He sang. He used clickity-clack noises from the pistol for instrumentation, as he had the night before last at the commissary.
"The Earth, the Earth the Earth is on fire!
We don't have no daughter
Let the motherfucker burn!"
He danced to the beat, still wearing his white cultist robe.
"We are hungry, we are all tired.
Our tongues they are all on fire.
The walls that we build are higher, higher, higher, higher.
"Strange days lead to strange nights,
You aren't afraid of the dark dark dark dark,
When it's where you walk walk walk walk,
When it's where you learn to talk.
"Every day the sky gets lower, lower, lower, lower;
And every day the tide is blacker, blacker, blacker;
And every day the flames get higher, higher, higher.
Yeah, every day the flames get higher, higher, higher!
"The Earth, the Earth the Earth is on fire!
We don't have no daughter,
Let the motherfucker burn!
The Earth, the Earth the Earth is on fire!
If we cut off the water,
Then the jackals will return.
The Earth, the Earth the Earth is on fire!
We don't have no daughter,
Let the motherfucker burn!
The Earth, the Earth the Earth is on fire!
If we cut off the water,
Then the jackals will return."
He stopped dancing, glanced up at a camera that had both him and the boat in frame, and smiled. He spoke normally.
"See, it's clever because the band's name is YACHT."
...aaaaaaaand rewind.
((Michael continued from Raconte-Moi Une Histoire))
After his heart-to-heart with the camera when he was at the leadership houses, Michael'd decided to make a beeline to the yacht, partially because he wanted to go to a beach and stare out over the horizon forlornly, and partially because it would make for a fun opportunity to sing a relevant song.
It took a little while to get there, but he made it eventually. He didn't run into anybody on the way, save for some distant noises and what he could've sworn was maybe someone following him.
The capsized yacht looked... yachty. It was a yacht, there wasn't much else to say. Stepney was there, stuck on the boat like a viking lady. He didn't look like he was feeling great.
Michael wanted to be disgusted but honestly... he couldn't. He was just as guilty of using dead people as art supplies.
Hey... the S.S. Stepney. It was like Michael and Quinn were kindred spirits.
Quinndred spirits, maybe.
Mmm, nope. He didn't like that. Too far.
He had a quick look around on the beach to make sure it was clear. Then, he did the singing thing. The Earth, the Earth, the Earth was on fire, et cetera.
When he was done with that, he adjusted The Many-Eyed Bearyl's position in the backpack so that its face (well, the part that was a face on normal teddy bears) was pointing away from him, towards anybody who would be standing directly behind him. He stood on the beach and looked out into the horizon forlornly, as he'd planned on doing. He wasn't sure if it made him feel anything. He loosened his right sleeve and slid it over his hand, so that the pistol he was holding wasn't immediately visible, and made sure it was ready to fire in case he needed to shoot some folks. He figured he looked wacky enough for murdery people not to shoot him in the back on sight, and wacky enough for non-murdery people to want to ask him what his deal was. He had the robe's hood on, so he was confident that nobody would be able to instantly recognize him.
He continued staring out into the water, waiting for someone to approach him. What he'd do when that happened would depend on the person.
He wanted it to make him feel.
Dystopia (The Earth Is On Fire)
oh shit we back to semi-private (pm 4 entry (I AINT EVEN IN THIS THREAD ANYMORE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)). Day 4, early afternoonish.
Dystopia (The Earth Is On Fire)
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
>> "HELLO--STEPNEY."
He didn't answer, because he wasn't there.
The mangled slab of meat that was once Stepney certainly was there, ostentatious, unmistakable, intriguing. Nia observed it, silently, full of questions unlikely to be answered anytime soon. Why was an obvious question, though she imagined most would ask it in a more pained tone, with teary eyes or shaking fists. She certainly didn't have to wonder why Quinn had killed him. She had killed him because he was there. But why the rest? It was possible, of course, that a third party was responsible for the mutilation, but based on the announcements that seemed not to be the case.
Why, then? Humans had displayed corpses for millennia, in most cases to serve as a warning. Had Quinn holed up inside the yacht, and added the body as a scarecrow to ward off potential intruders? Perhaps it had been a temporary measure, and the killer in question was long gone. Perhaps it had been a statement of some sort, perhaps it was a particularly avant-garde means of artistic impression.
Perhaps Quinn had just been curious.
Nia thought she might understand.
There was an open cavity where much of his torso should have been. The organs that should have been there were gone. Too—cleanly was the wrong word, but had they simply been prey to decomposition and wildlife she imagined there would be remnants left of them. They had been removed, deliberately. Where were they, and there was why, again, but she thought she understood that, too.
There was so much to learn.
Someone else was there, another living person, and Nia's hand had found her pistol as she approached. But they stood in a vulnerable position, they did not turn as she moved toward them. Unless they had set some sort of trap, unlikely in such an open environment, the person in question was not a threat. At least, not immediately. She observed them in silence for a moment. They wore some unfamiliar robes, quite unlike anything she imagined anyone would have brought here themselves, likely scavenged. The teddy bear didn't merit much of an observational explanation. Sometimes things were just odd.
She looked back at the body.
It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to be upset.
She couldn't find it. The feeling. The despair, the regret, the need to do something, anything, thoughts of being respectful, thoughts of doing something for her friends when there was nothing left to be done, she could grasp shadows of emotion in her memories but couldn't bring them forward. Stepney had been one of her closest friends and he was gone, completely and utterly, and the shell he left behind had nothing to do with her, curious bits of flesh and blood and bone and she didn't care what happened to them.
Birds and bugs would tear Alexander apart. Jeremiah's flesh would soften and decay and disintegrate.
Blankets and notes and kind words and tears did nothing.
She didn't need to waste any more.
The person in the robes hadn't acknowledge her. She drew her pistol, a statement of she wasn't sure what, she thought about shooting the ground or the air or just shooting them, the person, because the person was incautious and reckless and stupid and that made them already dead.
Instead, she snapped her fingers. Once.
He didn't answer, because he wasn't there.
The mangled slab of meat that was once Stepney certainly was there, ostentatious, unmistakable, intriguing. Nia observed it, silently, full of questions unlikely to be answered anytime soon. Why was an obvious question, though she imagined most would ask it in a more pained tone, with teary eyes or shaking fists. She certainly didn't have to wonder why Quinn had killed him. She had killed him because he was there. But why the rest? It was possible, of course, that a third party was responsible for the mutilation, but based on the announcements that seemed not to be the case.
Why, then? Humans had displayed corpses for millennia, in most cases to serve as a warning. Had Quinn holed up inside the yacht, and added the body as a scarecrow to ward off potential intruders? Perhaps it had been a temporary measure, and the killer in question was long gone. Perhaps it had been a statement of some sort, perhaps it was a particularly avant-garde means of artistic impression.
Perhaps Quinn had just been curious.
Nia thought she might understand.
There was an open cavity where much of his torso should have been. The organs that should have been there were gone. Too—cleanly was the wrong word, but had they simply been prey to decomposition and wildlife she imagined there would be remnants left of them. They had been removed, deliberately. Where were they, and there was why, again, but she thought she understood that, too.
There was so much to learn.
Someone else was there, another living person, and Nia's hand had found her pistol as she approached. But they stood in a vulnerable position, they did not turn as she moved toward them. Unless they had set some sort of trap, unlikely in such an open environment, the person in question was not a threat. At least, not immediately. She observed them in silence for a moment. They wore some unfamiliar robes, quite unlike anything she imagined anyone would have brought here themselves, likely scavenged. The teddy bear didn't merit much of an observational explanation. Sometimes things were just odd.
She looked back at the body.
It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to be upset.
She couldn't find it. The feeling. The despair, the regret, the need to do something, anything, thoughts of being respectful, thoughts of doing something for her friends when there was nothing left to be done, she could grasp shadows of emotion in her memories but couldn't bring them forward. Stepney had been one of her closest friends and he was gone, completely and utterly, and the shell he left behind had nothing to do with her, curious bits of flesh and blood and bone and she didn't care what happened to them.
Birds and bugs would tear Alexander apart. Jeremiah's flesh would soften and decay and disintegrate.
Blankets and notes and kind words and tears did nothing.
She didn't need to waste any more.
The person in the robes hadn't acknowledge her. She drew her pistol, a statement of she wasn't sure what, she thought about shooting the ground or the air or just shooting them, the person, because the person was incautious and reckless and stupid and that made them already dead.
Instead, she snapped her fingers. Once.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Michael'd spent his time thinking. Not about anything in particular, just more like... rambling. He thought a lot of thoughts about a lot of things. He thought about what metaphor Quinn'd been going for with Stepney, still visible out of the corner of his eye. He thought about walking forwards into the ocean and letting his hair flair out like seaweed. He thought about the fact that he was carrying around a sex toy that he had no idea how to use and wasn't sure if he had any intention to use. He thought about how 'self' was something that wasn't able to be quantified in any real sense.
He also said some stuff about some stuff to himself and the cameras at some point.
__
"Let me tell you a story. It's a true story, though over the years it's been romanticized and parts of it are still up for debate among the scientific community, which is why I'm calling it a story and not a fact."
He paused, glanced out over the waves.
"Somewhere out there in the deep blue sea, there's this whale. As far as we can tell, it's just like any other whale except for one thing: its voice is at a frequency different from other whales. The 52-hertz whale, scientists call it. Because its frequency is different, the other whales can't understand it. It's been out there since at least the late 80s and not once have we detected similar calls from any other whale. It's the first and last of its kind. Its whole life, it's been swimming, following after the other whales, calling out to them in a language they can't understand. It can understand the other whales, but it can't speak in any language other its own. It still tries — we know because we're still recording its voice — but no matter how hard it tries, in the end it's just calling out into the void. It tries and it tries and it tries, but it just can't do it. It is, by nature, alone. When it dies, everything it's ever been through will die with it. Its reality will die with it. In popular culture, it's called the loneliest whale on Earth."
He inhaled sharply.
"...I don't - I don't think it's the loneliest whale on Earth. I think that if it and humans could communicate to each other, it would be the least lonely whale on Earth. There isn't a person on this Earth who can't relate to its story. We all relate to it in different ways, but it's still like... it's the common denominator. It's about how isolating it feels to be sentient."
A long, heavy pause.
"It's the story of the human condition, I think."
__
Michael caught Nia in his peripheral vision about fifteen minutes after that. It was rather serendipitous, her being the person who showed up.
He stood still like a statue, though while she was examining the S.S. Stepney, he bent his right elbow at a right angle, jutted it backwards, and swiveled his wrist so that the gun was pointing in her general direction, hidden in the looming fabric of the robe. It was a good thing she was to his left; he figured to her he probably just looked like he had his hand on his hip or something.
This wasn't the same Nia as the one he'd left at the commissary. He could tell that much. The way she was regarding Stepney seemed detached; flippant, almost. The fact that she hadn't even acknowledged the existence of the white-robed figured standing on the beach reminded Michael of the way he'd been when he saw The Owl.
"I swear to fucking God, you guys can't become like us. Don't become let yourselves become like us. Just please, please don't become like us. Don't. Even if it kills you, don't become like us." Michael had said to Nia and Alexander two days ago. Alexander'd been lucky; it seemed like he'd taken Michael's advice to heart. Nia hadn't. She'd gotten used to things, it seemed. She was another broken bird.
He almost felt something. It was nice, maybe. It wasn't enough of a something for him to be sure.
He watched as she drew her gun. He tensed up for a moment, but she hadn't shot him yet so... she wouldn't shoot him, probably. Maybe.
He listened to her snap her fingers. Her first direct acknowledgement of his existence. She still didn't know who he was. She was still maybe twelve-ish feet away from him.
He started laughing. They were shallow laughs; manic and empty. They were laughs nonetheless.
After a few seconds he stopped laughing, though he still felt his diaphragm shake like he was. Silent laughter, maybe? He angled his head to face Nia, and as he stared into her eyes and saw just how completely fucking gone she was, he smiled.
It was a real smile, which confused him though it did not disturb him. It was odd, he felt a kind of kinship with her, almost.
He kept staring into Nia's eyes and kept laughing the silent, tremor-like laughs. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then he realized it was more out of habit than anything else, so he closed it back into a smile. Instead of talking, he reached out toward Nia with his left hand, and with a flick of the wrist, he snapped his fingers back at her, moving his hand into a fingergun shape pointed at her head.
He also said some stuff about some stuff to himself and the cameras at some point.
__
"Let me tell you a story. It's a true story, though over the years it's been romanticized and parts of it are still up for debate among the scientific community, which is why I'm calling it a story and not a fact."
He paused, glanced out over the waves.
"Somewhere out there in the deep blue sea, there's this whale. As far as we can tell, it's just like any other whale except for one thing: its voice is at a frequency different from other whales. The 52-hertz whale, scientists call it. Because its frequency is different, the other whales can't understand it. It's been out there since at least the late 80s and not once have we detected similar calls from any other whale. It's the first and last of its kind. Its whole life, it's been swimming, following after the other whales, calling out to them in a language they can't understand. It can understand the other whales, but it can't speak in any language other its own. It still tries — we know because we're still recording its voice — but no matter how hard it tries, in the end it's just calling out into the void. It tries and it tries and it tries, but it just can't do it. It is, by nature, alone. When it dies, everything it's ever been through will die with it. Its reality will die with it. In popular culture, it's called the loneliest whale on Earth."
He inhaled sharply.
"...I don't - I don't think it's the loneliest whale on Earth. I think that if it and humans could communicate to each other, it would be the least lonely whale on Earth. There isn't a person on this Earth who can't relate to its story. We all relate to it in different ways, but it's still like... it's the common denominator. It's about how isolating it feels to be sentient."
A long, heavy pause.
"It's the story of the human condition, I think."
__
Michael caught Nia in his peripheral vision about fifteen minutes after that. It was rather serendipitous, her being the person who showed up.
He stood still like a statue, though while she was examining the S.S. Stepney, he bent his right elbow at a right angle, jutted it backwards, and swiveled his wrist so that the gun was pointing in her general direction, hidden in the looming fabric of the robe. It was a good thing she was to his left; he figured to her he probably just looked like he had his hand on his hip or something.
This wasn't the same Nia as the one he'd left at the commissary. He could tell that much. The way she was regarding Stepney seemed detached; flippant, almost. The fact that she hadn't even acknowledged the existence of the white-robed figured standing on the beach reminded Michael of the way he'd been when he saw The Owl.
"I swear to fucking God, you guys can't become like us. Don't become let yourselves become like us. Just please, please don't become like us. Don't. Even if it kills you, don't become like us." Michael had said to Nia and Alexander two days ago. Alexander'd been lucky; it seemed like he'd taken Michael's advice to heart. Nia hadn't. She'd gotten used to things, it seemed. She was another broken bird.
He almost felt something. It was nice, maybe. It wasn't enough of a something for him to be sure.
He watched as she drew her gun. He tensed up for a moment, but she hadn't shot him yet so... she wouldn't shoot him, probably. Maybe.
He listened to her snap her fingers. Her first direct acknowledgement of his existence. She still didn't know who he was. She was still maybe twelve-ish feet away from him.
He started laughing. They were shallow laughs; manic and empty. They were laughs nonetheless.
After a few seconds he stopped laughing, though he still felt his diaphragm shake like he was. Silent laughter, maybe? He angled his head to face Nia, and as he stared into her eyes and saw just how completely fucking gone she was, he smiled.
It was a real smile, which confused him though it did not disturb him. It was odd, he felt a kind of kinship with her, almost.
He kept staring into Nia's eyes and kept laughing the silent, tremor-like laughs. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then he realized it was more out of habit than anything else, so he closed it back into a smile. Instead of talking, he reached out toward Nia with his left hand, and with a flick of the wrist, he snapped his fingers back at her, moving his hand into a fingergun shape pointed at her head.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
They laughed.
They turned to face her, and he laughed.
Michael laughed.
It was funny. Wasn't it?
She had been looking for him. She wasn't sure what had compelled her to do so—well no, that wording implied that this meeting was planned, intentional, it was lucky like so many other things. Like Michael. Lucky to be alive, having met her, the curse on her back. What had happened to Nick, she wondered? Was he dead? She hoped he wasn't dead. It would be unfortunate, if he was dead, even though he was dead the same way Michael was despite him standing there laughing and pointing at her with his fingers shaped like a gun.
He had a gun, she knew. He was making fun of her, she knew. That was fine. It didn't mean anything.
She had questions. That was irrelevant, as she couldn't ask any of them. The rain was light but still prohibited her from bringing paper out in the open, and besides the act of writing would leave her vulnerable, not that she thought he would kill her, not that he could kill her, not that he had the right, it occurred to her that something about his presence was noisily uprooting her otherwise solid sense of rationality and she supposed she needed to address the fact that he had indirectly not really but still close enough to let her brother die.
It hadn't been his fault.
It wouldn't matter if it had been his fault.
If it had been his fault she would have killed him already, yes, but he was dead either way, so technically it still didn't matter.
Her expression didn't change because what she was feeling wasn't an emotion, really, so much as a processing error. A blip in circuitry. Possibly she had overdone it on the caffeine pills and she was a bit more on edge than she would like to be in this particular situation. An unfortunate error in judgment. She thought she could hear her blood flow through her arms when she moved them. She acknowledged that impossibility and listened nonetheless.
Michael, yes. Michael who hadn't killed her brother. But had killed someone else. Did that make them even? Did he know? The world wouldn't know until announcements, of course, but she thought he knew him, and she thought he knew he knew her. He thought he knew something, at least.
Thoughts overran her like the steady static hum of overheated electronics. She had wanted to find him for something. She wanted an answer for something. She didn't know her own thoughts.
She pointed her gun at his hand, and she smiled, and she didn't know why. Tilted head, eyes dull as ever, searching for that something inside him, wondering what she needed to dig it out.
She remembered the organless cavity of the corpse on the boat again, and she laughed, too.
They turned to face her, and he laughed.
Michael laughed.
It was funny. Wasn't it?
She had been looking for him. She wasn't sure what had compelled her to do so—well no, that wording implied that this meeting was planned, intentional, it was lucky like so many other things. Like Michael. Lucky to be alive, having met her, the curse on her back. What had happened to Nick, she wondered? Was he dead? She hoped he wasn't dead. It would be unfortunate, if he was dead, even though he was dead the same way Michael was despite him standing there laughing and pointing at her with his fingers shaped like a gun.
He had a gun, she knew. He was making fun of her, she knew. That was fine. It didn't mean anything.
She had questions. That was irrelevant, as she couldn't ask any of them. The rain was light but still prohibited her from bringing paper out in the open, and besides the act of writing would leave her vulnerable, not that she thought he would kill her, not that he could kill her, not that he had the right, it occurred to her that something about his presence was noisily uprooting her otherwise solid sense of rationality and she supposed she needed to address the fact that he had indirectly not really but still close enough to let her brother die.
It hadn't been his fault.
It wouldn't matter if it had been his fault.
If it had been his fault she would have killed him already, yes, but he was dead either way, so technically it still didn't matter.
Her expression didn't change because what she was feeling wasn't an emotion, really, so much as a processing error. A blip in circuitry. Possibly she had overdone it on the caffeine pills and she was a bit more on edge than she would like to be in this particular situation. An unfortunate error in judgment. She thought she could hear her blood flow through her arms when she moved them. She acknowledged that impossibility and listened nonetheless.
Michael, yes. Michael who hadn't killed her brother. But had killed someone else. Did that make them even? Did he know? The world wouldn't know until announcements, of course, but she thought he knew him, and she thought he knew he knew her. He thought he knew something, at least.
Thoughts overran her like the steady static hum of overheated electronics. She had wanted to find him for something. She wanted an answer for something. She didn't know her own thoughts.
She pointed her gun at his hand, and she smiled, and she didn't know why. Tilted head, eyes dull as ever, searching for that something inside him, wondering what she needed to dig it out.
She remembered the organless cavity of the corpse on the boat again, and she laughed, too.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Michael had a curse too. His curse was whenever he was honest with someone they'd eventually go insane. It was pretty fun, as far as curses went.
He watched Nia not immediately react to the snappy gun thing. Worrisome, though he also wasn't sure what else he expected. There wasn't enough human left in Nia to be psyched out.
Beep boop meat computer, et cetera.
He watched as she lifted her gun. He watched as she smiled. He watched as she tilted her head like a dog tilted its head when it was confused. He still missed his dogs. He forced himself to ignore that thought. There was blood on Nia's hands. Not just blood, but relatively fresh blood. Too fresh to have been Alexander's. None of the possible implications that carried were positive ones. She was pointing the gun at his hand, and if she fired he'd probably live long enough to at least make sure it was a mutual kill.
He watched as she laughed too. He was pretty sure it was laughter. He liked it when people laughed. This was nice. This was fun. He was having fun. He'd been having fun when he was with Morgan too, he supposed, but he liked this fun better. This fun came with a feeling of unbridled freedom. It was a feeling unfamiliar to Michael up until now.
He thought about what he'd have done if Morgan had been the person who'd approached him. He'd have acted like he was goofing around, and then he'd point his hand at the treeline and say "Woah, dude, I think there's a monkey over there!", and then when Morgan was looking for a monkey that didn't exist, he'd shoot him in the back of the head so he could die feeling like everything was okay.
But this was Nia, not Morgan. It was too late for Nia to die unbroken, and Michael found he quite enjoyed having this kind of company.
His laughter lessened in magnitude, though he was still smiling. His voice was extant, he supposed, so he decided to make some mouth words.
"The joys of life are lost upon the living, I think." he said, softly.
He watched Nia not immediately react to the snappy gun thing. Worrisome, though he also wasn't sure what else he expected. There wasn't enough human left in Nia to be psyched out.
Beep boop meat computer, et cetera.
He watched as she lifted her gun. He watched as she smiled. He watched as she tilted her head like a dog tilted its head when it was confused. He still missed his dogs. He forced himself to ignore that thought. There was blood on Nia's hands. Not just blood, but relatively fresh blood. Too fresh to have been Alexander's. None of the possible implications that carried were positive ones. She was pointing the gun at his hand, and if she fired he'd probably live long enough to at least make sure it was a mutual kill.
He watched as she laughed too. He was pretty sure it was laughter. He liked it when people laughed. This was nice. This was fun. He was having fun. He'd been having fun when he was with Morgan too, he supposed, but he liked this fun better. This fun came with a feeling of unbridled freedom. It was a feeling unfamiliar to Michael up until now.
He thought about what he'd have done if Morgan had been the person who'd approached him. He'd have acted like he was goofing around, and then he'd point his hand at the treeline and say "Woah, dude, I think there's a monkey over there!", and then when Morgan was looking for a monkey that didn't exist, he'd shoot him in the back of the head so he could die feeling like everything was okay.
But this was Nia, not Morgan. It was too late for Nia to die unbroken, and Michael found he quite enjoyed having this kind of company.
His laughter lessened in magnitude, though he was still smiling. His voice was extant, he supposed, so he decided to make some mouth words.
"The joys of life are lost upon the living, I think." he said, softly.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Nia was not one for platitudes. Particularly not such nihilistic ones. Nihilistic was the wrong word. It didn't matter.
She liked Michael, theoretically, in a past life. She liked people who knew things and who wanted to talk about those things to the exclusion of all else. She liked people who never asked her personal questions, who never went off on tangents about their parents or partners or friends or homework they wanted help with or arguments they'd had or whatever useless information the high school population felt inclined to drop on her because she couldn't speak to silence them. She had developed a reputation for being a good listener by never having a choice in the matter. Michael had common decency enough to be interesting, at least by her non-standard standards.
She thought she liked him better here when he wasn't talking.
Prior rambling about ctenophores overridden, we're all broken, we're all just fucking gone, she remembered so many things she'd rather forget.
I don't know what happened.
There wasn't a person in this room who didn't love Beryl.
We need to bury Jeremiah.
Please don't become like us.
Let me bleed out, really slow.
That one was funnier in retrospect. Now that she was thinking about it.
What did Michael know, what did he know about her, what did he know about love, what did he know about Beryl. What did anyone know about Beryl. What did anyone know about Michael? What did anyone care about Michael? The downside to keeping yourself to yourself was leaving nothing on the table to be loved. She knew. He wasn't keeping himself to himself anymore. The whole world knew him. They thought they did. Her too.
We need to bury Jeremiah.
He thought he lost everything. He knew nothing. He understood nothing. He was incautious and reckless and stupid and the gun clicked dully in the damp air as she turned the safety off.
Nia wondered if he still wanted to die. She wondered if he had wanted to die in the first place, perhaps he had been overwhelmed with guilt, perhaps he had simply been afraid to live, perhaps he had known himself too well, perhaps he had known it would come to this, what he would become, what the island would drag out of his heart, perhaps he wanted to die before he saw it. Perhaps he no longer cared. Perhaps he cared so much that it had broken him. That didn't matter, either.
If she shot him in the hand he'd have enough time left to kill her.
She thought she hated him, but the word suffused her mind with nothing but dead air.
She liked Michael, theoretically, in a past life. She liked people who knew things and who wanted to talk about those things to the exclusion of all else. She liked people who never asked her personal questions, who never went off on tangents about their parents or partners or friends or homework they wanted help with or arguments they'd had or whatever useless information the high school population felt inclined to drop on her because she couldn't speak to silence them. She had developed a reputation for being a good listener by never having a choice in the matter. Michael had common decency enough to be interesting, at least by her non-standard standards.
She thought she liked him better here when he wasn't talking.
Prior rambling about ctenophores overridden, we're all broken, we're all just fucking gone, she remembered so many things she'd rather forget.
I don't know what happened.
There wasn't a person in this room who didn't love Beryl.
We need to bury Jeremiah.
Please don't become like us.
Let me bleed out, really slow.
That one was funnier in retrospect. Now that she was thinking about it.
What did Michael know, what did he know about her, what did he know about love, what did he know about Beryl. What did anyone know about Beryl. What did anyone know about Michael? What did anyone care about Michael? The downside to keeping yourself to yourself was leaving nothing on the table to be loved. She knew. He wasn't keeping himself to himself anymore. The whole world knew him. They thought they did. Her too.
We need to bury Jeremiah.
He thought he lost everything. He knew nothing. He understood nothing. He was incautious and reckless and stupid and the gun clicked dully in the damp air as she turned the safety off.
Nia wondered if he still wanted to die. She wondered if he had wanted to die in the first place, perhaps he had been overwhelmed with guilt, perhaps he had simply been afraid to live, perhaps he had known himself too well, perhaps he had known it would come to this, what he would become, what the island would drag out of his heart, perhaps he wanted to die before he saw it. Perhaps he no longer cared. Perhaps he cared so much that it had broken him. That didn't matter, either.
If she shot him in the hand he'd have enough time left to kill her.
She thought she hated him, but the word suffused her mind with nothing but dead air.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Click went the safety on Nia's gun. To be honest, Michael'd been working on the assumption that it was already off.
But this, the conscious action of turning it off while pointing it at him, it carried weight. It was Nia's way of saying "Don't worry, I'll shoot you this time".
It felt more like a betrayal than Michael wanted to admit.
Oh well.
This was probably it, then.
He'd had a good run, hadn't he? He'd had a good life, SOTF notwithstanding. Maybe a bit boring, but pleasant enough. SOTF'd been his chance to make his life not-boring, he supposed. Now he knew what it was like to be in love, what it was like to do drugs, what it was like to go insane, what it was like to shoot someone.
What it was like to kill someone.
What it was like to win.
What it was like to be famous.
What it was like to be feared.
What it was like to be the bad guy.
A good go. He'd run the whole gamut. He'd had his story and this was the end. This was it and that was that.
There were worse ways to go, he figured. He'd probably get washed out with the tide. He wondered where his detached feet would wash up.
He couldn't wait to not have to exist anymore. He just wanted not to think.
To grow up and blow away.
Maybe he'd become a ghost. Being a ghost sounded like fun. It was the life he'd always wanted; being invisible to everyone else, just watching the world pass by. Nobody would worry about him. He wouldn't be able to hurt anyone. He'd get to find out how everything ended. He'd find out who made it off the island. He'd get closure. He'd be the only person in the world who'd get closure and be able to savour it.
Yes, being a ghost sounded nice.
He was okay with this, he guessed. Whatever happened would happen. He couldn't do much about it. Wherever he'd go, he'd be with all his friends again soon, which was nice.
Him dying on a beach was poetic in a way, wasn't it?
Slowly, he lowered his left arm. He still gazed into Nia's eyes; still smiled. The smile was softer now; weary and wistful. Silently, he cried tears of sentiment. Only sentiment.
"Nia... thank you, by the way."
He still needed to say his last words. This was when he'd say them, he guessed, so he'd go for it.
A hello and a goodbye. This was both in the best of ways.
"Aloha."
He nodded his head lightly.
But this, the conscious action of turning it off while pointing it at him, it carried weight. It was Nia's way of saying "Don't worry, I'll shoot you this time".
It felt more like a betrayal than Michael wanted to admit.
Oh well.
This was probably it, then.
He'd had a good run, hadn't he? He'd had a good life, SOTF notwithstanding. Maybe a bit boring, but pleasant enough. SOTF'd been his chance to make his life not-boring, he supposed. Now he knew what it was like to be in love, what it was like to do drugs, what it was like to go insane, what it was like to shoot someone.
What it was like to kill someone.
What it was like to win.
What it was like to be famous.
What it was like to be feared.
What it was like to be the bad guy.
A good go. He'd run the whole gamut. He'd had his story and this was the end. This was it and that was that.
There were worse ways to go, he figured. He'd probably get washed out with the tide. He wondered where his detached feet would wash up.
He couldn't wait to not have to exist anymore. He just wanted not to think.
To grow up and blow away.
Maybe he'd become a ghost. Being a ghost sounded like fun. It was the life he'd always wanted; being invisible to everyone else, just watching the world pass by. Nobody would worry about him. He wouldn't be able to hurt anyone. He'd get to find out how everything ended. He'd find out who made it off the island. He'd get closure. He'd be the only person in the world who'd get closure and be able to savour it.
Yes, being a ghost sounded nice.
He was okay with this, he guessed. Whatever happened would happen. He couldn't do much about it. Wherever he'd go, he'd be with all his friends again soon, which was nice.
Him dying on a beach was poetic in a way, wasn't it?
Slowly, he lowered his left arm. He still gazed into Nia's eyes; still smiled. The smile was softer now; weary and wistful. Silently, he cried tears of sentiment. Only sentiment.
"Nia... thank you, by the way."
He still needed to say his last words. This was when he'd say them, he guessed, so he'd go for it.
A hello and a goodbye. This was both in the best of ways.
"Aloha."
He nodded his head lightly.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
-
Frozen Smoke
- Posts: 533
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 3:50 pm
- Location: Where I need to be
((Parker_Green - Day 4 - 13:48 Local Time - Entering from Number by Number))
The yacht, in theory, served as something that was known in game theory as a Schelling Point. A part of the game that people could co-ordinate around in absence of direct communication.
It seemed obvious to Parker that if you wanted to escape, the yacht would serve as an obvious place to head towards. Maybe it still had navigation logs, or a sextant, or something else that would allow them to figure out where they were. That was only one answer in a very long set of questions, where answering incorrectly would lead to death, but it was an important answer nonetheless. After all, it was unlikely they'd be able to extricate themselves from the island without help.
The kind of people who truly believed that an escape was possible were also the kind of people he needed to meet. With a different objective, and seeing the terrorists as the main threat, rather than as part of the rules of the game - It was likely he could work alongside them for some time. His best chance of getting a weapon without having to fight for it.
It was a shame the beach was empty when he got there.
Parker supposed that made sense. It was likely too late in the game for that, wasn't it? Anyone trying to escape would have looked into that immediately, before he got there, and now - Well - it was scarred beyond the initial description. Stepney was mounted on the side of it, arms outstretched and held in place by something, his feet and lower legs jerking the rest of his body in time with the gentle surf of the beach as the water brushed past him. A warning, maybe? Holes in the side of the hull bled pinpricks of light into the vessel as he was forced to climb in through the side rather than the violently jammed back door, blood slicking each of his steps, as his flashlight reflected off of the occasional glint of spent bullet casings.
He'd resolved to at least look for the same things he would if he'd found a group whilst he was here. Being able to share the knowledge of where they were might be enough to spark a little bit of useful help in a potential ally, or convince others he knew what he was doing, and he wasn't about to let what had happened here a few days ago dissuade him. No matter how awfully it smelt.
Parker had only had a few minutes to tear apart the bridge of the yacht when he heard footsteps crunching in the sand. He'd clicked the flashlight off, and waited, only for the silence to be broken by the taps of metal on metal and singing.
Not a good sign in regards to his new guest's lucidity. That made him unpredictable. Unpredictable was dangerous.
Parker stayed hidden.
The voice continued, talking now. To himself, to the cameras, to someone else - He wasn't sure.
Then, laughter. The first was unrecognisable, indistinct, manic. But then they were joined by a laugh that was none of the above. Soft, raspy breathing, air forced through a pathway that was incapable of making noise. It was Nia's laugh. There was no question about that, and it changed things, made the situation more complicated. The other person could have just wandered here for no particular reason, but Nia - Nia was curious. Nia was always looking for something. Nia was going to check out the yacht he was in.
Parker moved himself through the vessel, towards where the voices - well, voice - were coming from, towards one of the doors that lead out to the deck. He peered over the edge of one of the windows, taking in the scene from a side angle. The boy was in white robes, a sliver of black metal just visible poking out of one of the sleeves, and Nia was standing across from him - a pistol of her own pointing at him.
They both looked haggard. The boy's white robes were dirtied, and a teddy bear sat atop his pack, gazing behind him. His hood covered most of his face from this angle. Nia was practically bathed in blood, her hands and forearms were soaked in it, and a bloodied hammer hung in her belt - Leaving little doubt where it had come from. It seemed Nia had caught him by surprise, as he stood there, and mumbled a few more words - Thanking her. Implicitly asking it to be quick.
Parker needed to act. Being the only person with an axe trying to fight off someone with a gun was a bad, bad situation, even in cramped quarters. The walls of the yacht were anything but bulletproof, and Nia was smart enough to realise that, and just lay rounds into his general direction. No, if he wanted to get out of this without fighting, he paradoxically needed there to be two people with guns. Two people more concerned with one another than with him.
Mutually Assured Destruction. If one of them shot at him, it'd give the other a chance to shoot at the shooter, so it made more sense for neither of them to shoot him.
The question was how to distract Nia for long enough that her adversary would be able to level his own gun at her, without getting shot himself, and it was a question he had to answer quickly. Parker moved to the side of the door, by it's hinges, and shoved. The wood clattered noisily against the metal wall of the cabins.
"Nia." he said, his voice calm, passive - Not commanding. Like he was explaining algebra. Suggesting an alternate method to reach the same conclusion.
"You don't have to do this."
The yacht, in theory, served as something that was known in game theory as a Schelling Point. A part of the game that people could co-ordinate around in absence of direct communication.
It seemed obvious to Parker that if you wanted to escape, the yacht would serve as an obvious place to head towards. Maybe it still had navigation logs, or a sextant, or something else that would allow them to figure out where they were. That was only one answer in a very long set of questions, where answering incorrectly would lead to death, but it was an important answer nonetheless. After all, it was unlikely they'd be able to extricate themselves from the island without help.
The kind of people who truly believed that an escape was possible were also the kind of people he needed to meet. With a different objective, and seeing the terrorists as the main threat, rather than as part of the rules of the game - It was likely he could work alongside them for some time. His best chance of getting a weapon without having to fight for it.
It was a shame the beach was empty when he got there.
Parker supposed that made sense. It was likely too late in the game for that, wasn't it? Anyone trying to escape would have looked into that immediately, before he got there, and now - Well - it was scarred beyond the initial description. Stepney was mounted on the side of it, arms outstretched and held in place by something, his feet and lower legs jerking the rest of his body in time with the gentle surf of the beach as the water brushed past him. A warning, maybe? Holes in the side of the hull bled pinpricks of light into the vessel as he was forced to climb in through the side rather than the violently jammed back door, blood slicking each of his steps, as his flashlight reflected off of the occasional glint of spent bullet casings.
He'd resolved to at least look for the same things he would if he'd found a group whilst he was here. Being able to share the knowledge of where they were might be enough to spark a little bit of useful help in a potential ally, or convince others he knew what he was doing, and he wasn't about to let what had happened here a few days ago dissuade him. No matter how awfully it smelt.
Parker had only had a few minutes to tear apart the bridge of the yacht when he heard footsteps crunching in the sand. He'd clicked the flashlight off, and waited, only for the silence to be broken by the taps of metal on metal and singing.
Not a good sign in regards to his new guest's lucidity. That made him unpredictable. Unpredictable was dangerous.
Parker stayed hidden.
The voice continued, talking now. To himself, to the cameras, to someone else - He wasn't sure.
Then, laughter. The first was unrecognisable, indistinct, manic. But then they were joined by a laugh that was none of the above. Soft, raspy breathing, air forced through a pathway that was incapable of making noise. It was Nia's laugh. There was no question about that, and it changed things, made the situation more complicated. The other person could have just wandered here for no particular reason, but Nia - Nia was curious. Nia was always looking for something. Nia was going to check out the yacht he was in.
Parker moved himself through the vessel, towards where the voices - well, voice - were coming from, towards one of the doors that lead out to the deck. He peered over the edge of one of the windows, taking in the scene from a side angle. The boy was in white robes, a sliver of black metal just visible poking out of one of the sleeves, and Nia was standing across from him - a pistol of her own pointing at him.
They both looked haggard. The boy's white robes were dirtied, and a teddy bear sat atop his pack, gazing behind him. His hood covered most of his face from this angle. Nia was practically bathed in blood, her hands and forearms were soaked in it, and a bloodied hammer hung in her belt - Leaving little doubt where it had come from. It seemed Nia had caught him by surprise, as he stood there, and mumbled a few more words - Thanking her. Implicitly asking it to be quick.
Parker needed to act. Being the only person with an axe trying to fight off someone with a gun was a bad, bad situation, even in cramped quarters. The walls of the yacht were anything but bulletproof, and Nia was smart enough to realise that, and just lay rounds into his general direction. No, if he wanted to get out of this without fighting, he paradoxically needed there to be two people with guns. Two people more concerned with one another than with him.
Mutually Assured Destruction. If one of them shot at him, it'd give the other a chance to shoot at the shooter, so it made more sense for neither of them to shoot him.
The question was how to distract Nia for long enough that her adversary would be able to level his own gun at her, without getting shot himself, and it was a question he had to answer quickly. Parker moved to the side of the door, by it's hinges, and shoved. The wood clattered noisily against the metal wall of the cabins.
"Nia." he said, his voice calm, passive - Not commanding. Like he was explaining algebra. Suggesting an alternate method to reach the same conclusion.
"You don't have to do this."
Criticism or thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated - always looking to improve! Feel free to poke me on Discord or via PM.
You don't have to do this.
Well, yes, technically, that was true. Technically Nia didn't have to do anything, such was the convenience of free will. But the unfortunate thing was that she knew Michael had a gun, hidden somewhere in those robes, and she knew he had killed someone, and she knew he had received a reward for doing so, though if she were to guess based on what she knew of him she'd guess he'd ceded that reward to its other recipient. That was only a guess, and an overabundance of caution meant operating under the assumption he was currently in possession of something more deadly than his prior pistol. Either way dropping her gun was not an option. Walking away was not an option. She wholly expected a bullet to find its target the moment she turned her back, and she couldn't stand here trying to force something meaningful out of Michael's dead eyes forever. So she didn't have to do this in much the same way she didn't have to continue breathing. But she certainly had a preference.
Parker, of course, was well aware of all of that.
She appreciated having an interloper of any stripe. Not for any sentimental purpose, but because it refocused her scrambled mind. She could forget about Michael. She could forget that he was Michael. He was a threat, to be appropriately managed. The rest was radio static.
Her eyes only darted away from Michael for a moment, her gun not shifting from its target. The visual confirmation was frankly unnecessary, but an error of mistaken identity would be both unfortunate and potentially deadly. It irked her that he had been out of sight for this long, her overabundance of caution having obviously failed her, but now that he had made himself known he clearly wasn't a threat. If he had any means to kill them and wanted to, he would have done so by now. He was watching. Waiting.
How nostalgic.
All her friends were dead, she had thought. Everyone she'd ever loved, or tried to. She still wasn't wrong. She loved Parker like she had loved her computer. Useful, entertaining. An inconvenience, if broken. Eminently replaceable.
At least he could understand her.
"HELLO--PARKER." Signing with one hand was irritating, having to do so without looking at the person in question even more so. The sign for his name was familiar, simple enough with one hand, a P-shape across the cheek. His most distinctive feature.
"WHY--S-T-O-P?" STOP needed two hands. She had to spell it. An annoying but necessary workaround for the situation. It was still faster than drawing letters on palms. "W-H-A-T--YOU--W-A-N-T?" Clumsy but workable.
Nia imagined she could work out Parker's motives given the time and less of the immediate distraction of imminent death, but it was easier to ask and then call him a liar. He had always been predictable.
At least, for once, she knew her expectation of rationality would hold true.
Well, yes, technically, that was true. Technically Nia didn't have to do anything, such was the convenience of free will. But the unfortunate thing was that she knew Michael had a gun, hidden somewhere in those robes, and she knew he had killed someone, and she knew he had received a reward for doing so, though if she were to guess based on what she knew of him she'd guess he'd ceded that reward to its other recipient. That was only a guess, and an overabundance of caution meant operating under the assumption he was currently in possession of something more deadly than his prior pistol. Either way dropping her gun was not an option. Walking away was not an option. She wholly expected a bullet to find its target the moment she turned her back, and she couldn't stand here trying to force something meaningful out of Michael's dead eyes forever. So she didn't have to do this in much the same way she didn't have to continue breathing. But she certainly had a preference.
Parker, of course, was well aware of all of that.
She appreciated having an interloper of any stripe. Not for any sentimental purpose, but because it refocused her scrambled mind. She could forget about Michael. She could forget that he was Michael. He was a threat, to be appropriately managed. The rest was radio static.
Her eyes only darted away from Michael for a moment, her gun not shifting from its target. The visual confirmation was frankly unnecessary, but an error of mistaken identity would be both unfortunate and potentially deadly. It irked her that he had been out of sight for this long, her overabundance of caution having obviously failed her, but now that he had made himself known he clearly wasn't a threat. If he had any means to kill them and wanted to, he would have done so by now. He was watching. Waiting.
How nostalgic.
All her friends were dead, she had thought. Everyone she'd ever loved, or tried to. She still wasn't wrong. She loved Parker like she had loved her computer. Useful, entertaining. An inconvenience, if broken. Eminently replaceable.
At least he could understand her.
"HELLO--PARKER." Signing with one hand was irritating, having to do so without looking at the person in question even more so. The sign for his name was familiar, simple enough with one hand, a P-shape across the cheek. His most distinctive feature.
"WHY--S-T-O-P?" STOP needed two hands. She had to spell it. An annoying but necessary workaround for the situation. It was still faster than drawing letters on palms. "W-H-A-T--YOU--W-A-N-T?" Clumsy but workable.
Nia imagined she could work out Parker's motives given the time and less of the immediate distraction of imminent death, but it was easier to ask and then call him a liar. He had always been predictable.
At least, for once, she knew her expectation of rationality would hold true.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Michael didn't die. He didn't die. There was a boy in the boat. There was a boy in the boat the whole time. Michael wasn't dead. Nia didn't fire. Nia never fired. Nia never fired. She never fired.
Yet another failed suicide attempt.
Fine.
The universe intervened. It always did. It didn't want him to die. He'd stared down death countless times and yet he'd made it out without so much as a single scratch.
A guardian angel, perhaps?
No.
A ghost friend influencing events from beyond the veil? A satellite mind of sorts?
Yes. He liked that idea. He liked it very much.
He didn't want to die, not now. The world would let him know when it was his time. This wasn't it.
His heart was beating. His heart was beating. Valves oscillated between open and closed. He could feel it. It beat really fast, like the beat of a damn good bop. He could hear the blood rushing through him. He still had blood. He was still able to bleed. He was alive. He was alive. He was still alive.
No more tears. No more crying. He still smiled, though it was more because it had slipped his mind to stop smiling.
He focused in on Nia's pupils. Zoomed in. Zoned in. In the zone. For real, this time. His knees tensed under the robe. He felt elastic. He located his center of gravity. He felt like he could throw his gun at Nia's face and break her nose. He didn't do that. There were better ideas.
The boy in the boat wasn't a threat, not yet. Nia was making hand words in response to the boat boy. She was familiar enough with him to recognize him by voice. Michael knew enough about sign language to know some words needed two hands. Nia was using only one hand. Spelling, perhaps. That required concentration; concentration that would be split between the act of spelling and the act of watching Michael. Multitasking was just switching between tasks rapidly. Nia was in no way hypercompetent, Michael knew that. He knew she'd miss something. He knew her aim would inevitably waver as her gun hand unconsciously tried to say hand words. He knew he and her were about twelve feet apart. He knew she was holding the gun with one hand. He knew aiming a pistol one-handed was a crapshoot, especially if you were an amateur. He'd learned that from Mythbusters, he was pretty sure. He knew he'd miss if he tried shooting her with his gun in its current position. He knew the distance between them combined with her holding the gun one-handed meant that if he did something that required her to adjust her aim, she'd be even more liable to miss. He knew Matrix-dodging didn't work in real life.
He needed to break her composure. He needed her to be so pissed off that she couldn't aim.
Nia's weaknesses were her dead friends. Jeremiah, at least. Michael knew that.
...He'd seen Jeremiah's final words and Nia probably hadn't. It was a true statement.
Yes, that would do.
His voice was cold, fast, calculated.
"You know, Nia, I saw Jeremiah's last words. I don't know what they were, but they were the same thing over and over and over again. He was talking to you. You weren't listening." His lips curled in contempt. "I listened. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but at least I fucking listened to him in his final moments. I know you didn't."
Yet another failed suicide attempt.
Fine.
The universe intervened. It always did. It didn't want him to die. He'd stared down death countless times and yet he'd made it out without so much as a single scratch.
A guardian angel, perhaps?
No.
A ghost friend influencing events from beyond the veil? A satellite mind of sorts?
Yes. He liked that idea. He liked it very much.
He didn't want to die, not now. The world would let him know when it was his time. This wasn't it.
His heart was beating. His heart was beating. Valves oscillated between open and closed. He could feel it. It beat really fast, like the beat of a damn good bop. He could hear the blood rushing through him. He still had blood. He was still able to bleed. He was alive. He was alive. He was still alive.
No more tears. No more crying. He still smiled, though it was more because it had slipped his mind to stop smiling.
He focused in on Nia's pupils. Zoomed in. Zoned in. In the zone. For real, this time. His knees tensed under the robe. He felt elastic. He located his center of gravity. He felt like he could throw his gun at Nia's face and break her nose. He didn't do that. There were better ideas.
The boy in the boat wasn't a threat, not yet. Nia was making hand words in response to the boat boy. She was familiar enough with him to recognize him by voice. Michael knew enough about sign language to know some words needed two hands. Nia was using only one hand. Spelling, perhaps. That required concentration; concentration that would be split between the act of spelling and the act of watching Michael. Multitasking was just switching between tasks rapidly. Nia was in no way hypercompetent, Michael knew that. He knew she'd miss something. He knew her aim would inevitably waver as her gun hand unconsciously tried to say hand words. He knew he and her were about twelve feet apart. He knew she was holding the gun with one hand. He knew aiming a pistol one-handed was a crapshoot, especially if you were an amateur. He'd learned that from Mythbusters, he was pretty sure. He knew he'd miss if he tried shooting her with his gun in its current position. He knew the distance between them combined with her holding the gun one-handed meant that if he did something that required her to adjust her aim, she'd be even more liable to miss. He knew Matrix-dodging didn't work in real life.
He needed to break her composure. He needed her to be so pissed off that she couldn't aim.
Nia's weaknesses were her dead friends. Jeremiah, at least. Michael knew that.
...He'd seen Jeremiah's final words and Nia probably hadn't. It was a true statement.
Yes, that would do.
His voice was cold, fast, calculated.
"You know, Nia, I saw Jeremiah's last words. I don't know what they were, but they were the same thing over and over and over again. He was talking to you. You weren't listening." His lips curled in contempt. "I listened. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but at least I fucking listened to him in his final moments. I know you didn't."
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
-
Frozen Smoke
- Posts: 533
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 3:50 pm
- Location: Where I need to be
Nia didn't waver in her aim. She was too smart for that initial gambit, lacking the punch that it had, but at least it drew enough attention to merit a response. Normally, it would have been relatively easy to read sign from that far away, but the days travelling in humid conditions had left a thin layer of grime coating the lenses of his glasses. His eyes ached as he squinted at the motions of her hands, the question was at least simple enough to understand. In context, she could have just drawn a question mark and that would have sufficed, given that there was only one question that she could really follow up with.
Why?
It was a question he probably should have considered before he intervened, a hundred traditional lies as for why ape didn't kill ape rose up in his mind, before being quashed. Nia was barely moved by sentiment at the best of times, and more importantly than that, she knew him better than that. She knew he wouldn't believe any of that shit, about how people were good, the sanctity of life, whatever. They'd rarely trailed off in that direction in conversation, neither of them being the type to focus on philosophy, unless it played its pivotal role in some historical event that was fascinating unto itself. But they had trailed off there, and it wasn't like Nia to forget.
The boy's voice intruded before Parker's could. It brought a lot of information, important context, that he only partially digested as the words came across the wind. Jeremiah had died - Nia's friend, a close one, from what he knew - and this boy had been there. Nia had run off. He was twisting the emotional knife as hard as he could, his voice sounding like a bitter accusation, as it came out as a cold statement of fact.
Fuck.
"Because I don't want to get shot, Nia." he repeated her name. Keep drawing her attention. "And neither do you."
A pause.
"That's probably a 9 mil, or a point 380 pistol you've got, right? - You know one shot to centre mass won't kill him instantly. That gives him a chance to shoot you back."
Another short pause.
"Gonna level with you here Nia, I don't know how to treat bullet wounds."
It wasn't as much an argument as it was a skewed assessment of the facts, but it wasn't like he had the time to find an angle to shoot.
Why?
It was a question he probably should have considered before he intervened, a hundred traditional lies as for why ape didn't kill ape rose up in his mind, before being quashed. Nia was barely moved by sentiment at the best of times, and more importantly than that, she knew him better than that. She knew he wouldn't believe any of that shit, about how people were good, the sanctity of life, whatever. They'd rarely trailed off in that direction in conversation, neither of them being the type to focus on philosophy, unless it played its pivotal role in some historical event that was fascinating unto itself. But they had trailed off there, and it wasn't like Nia to forget.
The boy's voice intruded before Parker's could. It brought a lot of information, important context, that he only partially digested as the words came across the wind. Jeremiah had died - Nia's friend, a close one, from what he knew - and this boy had been there. Nia had run off. He was twisting the emotional knife as hard as he could, his voice sounding like a bitter accusation, as it came out as a cold statement of fact.
Fuck.
"Because I don't want to get shot, Nia." he repeated her name. Keep drawing her attention. "And neither do you."
A pause.
"That's probably a 9 mil, or a point 380 pistol you've got, right? - You know one shot to centre mass won't kill him instantly. That gives him a chance to shoot you back."
Another short pause.
"Gonna level with you here Nia, I don't know how to treat bullet wounds."
It wasn't as much an argument as it was a skewed assessment of the facts, but it wasn't like he had the time to find an angle to shoot.
Criticism or thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated - always looking to improve! Feel free to poke me on Discord or via PM.
Nia did not move.
Of course she didn't. The words out of Michael's mouth were a transparent ploy. The words out of Parker's mouth were their own form of manipulation. To allow her attention to be drawn wholly to either of them, to allow herself to stray from her considered course of action, would be to show intolerable weakness in the face of immediate danger. Parker was right, yes, but to make any other move was to assume that Michael would not shoot her if she didn't shoot first. Which had been her assumption to begin with, when he hadn't reacted to the sound of her approach, but. But. Overabundance of caution. Taking care. Logic.
Michael's own words were. They were. He
He had given up, yes, or not. He wanted her to shoot. He wanted her off-balance. He wanted her to miss and then he could shoot her but why did he but. But. She couldn't turn away, obviously, still. But he had asked her to. He wasn't fighting. He was already dead. She could kill him. Parker was right, he could shoot back. He would shoot back. He would shoot. He would
It had to be radio static.
Had to be.
Jeremiah was dead. It didn't matter. Transparent ploy. Her hands were shaking. They weren't supposed to be shaking. She had one shot to make count.
He was probably lying, anyway.
She would have seen.
Right? She would have seen.
Lying.
His hands had been at his sides.
Nothing left.
She
It didn't matter. He was gone. He was gone. He was gone. He was gone and Michael had killed had not had killed had
she
it didn't matter it didn't matter it didn't matter it didn't matter she was all alone.
Shut up.
Stay down.
Die.
She was running, then.
The explosion rippled still, through her arms, through her body, there was no cover, here. The beach was wide open. There was only the boat.
She caught Stepney's eye, she thought, as she boarded.
Good to spend time with friends.
She heard gunshots and it didn't matter.
She felt something hot and sharp and it didn't matter.
It didn't matter.
She ran.
Of course she didn't. The words out of Michael's mouth were a transparent ploy. The words out of Parker's mouth were their own form of manipulation. To allow her attention to be drawn wholly to either of them, to allow herself to stray from her considered course of action, would be to show intolerable weakness in the face of immediate danger. Parker was right, yes, but to make any other move was to assume that Michael would not shoot her if she didn't shoot first. Which had been her assumption to begin with, when he hadn't reacted to the sound of her approach, but. But. Overabundance of caution. Taking care. Logic.
Michael's own words were. They were. He
He had given up, yes, or not. He wanted her to shoot. He wanted her off-balance. He wanted her to miss and then he could shoot her but why did he but. But. She couldn't turn away, obviously, still. But he had asked her to. He wasn't fighting. He was already dead. She could kill him. Parker was right, he could shoot back. He would shoot back. He would shoot. He would
It had to be radio static.
Had to be.
Jeremiah was dead. It didn't matter. Transparent ploy. Her hands were shaking. They weren't supposed to be shaking. She had one shot to make count.
He was probably lying, anyway.
She would have seen.
Right? She would have seen.
Lying.
His hands had been at his sides.
Nothing left.
She
It didn't matter. He was gone. He was gone. He was gone. He was gone and Michael had killed had not had killed had
she
it didn't matter it didn't matter it didn't matter it didn't matter she was all alone.
Shut up.
Stay down.
Die.
She was running, then.
The explosion rippled still, through her arms, through her body, there was no cover, here. The beach was wide open. There was only the boat.
She caught Stepney's eye, she thought, as she boarded.
Good to spend time with friends.
She heard gunshots and it didn't matter.
She felt something hot and sharp and it didn't matter.
It didn't matter.
She ran.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Boat boy was smart. Michael liked the boat boy. Nia was still aiming the gun. Nia's hands were shaking. Yes. Good. Good. That was good. Michael felt bad kind of but not really. His heart was still beating. His chest was still facing the water. It would be hard to shoot Nia from this angle. If Nia landed a hit him from this angle, the bullet would go through his torso horizontally and take out both his lungs. Nia's hands were shaking. Nia was about to shoot and NO NO NO THE GAMBIT WORKED TOO WELL HE'D PISSED HER OFF SO BAD SHE WAS GONNA MURDER HIM OH NO OH NO OH -
Michael began extending his gun arm, shifted all his weight to his left side, and let his left knee relax, sending himself into a fall with his torso spinning to face Nia. She fired while he was in mid-spin and he felt something ripping on or off or in his left bicep and he'd totally just dodged into the bullet hadn't he and -
- oh wow holy shit Nia had just shot him and WOAH he'd just been shot and damn he was maybe dying, he wasn't sure.
Nia was running. Michael was lying on his left side. There was a familiar "EEEEEEEEEE" sound and he could hear it better with his left ear than his right ear and that was weird for post-explosion ear ringing but he'd figure that out later because what mattered right now was Nia was getting away so he pointed his gun at her retreating silhouette but didn't really aim at her specifically but more like in her general direction and he pulled the trigger five times and he was pretty sure he hit her because she flinched differently for one of the shots than she did the others and that made him feel happy kind of.
He wasn't dead. He wasn't fucking dead.
"CAN'T DO ANY GODDAMN THING RIGHT, CAN YOU NIA?!" He bellowed.
Okay, good. He could still talk and that meant he still had lungs. That was good. His left arm hurt. He could still hear the ringing. He could smell something, a kind of sickly scent. Insulin. It was insulin. The ringing was from his PDM's pod error notification.
...Nia'd shot his insulin pod off. He probably had shards of plastic stuck in his arm but other than that he was A-OKAY hopefully.
A scratch. He didn't make it out of this one without a scratch. He'd gotten reckless. The cult robe probably wasn't working in his favor. He needed a new strategy. The thing he'd tried with Erika had worked pretty well, he thought. He'd go back to that.
The almost-dying high was wearing off.
He sat up, blinked twice. Nia'd disappeared. Shit, okay, she was in the boat now, probably. He still had two shots left in the mag.
With both arms, he aimed the pistol at the approximate source of boat boy's voice. He held his breath; kept his hands still.
Bang.
Bang.
He jumped to his feet. Alright. Okay. All cool. All cool. Mag done. He bapped the mag-ejection button with his thumb.
He needed to get out of here before Nia could get her shit together and murder him from the cover of the boat. He was crying now. It wasn't happy crying. She shot first. She hated him enough to execute him. It hurt. It really, really hurt.
He didn't know what he was doing.
He didn't know what he was doing, this wasn't him, he was scared, he was alone, he was so alone, he just wanted to die, he -
- he needed someone to need him like he did them.
He needed someone who could tide him over until death.
He needed someone to be his rebound.
He needed someone who he could pretend was Beryl.
He needed palliative love.
It was either that or go insane.
Fuck you, shut up. He had to ignore the feelings. Parting words. He needed to say parting words.
"...Sorry y'all!"
Good, good; simultaneously sincere and insincere. Okay, yeah, cool.
He ran into the forest as fast as he could.
((Michael continued in Youth))
Michael began extending his gun arm, shifted all his weight to his left side, and let his left knee relax, sending himself into a fall with his torso spinning to face Nia. She fired while he was in mid-spin and he felt something ripping on or off or in his left bicep and he'd totally just dodged into the bullet hadn't he and -
- oh wow holy shit Nia had just shot him and WOAH he'd just been shot and damn he was maybe dying, he wasn't sure.
Nia was running. Michael was lying on his left side. There was a familiar "EEEEEEEEEE" sound and he could hear it better with his left ear than his right ear and that was weird for post-explosion ear ringing but he'd figure that out later because what mattered right now was Nia was getting away so he pointed his gun at her retreating silhouette but didn't really aim at her specifically but more like in her general direction and he pulled the trigger five times and he was pretty sure he hit her because she flinched differently for one of the shots than she did the others and that made him feel happy kind of.
He wasn't dead. He wasn't fucking dead.
"CAN'T DO ANY GODDAMN THING RIGHT, CAN YOU NIA?!" He bellowed.
Okay, good. He could still talk and that meant he still had lungs. That was good. His left arm hurt. He could still hear the ringing. He could smell something, a kind of sickly scent. Insulin. It was insulin. The ringing was from his PDM's pod error notification.
...Nia'd shot his insulin pod off. He probably had shards of plastic stuck in his arm but other than that he was A-OKAY hopefully.
A scratch. He didn't make it out of this one without a scratch. He'd gotten reckless. The cult robe probably wasn't working in his favor. He needed a new strategy. The thing he'd tried with Erika had worked pretty well, he thought. He'd go back to that.
The almost-dying high was wearing off.
He sat up, blinked twice. Nia'd disappeared. Shit, okay, she was in the boat now, probably. He still had two shots left in the mag.
With both arms, he aimed the pistol at the approximate source of boat boy's voice. He held his breath; kept his hands still.
Bang.
Bang.
He jumped to his feet. Alright. Okay. All cool. All cool. Mag done. He bapped the mag-ejection button with his thumb.
He needed to get out of here before Nia could get her shit together and murder him from the cover of the boat. He was crying now. It wasn't happy crying. She shot first. She hated him enough to execute him. It hurt. It really, really hurt.
He didn't know what he was doing.
He didn't know what he was doing, this wasn't him, he was scared, he was alone, he was so alone, he just wanted to die, he -
- he needed someone to need him like he did them.
He needed someone who could tide him over until death.
He needed someone to be his rebound.
He needed someone who he could pretend was Beryl.
He needed palliative love.
It was either that or go insane.
Fuck you, shut up. He had to ignore the feelings. Parting words. He needed to say parting words.
"...Sorry y'all!"
Good, good; simultaneously sincere and insincere. Okay, yeah, cool.
He ran into the forest as fast as he could.
((Michael continued in Youth))
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
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Frozen Smoke
- Posts: 533
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 3:50 pm
- Location: Where I need to be
Nia stood still for another second or so.
Parker began to try and think about what question came next, having just enough time to move on from nervous anticipation of a reaction, before the whole thing blew up in front of him. The other boy's arm jerked up, and he twisted, falling to the side - Nia fired at him, just once. Parker ducked down, knowing what came next, as footsteps pounding into the sand grew closer.
Gunshots rang out. Not in the far distance like he'd heard before, echoing and bringing with them the squawks of panic from the local wildlife, that were just part of the ambience now. He heard the bullets hit things after the bang of the pistol. Sand. Sand. Water. Sand. Metal. Parker stayed crouched, his knuckles white around the axe in his hands now as he heard the footsteps change tenor of their own, inside the ship now. He could hear her feet splashing into the shallow water, before hitting wood. It wouldn't be long before she made it up to the top deck.
The boy was shouting at her, screaming. Alive. Two threats still. Fuck.
He needed to look for a way out.
Two more shots rang out. The first was too high, too left of where he'd been standing before, slamming into one of the windows beside him and showering the room with glass confetti. The second one punched a hole in the thin steel wall of the boats bridge, a foot or so above his head, close enough that he could hear it pass. It ricocheted off of a reinforcing column on the other side of the room, before burying itself in the console with a second loud crash.
A stream of hurried, frantic, desperate curses emanated from Parker's mouth as he huddled himself even further into the smallest ball he could. He tilted his head down as he tried to stop the flakes of glass he was being showered with from falling into his face, into his eyes. His breathing was shallow and hurried as he tried to figure out what had just happened. What he had to do now.
All he knew was that he really, really didn't want to test his reflexes, putting himself in his cross-hairs like some sort of fucking pop-up target at a carnival.
Parker began to try and think about what question came next, having just enough time to move on from nervous anticipation of a reaction, before the whole thing blew up in front of him. The other boy's arm jerked up, and he twisted, falling to the side - Nia fired at him, just once. Parker ducked down, knowing what came next, as footsteps pounding into the sand grew closer.
Gunshots rang out. Not in the far distance like he'd heard before, echoing and bringing with them the squawks of panic from the local wildlife, that were just part of the ambience now. He heard the bullets hit things after the bang of the pistol. Sand. Sand. Water. Sand. Metal. Parker stayed crouched, his knuckles white around the axe in his hands now as he heard the footsteps change tenor of their own, inside the ship now. He could hear her feet splashing into the shallow water, before hitting wood. It wouldn't be long before she made it up to the top deck.
The boy was shouting at her, screaming. Alive. Two threats still. Fuck.
He needed to look for a way out.
Two more shots rang out. The first was too high, too left of where he'd been standing before, slamming into one of the windows beside him and showering the room with glass confetti. The second one punched a hole in the thin steel wall of the boats bridge, a foot or so above his head, close enough that he could hear it pass. It ricocheted off of a reinforcing column on the other side of the room, before burying itself in the console with a second loud crash.
A stream of hurried, frantic, desperate curses emanated from Parker's mouth as he huddled himself even further into the smallest ball he could. He tilted his head down as he tried to stop the flakes of glass he was being showered with from falling into his face, into his eyes. His breathing was shallow and hurried as he tried to figure out what had just happened. What he had to do now.
All he knew was that he really, really didn't want to test his reflexes, putting himself in his cross-hairs like some sort of fucking pop-up target at a carnival.
Criticism or thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated - always looking to improve! Feel free to poke me on Discord or via PM.
Can't do a goddamn thing right, can you Nia, she could have said the same in another life where her words had a voice. His words certainly did and that was a problem, wasn't it. The gunshots he left in his wake were at least proof he hadn't been killed instantly but instant death would have been a tall order, anyway, with her poor aim and shaking hands, no, that was hardly her expectation. All gunshots meant were that he had the minimal strength needed to pull the trigger, he could still be dying and that was what mattered but his voice, it was too strong. No shaking, no gurgling, no punctured lung, no bleeding heart. She had seen blood, she hadn't missed but she heard footsteps getting more and more distant and he was gone and it was fine. It was fine. "You know, Nia, I saw Jeremiah's last words."
It was fine. He was dead. "I don't know what they were, but they were the same thing over and over and over again."
Her name didn't have to be attached to the act to make it so. "He was talking to you. You weren't listening."
She shook. Physiological response, fight-or-flight, adrenaline, feet pounding on metal, the ship smelled like mildew and rot and something sick, something sweet, something long-since begun to decay, she recognized it. She had caught it in the garden mixed with petrichor and the sharp iron stench of blood. She imagined they'd all become very familiar with it in the coming days, as fewer and fewer corners of the island existed where a body or two wasn't laying its head. How many of them had there been at the start? Well over a hundred. The depths of the forests might still be safe, in the end. The village would hang heavy under a cloud of pestilence.
Very biblical. "I listened. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but—"
There were stairs. She took them.
Parker was up there. Her legs carried her toward him not out of any particular interest but for the knowledge that if she stayed below deck he would likely find her first. Not that he'd find her at a disadvantage, unless he possessed a firearm that he for some reason had chosen not to display in the exact sort of situation one would want to use one, but even so. Better to have the upper hand. Better to keep moving.
Better to shoot first.
She wouldn't shoot him, though. Not yet.
Sunlight streamed in, she stepped out, into the light. Parker hid behind broken glass. She looked out at the beach. Michael was a doll in perspective, rapidly fading, she did not raise her pistol, she did not pull the trigger again and again, she did not beg him to crumble into bloody dust, "—at least I fucking listened to him in his final moments."
she watched him fade into the treeline. It didn't take long.
Parker cowered. Parker the coward. It was funny. Wasn't it?
She didn't bother signing. He wasn't looking. She clicked the safety off on her pistol but pointed it at his back regardless, her footsteps were audible, he would turn, she knew. He would try to make some sort of deal, she knew. She knew him. He loved her enough to call an ambulance for her when doing so would cost him nothing and exactly no more. For him that almost qualified as affection, the sort of boy who would see someone bleeding out in the street and say not my problem, she knew him because she was the same.
"I know you didn't."
Michael was right about some things.
Being right was a regular historical precedent for execution. Why not now?
She waited.
It was fine. He was dead. "I don't know what they were, but they were the same thing over and over and over again."
Her name didn't have to be attached to the act to make it so. "He was talking to you. You weren't listening."
She shook. Physiological response, fight-or-flight, adrenaline, feet pounding on metal, the ship smelled like mildew and rot and something sick, something sweet, something long-since begun to decay, she recognized it. She had caught it in the garden mixed with petrichor and the sharp iron stench of blood. She imagined they'd all become very familiar with it in the coming days, as fewer and fewer corners of the island existed where a body or two wasn't laying its head. How many of them had there been at the start? Well over a hundred. The depths of the forests might still be safe, in the end. The village would hang heavy under a cloud of pestilence.
Very biblical. "I listened. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but—"
There were stairs. She took them.
Parker was up there. Her legs carried her toward him not out of any particular interest but for the knowledge that if she stayed below deck he would likely find her first. Not that he'd find her at a disadvantage, unless he possessed a firearm that he for some reason had chosen not to display in the exact sort of situation one would want to use one, but even so. Better to have the upper hand. Better to keep moving.
Better to shoot first.
She wouldn't shoot him, though. Not yet.
Sunlight streamed in, she stepped out, into the light. Parker hid behind broken glass. She looked out at the beach. Michael was a doll in perspective, rapidly fading, she did not raise her pistol, she did not pull the trigger again and again, she did not beg him to crumble into bloody dust, "—at least I fucking listened to him in his final moments."
she watched him fade into the treeline. It didn't take long.
Parker cowered. Parker the coward. It was funny. Wasn't it?
She didn't bother signing. He wasn't looking. She clicked the safety off on her pistol but pointed it at his back regardless, her footsteps were audible, he would turn, she knew. He would try to make some sort of deal, she knew. She knew him. He loved her enough to call an ambulance for her when doing so would cost him nothing and exactly no more. For him that almost qualified as affection, the sort of boy who would see someone bleeding out in the street and say not my problem, she knew him because she was the same.
"I know you didn't."
Michael was right about some things.
Being right was a regular historical precedent for execution. Why not now?
She waited.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."