In The Clear: Pre-Games IX
Casimir "Casi" Kaminski, 17, Revelstoke BC
At least I'm not dead.
Casi knows they're in for a great day when that's the only positive sentiment his brain can pull together. Every joint seems to protest as they throw their legs over the edge of his cot. Truthfully, if Casi thought they'd get any more sleep he might just stay here and try. There's just something unsettling about sleeping with the door open. That's particularly true when said door happens to leave a full wall of their room exposed.
It could always be worse, Casi thinks as they stretch some of the stiffness from his back. Their mind struggles to come up with many ways that the sleepless nights could get worse, but he's sure they could. Even after what happened last night.
They shiver. Truthfully, they don't want to think about it. Casi is the type of person to find intrigue in just about anything no matter how macabre, but something about last night feels different. Suddenly, as eager as he is to run and talk to Meg, they're just as hesitant to actually leave the cell.
Especially when they look up and the same room is still blacked out above them.
The longer they look…
He shivers… It's like Casi can still hear the screams. They trailed off in the early hours of the morning, replaced with the same sounds from the night before. In comparison, the groaning glass and rumbles were like an only slightly unsettling lullaby. However, even then, Casi can't imagine they got more than a few hours.
That certainly bodes well for this morning's plans.
They catch a glimpse of Meg in the adjacent cell block and both point upward in unison. She even manages a smile that Casi only returns once they've both reached the platform above. Judging by the purple puffs under their eyes, Meg didn't get much more sleep than he did. She, at least, seems to be hiding it a bit better.
"How'd you sleep?" Casi asks, at the same time missing whatever Meg says. They both laugh quickly and start again, neither thinking to wait their turn. Casi shakes their head and gestures to let her talk. Unfortunately, Meg does the same.
"You first," she says finally.
Casi nods. "How'd you sleep?"
Meg shrugs. "Is that what we were supposed to be doing? No, but seriously I feel like death."
"I think death might feel better than I do now," he sighs. "What do you think happened? The screams were different. They sounded so much closer, and what's with the room-"
"You didn't see them?"
Casi snaps to attention. "See who?"
"There were people upstairs," she says, allowing their eyes to trail ever so slightly upward. At least inside the stairwell, there's nothing to see. "I saw them after the tones. Two, maybe three of them, but they disappeared before the screams started. That's when I noticed-"
"The blacked out room," Casi interrupts. Instantly they run up the next set of stairs and into the common area. Their neck is craned so far upwards that he's shocked they don't run into anything. Still, none of the rooms look dark. "It's gone."
"So you did see that," Meg says after a deep breath.
"Who was up there?" Casi asks. "Did you see who it was?"
She shakes their head. "I'm not even sure how many there were."
Casi presses their palms over his eyes. None of this makes sense. Try as they might, the dots refuse to connect and it makes them want to scream. He should be able to figure this out. They can feel that this is all intertwined, but his tired mind doesn't want to do anything no matter how much they poke it.
"I don't understand," they say finally as he sinks down onto one of the benches. In an instant all the excitement that'd been keeping Casi awake seems to have melted into the floor. This is what they do. He loves theorizing and putting metaphorical puzzles together. This should be a breeze; all the pieces Casi needs are right in front of their face.
Meg sighs and takes the seat across from them. "I don't think we're supposed to."
Casi lets their cheek land against the table. He hates this feeling in particular, but there's little motivation to fend it off. Most days, it's not too difficult to find a bright side. Aris isn't in prison. Casi will be out in a few years. Sure it'll be harder to get into university or start a career with their record but it's not the end of the world. For the first few weeks of prison, those were the thoughts that comforted Casi when it felt like the walls were closing in.
Now, nothing seems to be stopping them.
"Is there anything I can do?" Meg asks softly. They look up to see her watching them, not with the usual curious glimmer in her eyes but something else entirely. They actually look concerned.
Casi tries to search for the joke or some frivolous remark, but even that evades him. Instead, he just shakes their head. "Thanks."
"Why don't we take it easy today?" Meg says with a sigh. They don't seem upset, in fact her shoulders relax just a little as she mimics Casi's terrible posture. He knows they're just trying to make them feel better, but it only makes them feel even more pathetic. Casi doesn't want to take it easy, only the rest of their body does.
"No," He says firmly as they force themself to his feet. "We're gonna solve this mystery, Scooby-Doo style if we have to."
Meg raises her eyebrow before a small smirk pulls at the corner of their lips. "My favourite."
"Mystery?" A voice from behind Casi nearly makes them hit the ceiling. He whirls around to see a tall boy with a wide smile standing just a little bit too close. Casi takes a step back without thinking and their thighs hit the table.
"Morning, Omar," Meg says as she stands to greet the newcomer. Casi recognizes the name as the person Meg told them about last night after their session. He looks pretty much nothing like Casi expected.
They take another step to the side as Omar turns his smile on Meg. "Did you sleep okay?"
"Did anyone?" She shrugs. "Did you see anything weird last night?"
Omar cocks his head to the side as if deep in thought. "Not last night, but the first night the guy beside me wasn't in his cell."
"What?" Casi and Meg ask at the same time.
"Yeah," Omar shrugs. "I thought it was weird too."
Casi turns towards her. "Aren't you beside Omar?"
"I am but on the other side-"
"The guy from upstairs!" Casi exclaims. "I saw him go into his cell last night but he's right, I don't remember seeing him the night before."
"The one you told me about? That showed you the table screen with the boxes?" They ask.
"Yeah, him."
"I'm a little lost," Omar interjects, lifting both hands in a show of surrender. "Boxes?"
Casi shakes their head. He's about to explain what little they know, but something stops them. His eyes search Omar's expression. They find nothing of note but the apprehension doesn't leave. Meg doesn't seem bothered by his presence. She's spent a lot more time with Omar than Casi has. Clearly they don't dislike him, at least not enough to tell him to butt out. It definitely wouldn't hurt to have more eyes around this place.
And how many times has Casi been told they're just being neurotic? Overly-suspicious? Reading too far into things that aren't there?
Yet, how many times have they ended up being right?
Marceline "Marcy" Toussaint, 16, Vancouver BC
Marcy's hands are shaking as she reaches for the note card at the center of the table. She bites down hard on her cheek and tries to tell herself that there's nothing to be afraid of. Though there's been no evidence of guards or workers, someone has to be watching them. Someone's been enforcing the rules so far. Besides, this is an assigned session, one that the prison is running presumably for her benefit. They wouldn't put her in danger.
Yet, each time she looks up, the trembling starts all over again. It never leaves her hands, but when she catches even a glimpse of his empty expression it feels like an earthquake's erupted beneath the table. It takes two tries for Marcy to pick up the note. She drops it once more before she can read even a single word of it.
Her eyes won't stop checking to see if he's moved, to see if he's watching her. If Marcy didn't know better, if she hadn't seen the headlines of the newspapers her parents had mailed from Montreal, she might believe he was a statue. Nothing about the inmate's paper-white skin or folded hands seem to even breathe.
If Marcy didn't already know, she'd never guess the things he'd done.
While she knows that headlines don't tell the full story, she can't read anything else behind the inmate's hollow eyes. In other places, Marcy would think he was an exhausted student or academic. Here, all she can do is believe the same whispers that tormented her. She can feel bad about it, but that's not enough to calm the pounding in her chest.
She swallows and tries her best to focus on the words in front of her. It feels like they're swimming on the note card and nothing she does will let her absorb even the first line. Marcy sees the slightest hint of movement and her neck snaps back up to face him. The longer she stares, the more she has to wonder if she imagined it.
"If you have something to ask, staring likely won't provide you with an answer."
The walls seem to close in on her as the words wrap themselves around Marcy's throat. She holds the note card so tightly between her fingers that it starts to dent inwards, but she doesn't think to let go. Her whole body is trembling like all warmth has been sucked from the room, yet her cheeks feel like they've been set alight.
The inmate's eyes move slowly up to greet her, but nothing about his expression betrays that he spoke at all. His hands are still neatly folded on the table, his shoulders back, and spine stacked like her maman often reminded Marcy to do. For a quivering moment, she truly believes she imagined the statement.
After a while, Lawrence cocks his head ever slightly to the side. His eyes travel from her timid expression to her still-shaking hands clinging tightly to the note. The feeling is similar to tiny pinpricks on every piece of her that his gaze touches.
"I don't," she says quickly, her accent cracking to be even more noticeable. Marcy tells her eyes to lower back to the card, for a distraction if nothing else, but they refuse. Her body feels once again encased in ice yet burns like fire. She squints ever slightly as tears start to build at the base of her vision.
Lawrence straightens, but his eyes don't fall from her. "Seven of them. Four other charges. No, there weren't others. No, I don't wish to describe the taste."
The way he rattles off each statement feels practiced without an inch of movement beyond his tightened lips. When he's done, Lawrence returns to the same stiff posture she'd originally found him in. He doesn't seem bothered in the least by what he's just said. Meanwhile, Marcy feels like she's going to be sick.
It's one thing to recognize him. It's another to hear what he's done straight from the source. Seven, she remembers the number plastered on every headline for months last summer. Her parents had been at one of the victim's homes half a year before he was murdered. They'd flown back to Montreal for his funeral months before Lawrence was charged.
To think that Marcy could have run into him before her family had moved. Lawrence was only a couple of years older than her. Looking at him, she likely wouldn't have thought twice back then. He's as reserved and proper as the children of many of Westmount's wealthier residents. To some, Marcy's sure she used to look similar.
"I-" I didn't ask. I don't want to keep talking. Let's please just get this over with so I can run as far away from this room as possible. None of the words that Marcy wants to say form on her tongue. In fact, they all feel twisted around it. Her English only gets worse the more flustered she gets, but now it feels wholly unreachable. "Um-"
"Je m'excuse." Lawrence nods politely. "Est-ce mieux?"
I apologize, is this better?
Marcy swallows but can't even force herself to nod in response. She stares wide-eyed as the note card finally falls from her tired grip. It hits the table in a half-crumpled heap from where she'd clung to it. Somehow, the embarrassment of that is what finally allows the first tear to fall.
Marcy turns away, then jumps as she sees Lawrence lean forward in her periphery. Both of her hands leap free of the table and take refuge around her stomach. He eyes her curiously for a short moment before plucking the note card off the table. He places it in front of him and carefully straightens its edges with the side of his hand.
"Ça dit quoi?" What does it say? This time Lawrence flinches ever slightly at her whispered words, but he doesn't look up again until he's presumably finished reading.
He pushes the note forward and turns it until it's facing her. In the split second before Marcy's eyes travel down to it, she sees the vaguest hint of a change in his expression. She just can't put her finger on what it means. "Pouvez-vous lire?"
She nods stiffly as her cheeks burn even more red. Marcy can't blame him for thinking she's an idiot, she's given him little reason to believe otherwise. She pulls the note closer and lets out a slow breath as she forces herself to focus.
Activity Seven
Inmates are permitted three hours of uninterrupted play.
Inmates may not leave prior to the end of the session.
Inmates must construct a minimum of six formations.
Marcy directs her attention to the basket of materials at the center of the table, but there's not much to find. Several bundles of yarn and a single paperback manual are all it contains, but she actually breathes a sigh of relief. "Cat's Cradle: A Book of String Formations" is a book her maman bought when she was little. Papa read somewhere that such games helped children develop fine motor skills.
With hesitant intrigue, Marcy picks out the soft blue bundle of yarn. It's already been pre-tied into a loop that looks about the right size. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Lawrence watching her, but Marcy keeps her gaze fixed on the yarn. Her fingers don't remember exactly what to do, but it only takes a couple of mistakes before she's staring down at a near-perfect cradle.
And maybe it doesn't make any of this situation better, but she can't help but feel just a little bit proud.
Bowen "Bowie" Bridges, 18, Quebec City, QC
"Left?" Bowie says with a shrug as the next prompt takes over the screen. In the opposite seat, Shane shrugs without giving much more of an answer. Truthfully, Bowie can't blame him. They don't understand this game either.
Bowie finds the leftward facing arrow on the sort-of keyboard in front of them. It doesn't contain more than four keys - left, right, up, and down - but otherwise looks like the ones at school. The other students often complained that the desktops were from the dark age, but Bowie never had much to compare them to. They'd only seen the thin laptops and tablets in stores or when they passed by the local coffee shops.
Both inmates sigh heavily as the screen takes them back to the beginning, indicating that they've lost once again. Honestly, even that isn't certain because Bowie doesn't quite understand the rules. All the instruction card told them was that they had to "find their way out" of three locations. The pair haven't even made it past the first and it's been over an hour.
"I don't get it," Bowie groans. Yesterday, Omar told them all about his session but apparently they're not all the same. Bowie would much rather be off reading than trying to solve this creepy maze. They pull the thick book of maps towards them but almost-immediately recoil again. There must be over a hundred maps, how are they supposed to know which one's on the screen? "Any ideas?"
Bowie isn't expecting much and that's exactly what they get. Shane shakes his head quickly before rubbing his eye. It looks like he's trying really hard just to stay awake, which at this point Bowie has to appreciate. They're not going to get this done alone, not at this rate anyways.
In fact, they're starting to believe they're not going to finish at all. Normally, Bowie would be scrambling to just get something done. They've never been the best student but they know it's important to at least try. Their mom never fails to lament on all the opportunities that good grades would open for them.
At least now Bowie will never have to see the disappointment on her face when they don't qualify for all those scholarships.
They sink down against the table and try to swallow down the bitterness. It's hard to think about her, especially now. Their mom used to visit whenever she had the right days off. It's been weeks since they'd last seen her, and even longer since she last hugged them. At their two most recent visitations, Bowie hadn't been allowed out to the family area. They'd still been under extra precautions from their second escape attempt.
Bowie doesn't want to think about how long it's been since she saw them without a glass barrier. They wonder if she's missing them as much as they miss her right now.
They shake themself from their thoughts and look up to see Shane flipping mindlessly through the map book. Bowie smiles, thankful that at least one of them is trying to find a solution. "Find anything exciting?"
Shane jumps and his eyes flash to theirs. He shakes his head and quickly closes the book before pushing it back to the center of the table. "No, sorry."
"It's okay," Bowie shrugs and lifts their head from the table. They push the book another inch back towards Shane. "I've looked through it enough, probably smart to get fresh eyes on it."
Shane seems hesitant at first, but eventually takes it back. They scan the home screen again, but it's the same as it's always been. The word 'start' sits in block letters at the center with their remaining time barely readable at the bottom. Bowie half-wonders if they should just start going through it again but stops themself. They only get shown the same map three times before it changes, and the last attempt was their second. Which means if Bowie blows this turn, they'll be starting from scratch again.
"Do any of them say anything about fir trees?" They ask as their eyes focus on the faint background. It's barely visible unless Bowie squints their eyes near-closed, but they swear there's a few surrounding the start.
Shane visibly stiffens as he starts to flip more slowly through the maps. Bowie watches him, but can't offer much seeing as everything is upside down to them. To make this game even more confusing, the map doesn't actually have any pictures besides the directions themselves. Even the borders are just made up of a bunch of words Bowie half-understands.
"Here, you look," Shane says softly as he suddenly pushes the book all the way across the table. They flinch as it stops just before hitting them. Shane looks away completely, but not before Bowie notes the deep blush across his face.
And when they look down the first word they see is "evergreen", which only confuses them more. "But you found it?"
The redness doesn't leave Shane's cheeks. "Oh."
"You okay?" Bowie asks, realizing pretty quickly how stupid the question sounds. Everyone heard what happened last night even if few know what actually happened. Even Bowie isn't sure, but they can make some assumptions. They heard the screams. They saw that Shane never made it to his cell last night.
Part of them is surprised to see him down here at all. Bowie wants to ask, but how do you even breach that kind of subject? They've seen Shane in passing, but only learned his name this morning. They think that asking what happened upstairs might come off a bit pushy.
"Yeah," he says finally, as if only just realizing the question was meant for him. His eyes remain fixed on the table as if the map book might still be there. Bowie can feel the awkward silence begin to descend, which only makes them more desperate to keep the conversation going.
They like Shane, well what little they know about him anyways. More than that, however, is the fact that they feel more settled when there are words to weigh them down. Without them, Bowie fears that their worries might float them away into the nothingness that surrounds the prison.
Yesterday, Omar reminded them how much they crave that closeness. The only person they really remember having it with was their mom, but they've always wanted it. Every new person at school was another chance that, eventually, Bowie would blow. Yet, they never stopped trying until being arrested.
In prison, there was no time to consider friends. They were trapped in their thoughts, their worries, their confusion about everything that had happened. There hadn't been an empty haze around that prison, but Bowie had certainly had their own and they'd been soaring within it.
Now, they miss Omar. They don't want to float, they want to stay right here on the ground as long as there's someone to talk to.
"I think I saw you on the roof yesterday," Bowie tries, not knowing how else to continue the conversation. It feels weak, stupid even considering how few people there are here. Of course it was him.
Shane looks up and nods softly. "I think so."
"Weird isn't it?" Bowie asks. "I mean t-the blue, not you being up there."
"I don't mind it," he shrugs.
Bowie finds themself nodding along, though that statement couldn't be farther from the truth. "I just wish we could see where we are. It feels like we've gone really far."
"Yeah?"
"Doesn't it?" They ask.
Shane sits back in the seat and stares above their head. "I guess so."
They're not sure if he actually believes that. In fact, he seems all around uneasy and Bowie wishes he didn't. They didn't see Shane talking to anyone yesterday, but he doesn't seem antisocial. He kind of reminds Bowie of, well, themself. Too far in his own head, maybe letting his thoughts float him away too.
They swallow, remembering something that Omar said yesterday. It feels out of place, but it's the thing they keep going back to. Even last night, it comforted them in ways they didn't think possible. Maybe Shane needs the same thing.
"We're going to get out, just like the voice said. Then, it'll be like none of this even happened."
Shane's eyes narrow ever slightly as if confused at what they've just said. Bowie swallows again, wondering if they've said something wrong. Maybe they misremembered what Omar said. Maybe what they said isn't going to be comforting at all. Bowie can feel their own cheeks heating up.
Then, he smiles ever slightly. When Bowie goes searching for the upturned corners of his lips, it's as if they're barely there at all. Yet, it feels like Shane's whole expression has softened.
"You sound like her."
This time it's Bowie's brow that furrows. "Is that a good thing?"
Shane's nod is as slight as his smile. Still, Bowie will more than take it. Omar's words seem to have warmed his entire demeanor, just like they did for Bowie yesterday.
In unison, the words fall from both inmate's lips. "There's someone I think you should meet."
A/N: Hello again! This chapter marks the three-quarter mark and we are army crawling our way to the pre-games finish line. Quick disclaimer that my French is certainly not a good representation of Quebecois French, and that I am simply trying my best. Other than that, there's not much to say here. Reminder to vote on the poll and I'll see you all again next week!
~ Olive