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^This is not what a Laz looks like^
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((I should probably have warned you beforehand about this. Mea maxima culpa.))

For what felt like several weeks though it probably hadn't even been 24 hours, Cisco Vasquez suffered in silence. And it was all for a mistake he regretted making the moment he made it, although given the unpredictability of human nature above depression and other mental disorders he didn't exactly regret it continously.

Sure, people made bigger mistakes. Like neo-Nazis in the SOTF roleplaying forums set up by sick twisted fans from the Philippines or some other country in buttfuck nowhere that always died for reasons stupider than in real life. But those mistakes immediately got them killed, rather than left in a prolonged state of...whatever this agony felt like. The kind of agony where he couldn't help but wonder how Death would have its inevitable vengeance for his sudden and violent act of disobedience.

The fact that he had apparently left his bag, leaving him with only his precious 'music' - in reality a bloodied, tarnished circular sawblade tucked neatly into the dirtied sleeve that once held a vinyl record, was only the prelude to that punishment. Sure, he managed to get her to share a sip or a bite every now and then but other than that he tried to avoid saying anything, hoping and whimpering to himself often that Joseé would lead him back to Joe and in some miraculous chance help him reconcile before the two of them reaped her (with that first 'e',' he reminded himself) together.

Running into his eternal arch-nemesis Mike Maszer, unfortunately, did absolutely nothing to calm his mind. Neither, apparently, did what transpired next.

"Do you see...what I see?"

Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king...

Suddenly it was like a merry motherfucking christmas from Satan as Cisco's gaze traced the length of Mike's arm toward the object he pointed to.

It was a motherfucking boat. The kind of aquatic device used for fishing, leisurely cruises on the Riviera, and violent escape attempts from a game where everybody had to kill each other. And he knew how it went the last time it happened. Or at least part of it. He never really got the end of it, and neither did everyone else watching. But that was beside the point.

It was a motherfucking boat, and Mike was pointing at it with the clear intent of fucking with the game on it. And considering what happened to the others that tried (or because of those that tried), it wasn't hard for this sad little second-stringer to think that Death had finally found the perfect way to fuck with him.

It was a motherfucking boat, and Cisco could only watch as Mike pointed every fucking camera at the damn thing and go on in some inspiring speech that just somehow begged for inspiring background music. He found himself clinging to his record tighter than ever, which was saying quite a bit because apart from impromptu shitting breaks his bloodied arms had practically calcified around it. And that wasn't counting the temptation to try to use his 'music' on Mike the same way he did with Katelyn (his first reaped soul, according to a past announcement).

Then, Mike turned to speak to them. Apparently one of the football team members had also been attracted to the key, but despite his obviously looming figure Cisco hadn't noticed him up to that point. And speaking of points...

"Okay guys, to the point...Do you want to help me find more clues about this island's location? Or at least, did you found something like that name, which would help us, during those last four days?"

Right now it seemed that only Mike Maszer had any clue exactly where the fuck they were, in literal terms. Cisco knew pretty much where he was too...on the road to a proper fucking.

"Mike...I wanna know..." he began, what came next punctuated by what felt like a flood of depression he'd been holding back, "what the fuck are you doing?!"

Unfucked: Cisco Vasquez (V4)
Proper Fucked: Harris Van Allen (The Program), Rashid Hassan (V4)
Fucked Soon: Carlos Lazaro and Eliza Patton
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