, bumping his shoulders against the headboard before he dove, pushing himself against the mattress, as low as possible. But there was no bang, no high-pitched ringing in his ears, so the gun hadn't gone off. Instead, there was that familiar voice crinkling in the air, listing off the names of the departed. He pushed himself up, raised his head to listen better.
Justin was still around, picking off names. The first person he'd killed yesterday, Sakurako, had been one of the people Diego had shot at on the lake. She probably would have been able to run away if it weren't for him. His nails dug into the bed for no more than a second.
Oh. And, just like that, his last remaining link to his first days on the island was severed. Stephanie was dead. Killed by Blaise, actually. Aside from Marceline, Justin, everyone he'd talked to before was dead now.
He should have felt more about it.
Actually, no, it was about right.
The fact that Stephanie was the last person he'd known felt like trivia to him. It was funny, in the odd sense, not the humorous sense, that some random girl he'd stayed with for two nights, his initial company in misery, had been the last of his world to go. Not anyone from the gardening club, not Ty, but her. Her name felt like some random holdover from some long-gone era, an artifact. The last time he'd seen her, he hadn't killed anyone by then. Aside from Chris, he hadn't lost anyone by then. And now, she was gone, along with everyone else.
Indifference was another step towards cruelty. It was progress.
The announcements confirmed that he would, indeed, never return to the lake, just as he'd wished, although water poured down all around them. And then the speakers silenced themselves. When all was said and done, the thirty of them had been dwindled down to twenty-two, if he counted correctly. Twenty-two was just as near and far from zero as thirty had been.
Marceline turned to him, asked him if he'd slept well.
He felt well-rested, actually.
He felt alive.
"Surprisingly, yeah."
He smiled at her for a moment.
His expression shifted to concern, his eyebrows scrunching a bit.
"You alright? You seemed a bit out of sorts just earlier."
Diego scrambled away from Marceline, from the gun clanging towards him, bumping his shoulders against the headboard before he dove, pushing himself against the mattress, as low as possible. But there was no bang, no high-pitched ringing in his ears, so the gun hadn't gone off. Instead, there was that familiar voice crinkling in the air, listing off the names of the departed. He pushed himself up, raised his head to listen better.
Justin was still around, picking off names. The first person he'd killed yesterday, Sakurako, had been one of the people Diego had shot at on the lake. She probably would have been able to run away if it weren't for him. His nails dug into the bed for no more than a second.
Oh. And, just like that, his last remaining link to his first days on the island was severed. Stephanie was dead. Killed by Blaise, actually. Aside from Marceline, Justin, everyone he'd talked to before was dead now.
He should have felt more about it.
Actually, no, it was about right.
The fact that Stephanie was the last person he'd known felt like trivia to him. It was funny, in the odd sense, not the humorous sense, that some random girl he'd stayed with for two nights, his initial company in misery, had been the last of his world to go. Not anyone from the gardening club, not Ty, but her. Her name felt like some random holdover from some long-gone era, an artifact. The last time he'd seen her, he hadn't killed anyone by then. Aside from Chris, he hadn't lost anyone by then. And now, she was gone, along with everyone else.
Indifference was another step towards cruelty. It was progress.
The announcements confirmed that he would, indeed, never return to the lake, just as he'd wished, although water poured down all around them. And then the speakers silenced themselves. When all was said and done, the thirty of them had been dwindled down to twenty-two, if he counted correctly. Twenty-two was just as near and far from zero as thirty had been.
Marceline turned to him, asked him if he'd slept well.
He felt well-rested, actually.
He felt alive.
"Surprisingly, yeah."
He smiled at her for a moment.
His expression shifted to concern, his eyebrows scrunching a bit.
"You alright? You seemed a bit out of sorts just earlier."
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
"You mean how I woke up?" Marceline responded, shifting to pick up the shotgun from where it had landed. "I have nightmares semi-regularly."
She leaned the shotgun up against the dresser, next to where she was sitting before hoisting herself up to a standing position. She had explained her consistent nightmares a fair few times before, though only ever to her friends and the occasional school counselor. Obviously Diego didn't know her well enough to know why she had jumped awake so abruptly in the same way that Roxanne or Dolly might've.
"It's been a constant for me, ever since I was young," she continued. "Sometimes it was every night, sometimes it was every other night, sometimes it was once a week."
She walked over to the outward facing window as she spoke, and began to gaze out of it, getting a full view of the gardens and the various leadership houses. She had turned her back to Diego in the process, but the way she saw it, that was hardly a problem. She had already allowed herself to accidentally fall asleep in his presence, after all, and left herself wide open in the process. If he was going to betray her, that would have been the ideal time for him to do so. With that in mind, it was only reasonable to assume that he had no malicious intentions for her, at least for the time being.
"But they were always with me."
She placed one hand on the windowsill, her index finger reflexively beginning to tap out a beat. It was a nervous tic that she had picked up from her drumming practice as a part of Beyond Human, one that hadn't had many opportunities to express itself up to this point, outside of all the time she had spent idling in the commissary with Roxanne.
"This place has only made them worse."
She hoped that last bit didn't need elaboration as to why.
She leaned the shotgun up against the dresser, next to where she was sitting before hoisting herself up to a standing position. She had explained her consistent nightmares a fair few times before, though only ever to her friends and the occasional school counselor. Obviously Diego didn't know her well enough to know why she had jumped awake so abruptly in the same way that Roxanne or Dolly might've.
"It's been a constant for me, ever since I was young," she continued. "Sometimes it was every night, sometimes it was every other night, sometimes it was once a week."
She walked over to the outward facing window as she spoke, and began to gaze out of it, getting a full view of the gardens and the various leadership houses. She had turned her back to Diego in the process, but the way she saw it, that was hardly a problem. She had already allowed herself to accidentally fall asleep in his presence, after all, and left herself wide open in the process. If he was going to betray her, that would have been the ideal time for him to do so. With that in mind, it was only reasonable to assume that he had no malicious intentions for her, at least for the time being.
"But they were always with me."
She placed one hand on the windowsill, her index finger reflexively beginning to tap out a beat. It was a nervous tic that she had picked up from her drumming practice as a part of Beyond Human, one that hadn't had many opportunities to express itself up to this point, outside of all the time she had spent idling in the commissary with Roxanne.
"This place has only made them worse."
She hoped that last bit didn't need elaboration as to why.