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Lord of Lunatics; night of Day 4/morning of Day 5
Topic Started: Jan 26 2017, 01:58 AM (1,010 Views)
Grim Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
[Alex Tarquin ENTER: from Woof Woof, I'm a Dog. Kill your Friends.]

Alone.

It was good to be alone, wasn't it? Alone meant safe, in some ways. Jeremy might have pointed that gun on his behalf, but that didn't mean he couldn't point it at Alex if he changed his mind. There could only be one winner, whatever code of honor Alex pretended he might cling to. And it was all pretend, of course. All of it. He felt himself unraveling, and all his pretensions fading to black.

Now it was just Alex. The accidental murderer pretending intent, because accident was idiocy and intent was glory.

He'd sent Jeremy away. He'd let Hazel go. Those had been his choices. Just like cutting off Crowe's finger, and just like shoving a shelf atop Rea's still-warm body. All his decisions. His loneliness was a choice. He'd sent his friend away.

He hummed to himself, as he wandered the halls of the Asylum, as he froze and moved cagily and cattily, mastering the stage, always leaving cans in his wake. Recovering some as he moved, leaving others. Mastering the layout of this place, blocking and marking, so that when time came to perform

(to kill, to kill, don't pretend otherwise)

he would be ready. In control.

Alone.

Also: grungy and ugly.

This was a problem: Alex had not showered in days, and there was really no hope of a shower in the near future. He smelled, and he was going to keep smelling. That thick, spicy, strangely soupy scent that always came with accumulated BO. But he handle smelling. Smelly was just something he'd have to accept here.

The real problem was appearance. This broadcast was going to be aired, as every other broadcast has been aired. He was going to be seen. His clothes were grungy, but that was alright--a little bit of Mad Max post-apocalypse grunge would probably help sell him as a warrior badass. But he still had to look good. He still...

What did it matter? He was going to die. No one would believe him.

Jeremy believed me. Hazel, Michael, Jordan. Lily?

He hummed, as he stalked the halls of the Asylum, tracing them as best he can, sketching out his mental map of his stage. He hummed, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. Staying alive, staying aware. Staying himself. Whichever self he was trying to be, these days.

Flooded water on his feet. A creepy room, with slimy tubs. Perfect setting for a horror movie. It set the skin on his neck crawling, thinking of a half-dozen found-footage movies. This was a room of horrors. A room for monsters.

And that was what he wanted to be, right? A proper horror monster. A Hannibal Lecter, contained within the asylum but not imprisoned by it.

Tired. So tired. So alone.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

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Grim Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Alone. Ugly, inside and out. A story he was trying to make even his fellow players believe, little monster that he was. Crowe had been right: all he'd done was kill one scared little girl, because he was afraid himself. Christ, what a fucking coward he was! All those words about fitness and honor, because no one else knew the truth. No one else knew...

Not alone.

The cans were clanging and rattling. Someone was coming.

Alex had wandered for hours, tracing the halls of this place, leaving his cans and strings in his wake. When he could not find cans, he made do with whatever clanging pieces of metal he could jury rig together. He knew someone was coming. Getting closer, before they stopped tripping any alarms. He had come from that way himself. He knew what halls they could possibly take, and where they led.

He stood at a slight angle, his head tilted so it seemed like he wasn't looking at the door, like he was unaware of whoever was coming. But with the way he'd left his flashlight, he had a clear reflection leading back down that hall. He watched that reflection for any movement, for any sign of a gun, for any sign of danger. There was a doorway in the opposite direction: if it looked too dangerous, he'd bolt.

And then he saw the figure. He recognized him, too. All the wear and tear of the past few days hadn't made him any less recognizable. Crowe.

His grip tightened on his machete, but otherwise he gave no visible sign of what he'd seen. Dangerous. Very dangerous. But a good story. Perhaps a chance at the glory he was losing. A chance to sell his name and...

And a chance to kill again, you fucking monster.

Yes, well. After all he'd said and all he'd done, he didn't have the luxury of looking back. Not if he wanted to survive. Not if he wanted to be remembered.

He considered his options. He muttered to himself, nonsense phrases--"peas and carrots, rhubarb"--as he looked around the room. Let Crowe get just a little closer. Let him strike, and think nothing was wrong.

Alex's heart was beating fast, and his fingers and toes were tingling with electric adrenaline. He could taste ash on his tongue. He could die, right here. But after so long alone, he had to admit: there was a part of him that wanted to fight. A part of him that wanted to kill.

Just let him get a little closer.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

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Grim Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Crowe stopped moving.

Alex did not turn his head to look, still mumbling, still pretending to search the room, still pretending that he couldn't see Crowe. The axe was rising, oh so slowly. Christ, did Crowe think he was an executioner? Did he think he was the killer in a slasher film? There wasn't time for this.

Alex's heart was pounding in his chest. His limbs felt weak with stress and adrenaline. Just a little closer, Crowe.

Alex tightened his grip on his machete, ready to swing, and-

And there was movement across the room. A face Alex vaguely recognized. Where had he seen that face?

"Tarquin," said the voice, and Alex recognized the voice, Alex had heard it whispering, shouting, cursing his name, bellowing in rage, Alex had heard it days and days ago, after the bullet hadn't killed him, after his sword had cut through Rea and

oh fuck

The gun was rising, and there was a hissing like a snake, and Alex threw himself backwards, forgetting Crowe was there, and the two fell back together as the thunder of a gunshot rang through the room, and Alex kicked out with all his strength and the tub of slimy water just in front of him fell over, unleashing a dank splashing cascade across the flooded room, mirroring the splashing of his tumbling flailing against Crowe. His flashlight went tumbling, casting wild shadows across the grimy room.[/i]
Edited by Grim Wolf, Feb 7 2017, 05:09 PM.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

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Grim Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Flailing blows, Crowe and Alex rolling apart, Alex's machete somewhere in the dark, Alex's other sword digging into his back. He moved sinuously through the dark, hoping Rea's avenger wouldn't find him, hoping-

To no avail. There was Rea's avenger, spinning in his gun, a shadow in the dark every bit as theatrical as he was. The Announcements droned to life around them, and Alex could suddenly recognize the man in front of him. Will McKinley. Had Rea and him been an item? Things began to make a lot more sense, the accidental narratives they'd created, heroes and villains and avengers.

Will was offering him a choice.

I'm going to die

Crowe was off in the dark, and had been preparing to strike him down. Rea's avenger was there, just out of reach, tall and gaunt and terrible, with his gun in hand. No chance of getting lucky from this range, no scrapes along the scalp. This man would put an end to him, one way or another.

Die like a man or die like a worm?

When the fall is all that's left


The choice was not 'die like a man or like a worm.' The choice was 'die a man or die a legend.'

Alexander David Tarquin flashed a grin up at the man with the gun. He raised his voice in a proper theatrical style. "Man or worm?" he shouted, laughing a little. "You're a child, Will. Playing their game and pretending it's vengeance. What did Darius do to you?" He laid back against the cold, slimy ground, hating the feeling of the water sloshing around him, showing none of his disgust on his face. "In this moment, you are fit and I am not," he said. "Play, or don't play. But don't lie to yourself. You're no different from me."
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

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Grim Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Closer now. That gun pointing at him. Everything could end, at any moment, in pain and blood. The old terror was in him now, wild and terrible, and he did not try to fight it. He let it ride through him, gave him the edge he needed, the energy and the mania.

All this shall be lost
Like tears
in rain


But it would't be lost. The cameras were rolling. Alexander David Tarquin might well die, but he would die as the man who had mastered their game, even when he'd lost it.

On guard, Rainsford

He was so so so so so afraid.

The gun was pointed at him. Will was speaking his words of danger and accusation, words that hit hard. Alex searched deep, tried to marshal the ones he needed, the fitting last lines for the villain he was supposed to-

The crackling of electricity. The bellowing of a madman. Will was spinning around, pointing his gun at Crowe as he plunged across the room and-

And the moment was now, because when the fall is all that's left it matters, but when you can dodge the fall, wrench yourself upright, claw your way out of the ravine and cling tenaciously to every scrap of life, that's what you do.

Alex twisted and lunged in a low tackle, knocking Will off his feet as the thunder of his gun sounded through the room. The gun the gun the gun that could end them in an instant, so Alex was struggling for it, trying to knock the weapon from Will's hand.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

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Grim Wolf
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Sweet mother of Christ, but Will's grip was tight! It was all Alex could do to keep the gun from pointing at him, and then-

And then.

He saw Crowe hurtling forwards, something sparking in his hand and stabbing towards Will's hand and

mother

FUCKER


Electricty spasmed out along Alex's body, tightened him, chilled, him warmed, him made him feel strange and lopsided, his nerves all janky and out of order, like his fingers were toes and his his toes fingers, nothing firing quite right. He rolled away, gasping, his body tingling. The large sword burned against his back, digging into his shoulder blades. Everything felt wrong. Everything hurt.

Death and madness and pain, and Alex hated every moment of it. But he had to survive here. He had to thrive here. That was the role he'd cast for himself.

He rolled, and kept rolling, so he somersaulted to his feet, and he reached for that gargantuan, ridiculous sword that Lizzie Luz had granted him those days, months, lifetimes ago atop the cliffs where he and she had Tara had talked when he had imagined he could be a hero or

(had the Announcements said Tara? Had he heard that right? But what did it matter now, in the thick of the fight?)

But there was no time for practical concerns or memories or hope or anything but focus. The war had begun again, and Alexander David Tarquin had to win it.

He drove forwards, slashing down with his enormous sword.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

V5 Players


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Grim Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The fight was over.

Had to be over. Will's advantage had been that gun, but here, sword in hand and whatever the fuck that shocking thing was that Crowe had? No question, no contest. They'd tear Will apart

(because he wanted to avenge the woman he'd love yes what a piece of work you are Alex Tarquin)

He moved forwards to end this fight, and

Crow fucking turned on him and started stabbing with that god damn lightning knife

No no no what the actual fuck Crowe are you insane? Do you believe your bullshit about heroes and villains, righteous and wrong? Crowe, you idiot, the man with the gun is in front of you, you can end this, but everytime Alex tried to get closer or started to say something that stabbing knife was lashing out again and Alex had to duck and weave because just the aftershocks of that thing had hurt him and he had no intention of getting the full brunt he had no-

The knife made contact with his sword. Electricity singed along the metal, into his palms, down into the water at his feet. Little jolts of steam rose up through the air as Alex flung himself backwards, dancing atop lighting that made his body sing with pain.

He hit the ground, hard. His head was spinning, his body shaking. What the fuck was that weapon?

Focus, Tarquin! You're still alive!

Still alive, yes. Still fighting. How's your image look? How's the villain who will be the Fittest, come hell or high water?

In the heat of that electric pain, in the thrill of adrenaline, he felt a peculiar clarity. His thoughts had realigned. Who was he supposed to be?

He rose in the dark, saw Crowe and Will entangled in a frenzy of stabbing, slashing, kicking, crackling. His body was shaking, and he allowed a grin to unfurl on his face. He looked around the room, and found Crowe's axe just in front of him.

He lunged forwards, scooping up the axe, charging forwards, fever-bright with fearless fury, and raised his body in a projecting, booming laugh, conveying this strange manic sensation, this violent clarity, because for the first time on this damn island there was no pretense because for the first time there were two men in front of him and both had tried to hurt him and to ruin him and it was enough, enough.

He was a villain fighting heroes. Act like it.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

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Grim Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Blood on his axe. Crowe's blood. Crowe's blood on Crowe's axe, ha!

The man looked up at him, his eyes wide, his mouth bared in an uneven, monstrous grin. Dim light had begun to filter in from outside, and his flashlight was still casting shadows across the room. Blood like paint, dripping down his jaw. He'd seen this before, hadn't he? That fight in the park, when they'd been kids at high school playing games.

Crowe started crawling away, moaning.

Crowe. Crowe. How the fuck did we get here, Crowe? How-?

Movement, from the corner of Alex's eye. He turned to face the source.

Gun.

Gun!

Gun right there, and the moment's clarity was gone, and he was not a villain and he was not larger than life. He was just a mortal man with his death in front of him.

"Looks like your luck's out, Alex."

Alex's hand tensed on his axe. There had to be something he could do!

"Say hi to Darius for me."

You are about to die, Alex Tarquin. This is how your life ends, how your story ends. Here, in this inglorious fight. Everything goes wrong. Everything. You are alone, without a single soul to trust. Your parents will mourn you, while Rea's parents curse your name, while Crowe's parents curse your name. You intend to be a villain, so act the part. Say something.

Click

Alex blinked.

Click click click clickclickclickclickclick

The gun was jammed. The gun was jammed? The bullets failed to fly again, and Alex was still alive, Alex was still alive.

Will turned and ran. Alex hurtled after him without thinking, axe whisking through the air where Will had been. Fire and fury, the urgent necessity of violence, and something else, too. How many times could a gun fail to kill him? Even with all his care and caution, how many times could Alex survive the impossible?

"Run away, Will!" Alex howled, as Will vanished. "You're no hero! You're no avenger!" He raised his voice still higher. "You're even more a coward than me!"

He stopped. Will was gone, and Alex was in mood to get ambushed. He turned back around, and saw Crowe upon the ground. Crowe, who he'd hurt.

His head was a roiling, wild mess. He was alive, gloriously and unexpectedly alive, and his body still sang with the electric pain of Crowe's shock knife, and thrilled with the incredible fire of such a fight, so much better than the paintball duel of long ago, a contest where everything was on the line, and he was still performing, and the butterflies still beating in his stoamch.

He dropped to one knee in front of Crowe, his stolen axe in Alex's hand. He opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say.

Play the villain, of course. That's what you've decided.

"Look at yourself, hero." He spat that last word with all the venom he could muster. "All these avengers, and no one avenged."

He raised his axe for the killing blow. But this wasn't like Rea, was it? She wasn't surprising him out of the dark. His adrenaline and fury were fading: this was murder in cold-blood.

"Weakness and strength, Crowe," he said. "No other truths in this mad place."

He raised the axe still higher.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

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Grim Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Question: why does a villain monologue?

There's an easy answer for that, of course. It's the narrative answer. If you're telling a story from the hero's perspective, than the only chance for the villain to have their say is to have their say all at once. In the heat of confrontation, when all the cards must be revealed, and the stakes set in earnest. The hero's strength and ideals against the villain's, spelled out in perfect clarity so that the audience may understand.

But what about the man who must play the villain? Who must bring weight and reality to the scene? He has to understand why the villain is doing what he's doing. He has to understand the nature of the monologue. And so he finds that the justification is exactly the same as the writer's, but with the weight of desperation.

The villain monologues because he wants someone to understand. Because he so rarely gets to speak freely, hiding his intentions behind veils and feints so he may always emerge triumphant. He monologues because in a moment of power he is able, at last, to put aside his masks...

Except that's not what Alex was doing. Alex was monologuing because he was afraid. Because Crowe, for all his jabbing and bluster, didn't deserve to die, and Alex knew it.

He was committed, wasn't he? Committed by the scene. He had to kill, however Crowe might beg, however pitiable the man might look. Crowe had challenged him, with far more audacity than their last confrontation. If Alexander David Tarquin was to be the fittest, he had to end it. He had to end it now. He had to-

In spite of himself, the axe lowered, just a little.

Crowe moved, lunged with more vigor than his sobbing, weak body should possibly have had. Alex moved backwards, but slipped in the wet room, lost his balance and couldn't quite rise and then-

And then: pain.

Worse than any of the blows, worse than anything, that terrible shocking force that grabbed him and wouldn't let him go, and he was shaking with it, the axe clutched uselessly between spasming hands, his left eye burning and searing and scalding and he felt a pain like a migraine of flame inside his god damn skull inside his god damn eye socket and everything was going white and dark around the edges, his mind was a storm, his body a storm, he was screaming and he couldn't stop himself, there was no thought left of heroes or villains, no thought left of who he was supposed to be, nothing left but the pain.

The knife shorted out with a cartoonish kzzzzzt. Alex slumped backwards, shaking in the water so that little ripples spread around him. Shaking, shaking, shaking.

And then: Not shaking. Not moving. Not breathing.
Edited by Grim Wolf, Feb 22 2017, 12:10 AM.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

V5 Players


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Not breathing.

It exists beneath your notice, just like blinking. It's something you do so automatically that you take it for granted. You don't think about making your heart pump: it just does. You don't think about making your lungs work: they just do.

Until they don't. Until you're drowning in the dark, your thoughts dimming away. And there weren't many thoughts left to begin with: they died in the storm, sundered and burnt by bolts of lightning scissoring across your consciousness. Now the heavy clouds are drawing a blanket over your soul.

He was dying, wasn't he? This was what dying felt like.

It didn't hurt. It barely felt like anything at all. Like a blanket slipping in place on a cold night after a long day, a moment's comfort, a moment's restful bliss. Sleep now. It will all be over soon.

How had Crowe gotten the shock knife in hand? How had he surprised Alex?

The questions hardly seemed to matter, but they did matter. Alex remembered how much they mattered. Somewhere in the dark was the thought of this thing, this fixation, this obsession. He was supposed to...there was something he was supposed to do.

This was important. This mattered. There was something he was supposed to do.

What did it matter now? It's over. Sleep.

But Alex didn't want it to be over. Alex didn't want to sleep. Alex didn't want to die, not when there was so much future ahead, lovers he'd never known and stardom he'd never obtain, not when there was all this life left and not when he had gone down like a little bitch, surprised by a man he'd hurt because he hadn't been able to bring down the blade. Alex wanted to live. Alex wanted to live.

Alex bolted upright, gasping, and the shock knife clattered down into the dark, a welt of bright pain pulsing against the side of his face. His lungs ached, his chest burned, his heart was pounding so hard and so disjointedly that his head was spinning, his body felt weak and wrong. Everything shook. He couldn't stop himself from trembling, and he wrapped his arms tight around his body and shivered in the wet dark. He was pretty sure he'd crapped himself somewhere during the fight--whether it was because he was staring down the barrel of a gun or because he had been electrocuted he didn't know, but there was an uncomfortable squishing against his ass he really didn't like. Embarrassing. So fucking embarrassing. He'd been humiliated in front of the cameras. He'd been...

Who could believe that Alexander David Tarquin was a villain now?

He was lost in humiliation and weak agony. He sat, huddled in the dark, careless of image and careless of cameras. So careless that it took him a long time to realize he couldn't see out of his left eye.

He blinked, and found that only one eye closed. He felt nothing against his left eye. He felt very little on that side of his face. He trailed his fingers down until he felt tender, sunburn pain, then pack up until he felt numb.

And still, he could not see.

My eye. He...he...

He felt tears in the one eye he had left. He huddled down into the dark, his jaw clenched. He couldn't cry. He couldn't. If he cried...if...

What, Alex? What happens then? How can this be any worse? You've lost an eye, you've been electrocuted, and you're covered in shit. You've lost.

I haven't lost


Huddled in on himself, knees pressing against his chest, blind in one eye (it'll never work again I'll never see again I I I I I). He'd lost.

I'm alive.

What the fuck does that matter, Alex? Alive, and blind, and humiliated. You've got nothing. You're just a scared little boy and everyone can see that now.

They can't see anything. All they can see is a fight.

A fight you lost.

How many battles did Napoleon lose? How many times has someone beaten Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers? How many times were Vader's plans thwarted?

You're not them.

How do you know?

Vader never shat himself.

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. But if he did, he made damn sure no one could find out about it.

Okay. Okay. There was something there, something real. If it was over, he'd killed Rea for nothing. He'd taken Crowe's finger for nothing. He'd lost an eye for nothing. That was unacceptable. That was unacceptable.

"I see," he croaked. His throat was sore from screaming. He considered elaborating, but decide against it. Leave it for now.

He rose to his feet, and almost fell over. He hunched onto his knees, staring out into the dark. He still felt that awful, trembling weakness, but that was alright. He had to be larger than life, but a little human weakness was acceptable. Edmund is not less daunting an antagonist because he laments the accident of his bastard birth. As long as it never defeated him. As long as it never made him any less formidable.

Start moving. Keep moving. The longer you lay in the dark, the harder it becomes to recover. Do you want the world to see a child forced to kill against his will, or a towering antagonist who has awakened to a higher truth? Will you be a boy? Or will you be a legend?

Slowly, so slowly, he moved around the room. He gathered his weapons and his gear, one by one. He took a drink of water, and ate a little food, and vomited it all almost immediately. He gasped, staring at the steaming pile in the center of the room, acrid bile scorching at his throat. God, so weak.

He chuckled. It was forced and rasping, but maybe that would work for him. He needed more than that, though. An observation. The cameras are always watching.

He drank a little more water, swallowing against the pressure in his throat. It stayed down, and he resumed his quest to gather his stuff. It was harder, though: everything felt uneven, and he kept making assumptions about the darkness in his left eye, bumping his shin against pipes and upturned tubs. After a long, precarious while, he'd gathered his bag and his weapons, and secured all of it in a pile in the corner, free from the damp and the cold.

Now what?

Can't smell like shit can't look like shit.

The answer came to him. He took off shit shirt, with its makeshift leather greaves that had protected him in his fight with Crowe and Will. He undid the red headband, and laid them down atop his bag. He staggered across the room, until he found a tub still filled with grungy, unpleasant water. He rocked back and forth against it, with his flashlight angled so he could see his face. So he could see the black, charred flesh around his black, charred eye.

He stared at that for several seconds, grasping at the edge of the tub. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. He needed to be in control, and he wasn't. He wasn't.

Use it.


"I see," he said again. "Weak." He closed his one remaining eye, so he wouldn't have to look at himself. "So..."

He plunged into the tub, cringing at the slimy feel of it against his skin. The skin around his injured eye exploded in pain, but he forced himself to stay down, pulled the pants off his waist in one smooth move, and set to work with fingers and hands. He cleaned himself, as best he could. Until he felt that only the slime remained.

And? Finish the story, Alex. How does this end?

He exploded out of the slimy water, throwing his head back so droplets splashed against the ground. "WEAK!" he howled, and the rasp in his voice gave the words a guttural growl that echoed through the room. He found he rather liked the sound of it. He sounded dangerous. "UNFIT!" he repeated, mostly because he liked the way the words echoed.

He strode out of the tub, forcing himself to move confidently (and now instinct was taking over, he'd spent some time exploring this room and he knew exactly how it was arranged, he could trust his memory to lead him in the darkness). Dripping, naked, and slimy (but with no visible trace of his disgusting embarassment) he returned to his stuff. He slipped the greaves off the shirt, and toweled himself off with the scrub top, working top to bottom. When he was reasonably dry, he pulled the old jeans from his back, and pulled them on. Then he secured the leather greaves on his bare arms.

And the eye? Shouldn't you bandage that?

No. Think of the image. Shirtless swordsman in denim with one blackened eye

But you just plunged face-first into that disgusting water while cleaning shit off yourself. There's a risk of infection.

In answer, Alex reached into the back, and grabbed the alcohol wipes. He moved in slow, purposeful circles around the eyes, first in the tender, stinging tissue around it, working into the numb black. But he stopped when he felt the hollow-soft jelly of the dead eye.

He was ready, as he could ever be. He had the image he needed. He had the narrative again.

"No more mercy," he said. He grabbed his weapons and his bag, arranged everything to it wouldn't slow him down, hesitated but left that large sword behind, leaning against the wall with casual danger. So prepared, he started to walk, slow but sure, out into the island. He was the vision of a nightmare--hair crusted with blood, sweat, and slime, left eye a blackened expanse of burnt flesh and murderous intent, barechested and well-built, a bag over his shoulder, a machete in one hand and an axe in the other, the explosive collar around his neck.

That wasn't a good end, of course. He needed more. He needed to complete the transformation, the daunting ascension from honorable warrior to post-apocalypse nightmare. And that required vengeance.

That required Michael Crowe.

(EXIT: Alex Tarquin to Real Human Being)
Edited by Grim Wolf, Feb 26 2017, 03:29 PM.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

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