WARRIORS HIGH
ISLAND OF THE LOST
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TRIBUTARY OBITUARY
TRIGGER WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER CONTAINS A SCENE WITH INTENSE CONTEMPLATION OF SUICIDE. IF THIS TOPIC UPSETS YOU, PLEASE SKIP THE FINAL PART OF THIS CHAPTER OR DISREGARD THIS CHAPTER ALTOGETHER.
IF YOU OR A LOVED ONE ARE IN MENTAL DISTRESS AND CONSIDERING SUICIDE, PLEASE CALL THE SUICIDE PREVENTION HOTLINE AT 1-800-273-8255. REMEMBER THAT NO MATTER WHERE YOU ARE AND WHAT HARDSHIPS YOU FACE, YOU WILL ALWAYS HAVE A PURPOSE AND YOU WILL ALWAYS BE LOVED.
Sofia "Daffodil" Bennett was once considered to be one of the best writers in the United States when she graduated from high school.
If you were to ask any of her high school teachers about her before they knew of her greatness, they would shrug, silently facepalming that they didn't see the prodigy-level material in her eyes. When she wasn't with a pen and paper, she was an average student. Couple of friends, B's and C's on her tests, there seemed to be nothing special about her.
Then came the first essay. An analysis paper on Fahrenheit 451.
Mrs. Rinder would say in her letter of recommendation that she received 53 essays trying to say the same thing with different words. Books were important to society and nothing would function without them, blah blah blah. Bennett had found a message completely different. Rinder joked that she was this close to submitting her two weeks' notice just from the pain of giving C's to boring papers when she picked up the fourth-to-last essay. She did a double take when the title read "Creativity for the General Audience: How Fahrenheit 451 Accidentally Conceptualizes a Visceral Transcending of the Reality We Strive For."
It was six pages of magic. An enthralling argument of how the concept of surrounding yourself with your fantasy amid your TV would and will always be more popular to an audience with eight-second attention spans and how books would have become obsolete anyway if they weren't illegal.
She not only gave a perfect score on it, but she also brought her in for a meeting and asked for her permission to submit the paper to The New Yorker, to which she accepted with a shocked look imprinted on her face. Obviously, they didn't accept, but the writer of the rejection letter did say that they were impressed and wished her well.
When Sofia Bennett showed her the letter, Mrs. Rinder knew exactly where she needed to be in America. Persuasive investigative journalism.
So she did. With her consistent excellence in writing, she got into the Medill School of Journalism in Northwestern, but dropped out after only two years. That was because the New York Times got hands on her profile and were "blown away," as the author of the job request said.
So there she was. A prodigious writer at one of the greatest news companies in the world.
So how does that translate to "resistance soldier on Lindisfarne?"
It began with the murder of George Floyd.
With the population riled up by their own testosterone thanks to the pandemic, America was plunged into chaos. Bennett didn't really mind. She was equally as mortified at the atrocity committed by the officers, but she wasn't really a political person. The only notable piece of work that came out of her was an article called "Commedia and the City on Fire," a simple comparison of Dante's Commedia to the chaos on the streets of Minneapolis.
This was just a source for news. Bennett was just waiting for the next fit of chaos.
And it came quickly. Just not in the vein that she was ready for.
On June 3, 2020, an op-ed opinion article called "Send in the Military" was published on the opinion page. It was written by Republican then-Senator Tom Cotton and amidst a majority-left audience, it riled up a lot of people. It didn't really bother Bennett, though. In fact, she found it intriguing that a pro-military essay was high-quality enough to transcend the flaming trash pile that was Fox News.
But four days later, the opinion writers declared mutiny and ousted the editor of seventeen years for good.
That made her mad.
The higher-ups could blab about how much James Bennet slacked on the quality check and how it was a dumb move and he wasn't ready to lead the leg of the newspaper to the future, but that wasn't at all what Bennett saw.
In an all or nothing society dominated by liberal voices, defiance, this sort of defiance and questioning of the goals they held at the left hand of the Father, was not allowed.
The editor didn't get fired because he let an underqualified essay run. He got fired because he let a different essay run.
That pissed off Sofia Bennett.
So she hit back.
She wrote a scathing essay titled "Confessions of a Republican-Censorship Contributor," relentlessly attacking the left media for suppressing and staining the voices of those who weren't exactly like them. She said that the left's "all or nothing" philosophy was the true thing pulling America apart like a buttered dinner roll.
Obviously, publishing something like this wasn't going to go under her name. So she consulted a random word generator to pick an alias.
The first word was Daffodil.
So she anonymously submitted the essay as an op-ed. Three days later, it was published and released hell on earth.
The following day, she stupidly sent in her two weeks' notice.
It didn't take a genius to make the connection.
Just as she expected, everyone turned on her. Those who once adored her writing made Facebook and Twitter accounts to deem her a secret Trump supporter with the bare minimum of competence to read and ambush her with all caps tweets asking her politely to jam a horse dildo up her ass and go the hell herself (along with a good old gif of Nicki Minaj flipping off the camera).
There was a limit to what she could take, though, so eventually, she sold her house and moved to Lindisfarne, where she worked as a cashier at a hardware store to pay the bills on her one-story bungalow.
Sometime later, she would meet Ashtooth, join the resistance after the attack on Lindisfarne, and forget about the career that she destroyed with her MacBook Pro.
Until the Times came crawling back to her and offered her a job.
"Hello?"
"Sofia Bennett?"
Daffodil immediately did a double-take, flashing a glance to Ashtooth that something was up.
"Who is this?" she responded, suspicion leaking from her voice.
"This is Daniel Brazelton from the New York Times. Am I speaking to Sofia Bennett?"
Daffodil barely caught an involuntary gasp in her throat, but the noise of resistance was enough to make Ashtooth flare-up in alarm. 'What?' he mouthed.
'It's the Times.'
Ashtooth froze, blinked, and after a momentary consideration, gestured with his finger to comply with the call.
"Yes. Do you need anything?"
"Although I understand you don't have much interest in talking with us, we have an offer to make you."
"Ssssssure." said Daffodil, now confused beyond belief.
"Well, it's been six days since Forrestlake got bombed and we've received requests to create a tributary obituary."
"Really? Like the one during COVID-19?"
"Exactly, and while we know that there are countless victims, we were thinking that since the mass exodus is close to passing, you would do a cross-reference of the refugees passing through with the census along with other sources here at the Times. We'd pay you handsomely as well. I think that with you, I can insert a carte blanche value into management's hands and pressure them into accepting."
Daffodil sat on the air mattress where she slept, eyes wide.
They were paying her to do one of the easiest jobs the Times could think of.
"I'm sorry, I need to think about this."
Without waiting for a response, she put the call on hold and left the room, gesturing for Ashtooth to follow.
"So?" he said gently.
"They want me to help draft a tributary obituary."
"Like COVID?"
"Yep. They're offering carte blanche."
"Damn," said Ashtooth, slowly taking it in.
The two stood in silence for a couple of seconds, the only ambiance coming from the occasional Jeep from up above the remains of the Underground, where the Resistance was holed up.
"I don't know," said Daffodil worriedly, "I'm just so confused. Why would the Times go back to me of all people?"
"Well," he said, chuckling, "as much hate as you got, you did send them into a bit of a skid. Trump was praising you like you were the daughter of Jesus for weeks."
"Don't remind me," she scoffed, "I don't know. I guess I'm just paranoid."
"Says the woman who was slapping me on the wrist for those same knots in my stomach a couple of weeks ago."
"Har har," she retorted, smirking, "So what do you think I should do?"
"Oh, don't ask me!" he responded immediately, "Listen, you have the mind of a Pulitzer Prize winner inside your skull. In a perfect world where Lindisfarne doesn't get bombed, I'd recommend that you stay at the Times, even past the blowout. You'd do so many great things! You'd probably have to get a closet for the number of awards you'd win. But you chose instead to stick around with a lowlife like me."
"You're oh so charming," said Daffodil, smiling as she wrapped her arms around Ashtooth's back, their faces now very close together, "But you suck at getting your point across."
"My point is it was your choice to pull that mic drop. It was your choice to follow me into this life. None of it was me. That's how it has been and how it will be now."
Daffodil nodded, letting her head process the offer one final time.
Fifteen seconds later, she had a plan.
"I'll do it."
"Alright."
"Under a couple conditions."
"Oh really?"
"Five hundred grand to a Forrestlake reimbursement fund and a kiss from the love of my life."
Immediately, half of her wish was granted. The two held the kiss for a couple seconds before breaking apart, witty smirks on their faces.
"Shall I get the Bon Jovi soundtrack playing?"
"I hate you."
"So you've told me," shot back Ashtooth, "Go tell that man you're in. I have to go talk to Seashell."
Daffodil broke away, standing at the door before stopping.
"Ash?"
"Hm?"
A faint glimmer of worry shined in her eyes, but she pushed it away. "Keep this between us."
"Of course."
Nine Days Later...
(continues from Chapter 51 of The New Era)
Dusty lay on his mattress, staring at the ceiling in contemplation and nothing but a pair of black sweatpants.
He needed a plan.
He couldn't stay like this forever, holed up in the back of an abandoned and looted gas station on the edge of Skyfair City. He and Sunfield could only get by for so long before BloodClan caught wind that there were stragglers around this joint. Besides, the stores were looted and there were only so many non-perishables the two could share before the city was drained for good.
He needed to somehow join up with the resistance. The problem was that he had no idea where they were. Cell reception was long gone, there were no trackers active on his phone and the group as a whole was broken up almost entirely.
Jaywhisker had carried him and Sunfield away from the blast radius minutes after the explosion before flying back. Other than him, he had no idea if the others were even alive.
No, he chided himself, shutting his eyes tight. He had to keep hope. There was no way that they were gonna stop Rock or ARS if he didn't believe that there was a chance.
But even then, Sunfield was all he had.
"YOU ARE MY SUUUUNSHINE, MY ONLY SUUUUNSHINE,
YOU MAKE ME HAAAAPY, WHEN SKIES ARE GRAAAAY…"
That alone was a double-edged sword.
"Are you trying to get us caught?" snapped Dusty as Sunfield returned to the long-busted freezer room where they slept.
"Relaaaaax," said the boy, throwing a bag down as he moved his hair out of his face with his hands, "We're fine. I circled the block. There's not a Jeep for miles."
"That's what you said when your greedy ass led you to a flatscreen TV."
"Oh come on," he retorted as he grabbed a half-eaten box of cereal and opened the bag, "We got the TV and learned that BloodClan is composed of nothing more than depressed divorcees and virgins in their 30s. I don't see how that's a bad thing."
"You got lucky," said Dusty, eating a handful of cereal out of his hand, "You can't charm the pants off of everyone."
"Oh, I dunno," he shot back with a sly grin, "I seem to be doing that to you quite well."
Dusty did a hasty double-take and looked between his legs, causing Sunfield to burst into laughter. "Asshole," he muttered, flopping back onto his mattress as the boy got a hold of himself.
The golden-haired boy made the wise decision to shut up, draining out the box of raisin bran as Dusty rested on his side, back to him.
Yeesh. This kid was dense.
Sunfield accepted that they weren't really on the best foot. Hell, the first time they talked, Dusty was holding a knife to his throat, but at the time, he just accepted it as paranoia. Ever since the Riven raid they hadn't been clicking at all. One of two things happened. Either Dusty was in a bad mood and ignored his attempts at playful banter or he himself did some dumb shit and Dusty snapped at him for being such an idiot.
Speaking of the latter…
Their shouting match the previous day made him squirm.
"WHEN WILL YOU SEE THAT LIFE IS NOT A GAME?! THAT LIFE IS NOT A JOKE?! THAT YOUR LIFE ISN'T A JOKE?!"
That stung.
A lot.
He knew that life wasn't a joke. He accepted that as much as anyone, but the blow felt like he had just insulted his religion.
It had been a long time since he had been hurt by words. Not since…
No. He refused to let his mind go to him.
"What do I gotta do?" he said out loud.
"Hm?" said Dusty, barely even acknowledging his presence.
"I wanna be your friend," he said cautiously, "What do I gotta do?"
Dusty was quiet for a couple seconds, making Sunfield worry that he had just riled him up further, but he sat up, his voice quiet.
"You can trust me."
Sunfield's eyes widened. "I do!"
"Yeah, going off on your own and almost getting yourself killed is a big reassurance."
His eyes fell to his shoes in guilt, but when he looked up he saw how miserable Dusty looked, his eyes red and wet.
"Did…" he started, "Did you see the New York Times?"
"No…"
"They, uh...they put in a special edition. A list of the names of the victims of the bombing."
Sunfield felt his stomach fill with dread.
Dusty gulped, letting the pain of what he was about to say resurface.
"Axis is dead."
Sunfield gasped, hands drifting to cover his mouth as Dusty tried to keep himself together.
"Dusty...I'm so…"
"You're all I've got, Sunfield…" he whimpered, lip quivering, "My boyfriend is dead, my parents are probably rolling in their graves, the resistance is gone and we're stuck in the middle of nowhere robbing stores for food. You are the last thing I have. I can't lose you...Not you too…"
Dusty began to cry, head bowed and tears dripping onto his pants.
He gasped suddenly as he felt arms wrap around him.
"It's gonna be okay," said Sunfield gently, smiling as he tightened the hug, "Things are gonna get better. I know they will."
Jesus. Even in the midst of nuclear fallout, the kid somehow found it in him to smile.
Dusty returned the gesture and sobbed into his shoulder, returning the hug tightly.
Their first sign of camaraderie.
Their first sign of friendship.
"Listen," said Sunfield a couple minutes later, "I will trust you on a couple of conditions. If you keep your head up, your chin high and if you don't back down. We've got a battle to fight and as long as you never back down, I'll be right here by your side."
Dusty nodded, wiping his eyes as Sunfield outstretched his hand.
"Do you trust me?"
Dusty only hesitated a moment before taking it, smirking with a newfound spark of confidence.
"Yes."
He nodded before turning around and grabbing his bags.
"Shall we get the hell out of dodge?"
Dusty nodded, grabbing a shirt from the corner. "Let's get the hell out of dodge."
"This is the official first test video test video of Bluejay Mark 7."
Jaywhisker checked that the camera was on the tripod before stepping back, slipping the sleek, remodeled gauntlets and thrusters on his hands and feet respectively.
He closed his eyes, inhaling a moment before preparing to test.
"3...2...1…"
Vibrant blue light shot out of the components, filling the room with smoke and a loud whirring sound, almost like the purring of a lion with a microphone taped to his throat.
Slowly, he levitated until he was five feet in the air. He held for thirty seconds before disengaging, dropping back to the ground and slipping out of his gear. There was no celebratory aura or signs of drinking. His face showed resolved calm. It was almost eerie.
"Alright," he said, "I'm done. Foxleap, I know you're watching this. You're smart enough to figure out how to put the pieces back together. The other six suits are stored further into Riven, there's a video with instructions somewhere. I couldn't give a shit at this point."
Jaywhisker shrugged. "I...I guess this is my note now. All I have to say for myself is this. There are two proponents of the purpose that exist for me on this planet. The first is the resistance, the merry band of dumb hooligans who dragged me to this shithole. Last I heard, they were assisting refugees in the Underground, y'know, with supplies and shit. As much as they piss me off, they're good people. I, being the opposite of a good person, do not deserve their company or camaraderie. Ashtooth, Seashell, Mallowleaf, Coalstrike, Dusty, Thank you for everything you've done for me. But you all are fucking idiots for that anyway. You should have left me starving on the streets of Lindisfarne, you and I know."
"Number two…"
Jaywhisker stuttered, remorse sneaking into the dying twinkle in his eyes.
"Three days ago, the New York Times released an obituary of those confirmed dead in the bombing. Since I'm about to kill myself, you can guess who was on the list pretty damn quickly."
"I first met Russetleap at the airport in Minneapolis. He had been abandoned by his parents there and was expected to ship himself to Lindisfarne. Y'know, I've always planned on killing myself for reasons you know but I will not disclose here, because when I arrived here, I was a depressed insomniac video game addict who had lost his spark for engineering."
"Russ did the impossible. He convinced me that I was actually worth something. Something, no offense, absolutely no one had ever convinced me of legitimately. He was my purpose. He was the reason I was alive."
"And now he's gone. So I'm done."
Jaywhisker paused, glancing around the room he was holed up in.
"Alright, I'm done. Good luck with everything. Hopefully, you'll complete my fist-bump from hell when you eventually help rebuild society. Because you all are special. You all have worth. I don't. And you can't convince me otherwise."
"But thanks for everything. That's all I've got to say. Jaywhisker out."
He shut off the camera, exported the 19 videos he had made over the last week to the USB drive, and set it on the table. He scribbled a crude bluejay on the white label, set it on top of the computer, and left the room behind.
He made his way through the catacombs of what remained of Riven. In his pillaging of Foxleap's secret information, he had found a bunker of sorts that Poppyfrost had begrudgingly allowed him to commission. When the bombs blew, Jaywhisker got Dusty and Sunfield out of the blast radius, and after a nasty encounter with BloodClan, who had taken over the mansion, retreated to the bunker, which was thankfully still intact though it did take some flipping.
He thought he could work to perfect the suit so that he could swing back into action.
And then he found out Russ was dead.
And he collapsed in record time.
So there he was, emerging from the underground about a hundred feet from the bunker. He found himself walking through the dead, dry forest under he came to a cliff overlooking a lake.
This seemed like a good place. If he shifted his center of mass forward, his body would fall into the lake. A suitable resting place for a despicable sinner.
So he pulled out his pistol, loaded it, and inserted the barrel into his mouth. He relaxed, willing his heart to be calm for its final moments of function, and closed his eyes.
I'm sorry, Russ, he thought, I hope you're at peace, wherever you are.
CLANG!
Suddenly, something hit the hand holding his gun, ripping the pistol out of his mouth and causing him to waver and fall on his ass. Just as he looked around to see what interfered with his suicide, he felt a second object his opposite hand and his wrists were thrust together into a position not unlike handcuffs.
He looked down in fury but stopped when he saw his gauntlets.
"What the fuck?"
He tried pulling them apart to no avail. This was not part of the plan. Why were the gauntlets suddenly active and restraining him?
The answer came when he saw that the lights of the photon beams, usually dark blue, were street light green.
"Oh."
There was only one condition where the photon emitters would turn green.
A code line called FAILSAFE255.
A set of 255 lines of code Foxleap developed himself. It was a failsafe mode for the suit that would have it automatically detect when it's user was in mortal peril and it was away from the suit. Jaywhisker wasn't completely sure how the code worked since he never spent any time looking into it, so he had forgotten it until the moment it was most inconvenient for him.
And since he had no idea how the set worked, he had no idea how to override or disable it.
Meaning he needed Foxleap to do it himself without him finding out that he intended to kill himself.
"Shit."
Thanks to the goddamn code, it was impossible to kill himself now.
But Foxleap would certainly find a way here. This was his best-kept secret (which, he admitted, was hardly impressive), so he would have to come by here.
Until then, Jaywhisker inwardly resigned, he would have to wait to shake Satan's hand in person for another day.
Well, ain't this a treat. I haven't posted a 4,000-word chapter in quite some time.
If you've been keeping tabs on this miniverse, you know that Jay dropped two nuclear bombs on both Forrestlake and Riven. This chapter was originally gonna be the final moments of the characters that would die, but that was a very low-quality chapter, so I scrapped it. If I manage to stick around, I might include it in extra scenes and outtakes after the story is over.
And now it's time for some author confessions.
I had no plan for Daffodil whatsoever. When I originally pitched the concept to Jay, this was gonna mainly be an overhaul of the events from The Holy Island, the forum this miniverse is based on. Daffodil was a kittypet who ran away after meeting Ashtooth and became his mate, so I kept her in. She's been dull as a metal sphere since I wrote her into existence months ago, so I finally decided to give her a backstory. I kind of like what I came up with in the end, especially because of how hasty I was.
I also had no plan for Dusty and Sunfield until Jay showed off how he was his pride and joy. Their first interaction I struggled with for a long time since Sunfield's character trait was out of my league, but now these two are really fun to write together. You'll be seeing more of them in the future, that's for sure.
And this is the first trigger warning I have genuine concern about. I know suicide is a...sensitive topic on this website, but this is Jaywhisker. A man who has narrowed down his purpose to the things he never thought would leave him this soon.
Out of all the characters I've ever written, he's the closest to reality I've ever dared to tread.
But back on topic, I'll repeat my request from the beginning of the chapter. If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255. They do wonders and helped me out of a dark time. I trust that they will do the same to you if you call for help.
I plan to upload one more chapter, but on the 3rd, I'm traveling to see my extended family (while adhering to the guidelines of social distancing, of course). I'll be out of commission for a week before I get back in action. Don't get too concerned if I disappear for a week or longer. I will be back. Promise.
Alright, I've rambled long enough. Have a great day, stay safe and keep your brain in tip-top shape.
Best,
~Res