In The Clear: Games VIII
Cell Block B - 12:06 PM
Bridget has told herself over a dozen times to keep moving. Yet, when she looks down, her feet are exactly where she left them - unmoving on the floor beside the table. When did the cell block return to normal? Bridget can't even remember.
Frustrated tears gather in her eyelids. They burn but don't go up in smoke afterwards. Instead, they stick around far too long until the cell block around her looks like steam itself. Dom is gone. The trial is over. Why am I still here? Truthfully, Bridget doesn't know the answer.
She knows there's nothing she can do about the outcome. The Cut does what it wants, and for some reason it wants Dom to keep playing. It doesn't matter that Bridget won. It doesn't even matter that Shane is dead, killed for a far less minor infraction than losing. Standing here in the middle of the cell block isn't going to change a thing. It won't lift the weight from her shoes or take the embers from her eyes.
I thought I was finally getting somewhere.
She tells herself that she was. She isn't dead; she didn't even lose. Bridget proved that she can and will play by the rules when she has to. If this is some punishment for not obeying during their practice session, Bridget gets the message loud and clear.
She should be angry. She should be so angry that steam doesn't just burn from her eyes but out her ears as well. She should be shouting that it isn't fair - that she won and, more importantly, that Dom lost. Bridget should be one step closer to getting out of here, but instead none of what just happened even matters.
Bridget crouches to the floor and her hands cover her face. This is pathetic. She knows, she knows so well that no one is going to look at her right now and see anything else. She should take it in stride, use it to motivate herself to keep going because this proves that she can. She was ready for Dom to die. Bridget can handle this.
Except now all of the doubt that exploded after she left Shane has come flooding back. That's the problem with having a heart full of flames, it only takes one wave to extinguish all of it. Bridget hasn't given up. She refuses to. She just doesn't know at what point she's going to actually do enough to convince anyone that she can win.
Bridget hasn't even managed to convince herself. There are moments, staggered bits of time that she can pull a smile to her face and believe she has a shot. They never last. After she blew up on Omar, she started to believe maybe she could be the one to kill him. Bridget never even suggested looking. After she left Shane without even an open eye to keep watch, she thought she would be able to gain the strength to continue alone. She spent those few hours curled into a trembling mess. And now, after finally doing what she's always believed she could - winning - Bridget can't even peel herself off the floor.
"Hey."
Bridget flinches and whirls around on her heels. She didn't hear any footsteps, too lost in her thoughts that she let herself be vulnerable. What if this was someone that wanted her dead? Dom, ready to come back and prove herself? 014 with a crumbling brick in his hand and eyes that silently call Bridget's every bluff.
It's neither of them. Instead, she watches Bowie take another tentative step from the stairwell. She's almost relieved to see them, and then immediately pushes that feeling away. They aren't her ally.
Bridget doesn't have one of those anymore.
"We came to check on you," they say gently.
We? Bridget is about to let the word hit her lips when she sees him, a bright smile on his face as he walks up behind Bowie. Of course they didn't come alone. The two of them have been attached at the hip since she met them. Bridget slowly rises back to her feet and her eyes refuse to leave Omar's for a moment.
"Why?" It's an honest question, even if the word itself is filled with venom. Bridget hasn't seen them since they left, she left. They didn't come after her then, not that she wanted them to. The split felt pretty final to her.
Bowie shrugs. Behind them, Omar smiles as if he were reuniting with an old friend, not the person that called them both 'fucked' barely a day ago. If she's being honest, she doesn't exactly know what to do with it. With Shane beside her it was easy, it made sense. He was going to stick by her no matter what she said. Two against two felt like a fair fight if it came down to that.
Now, having both their gazes on her makes Bridget feel two inches tall.
"The trials are hard," Omar says gently. "For anyone, I mean."
"I won," Bridget says stiffly. She doesn't realize until she's already said it that Omar can claim the same thing. He stood at the end of his trial just like she is now, except he had actually gotten himself one step closer to winning. Bridget can't help the wave of jealousy that causes the smaller flames to steam away.
"Doesn't make it any easier."
Bridget swallows. "Why are you here?"
"We just-"
"I left," she interrupts.
Omar comes around Bowie to walk even closer. Her eyes flicker to the spear in his hand. He holds it the same way she's always known him to - pointed at the ground. That doesn't make it any easier to ignore. His smile and the words out of his lips feel like a direct contrast. Omar has never shown any sign of violence, not even in the trial, but that almost worries her more.
And if he knows what really happened to Shane…
Bridget shakes her head and they both give her a curious look. They haven't asked about Shane. That almost makes it worse. She knows they must wonder. Bridget was the last person with him. They know that. Why aren't they cutting to the chase?
What do they really want?
Bridget doesn't know and it's making her regret staying down here even more. "What can I do for you?"
She's trying so hard to keep her tone casual, to not give away that she's worried. She doesn't even know if she has any reason to be. They did use to be allies. Bridget left, but maybe they didn't get it through their thick skulls that it was supposed to be for good. Is that all this is?
Her gaze meets the spear again. Am I just being paranoid?
"Nothing," Omar says with an encouraging nod. "But I think we should get out of here. Everyone else was headed up."
They… want me to go with them. It doesn't make any more sense than seeing them down here in the first place. Bridget doesn't have to go with them. She doesn't know why she's even entertaining the idea. They're delusional, stuck in a fantasy world when Bridget should be focused on staying in this world.
They're murderers. They're unpredictable. They're frustrating. Bridget needs none of those things by her side.
But what am I going to do alone?
She looks again at the spear in his hand. Is she imagining that it's pointing closer to her direction? That's more than likely the case.
What's stopping him from hurting me if I refuse?
"Okay." She doesn't know what question she's responding to anymore, but Omar smiles at her reply. He nods towards the stairwell and Bridget takes an uneasy step forward. She refuses to take another until both Bowie and Omar are walking in front of her. She hasn't asked where they're going. Another mistake.
This feels like such a mistake.
Level 3A - Platform - 12:07 PM
"The competition will resume in two minutes."
Eris pauses in the stairwell to listen to the announcement. Her breaths are loud from running up the levels, but that's all she can hear when the voice leaves again. The other contestants have no doubt already re-taken their hiding spots. Eris would be wise to do the same. The problem is that she has no idea where 006 has gone.
There was something wrong. Even Eris isn't so emotionally stunted as to not realize that, but she hadn't wanted to ask. They don't know each other like that. They're not going to either. Eris doesn't know what kind of partnership the two of them have cooked up, but it's no deeper than a paper cut. Two is safer than one - that's all Eris is allowing herself to admit.
Yet, there's no denying that she's worried. Believe that Eris has tried, but the fact that she's out here and not hiding is enough proof. Something's wrong. Something happened to trigger the girl and Eris has no idea what that something was.
She heads the rest of the way up to the fourth level. Eris hasn't had long enough to actually search the rooms. There isn't a lot of time. The contestants only get ten minutes after the last trial ends before everything resumes. More than enough time to get to wherever she wants to go; not nearly enough to find someone having what Eris can only describe as a panic attack.
She's probably hiding. Not only would that be the smart thing to do, but everything she knows about the girl points in that direction. Still Eris can't shake the feeling that something's wrong.
She can't stop thinking about how Kaya pushed her away.
… not Kaya.
Eris doesn't even know the girl's name. She isn't Kaya. Kaya's dead for all Eris knows. They're not the same person, not even close. She physically shakes her head, but the name doesn't leave.
I just need to find her.
So, while it would be wise to duck into the level and find somewhere to lay low, Eris starts counting. Two minutes isn't a lot of time. After that, she will go hide somewhere. She isn't going to risk her own safety for someone else. One hundred seconds, that's all 006 gets or she'll have to leave her behind. With that in mind, Eris picks up her pace to cover as much ground as possible.
Eris can't help that, when she gets to thirty, the seconds start to feel like a countdown.
To what?
The knot that curls in her stomach is the only answer she finds.
Level 5 - Isolation - 12:09 PM
"Myra."
Ram is reaching for her arm when she whirls around to face them. Her cheeks are red, stained with tears that always seem to follow the same pattern around her nose. Except when they look at her, she doesn't lean forward like she usually does. Both of her hands are postured away from them, like the mere thought of them touching her is terrifying.
The memory of their knife slipping under her skin makes Ram take a step back. Of course it is.
"What?" Her voice cracks on the single syllable and Ram feels it in their chest. They know she's upset. She has every reason to be but they still followed her up here. Ram doesn't know why, or maybe they do and they're just lying to themself.
"You can leave," they say through quick breaths. Myra ran almost as soon as the doors opened, not bothering to pause at any of the levels between the basement and here. They followed her the whole time. They didn't think about what they were going to say, but now that she's looking at them nothing feels adequate. "If you want. But you have to let me explain first."
Ram tried downstairs. As soon as the trial was over, they tried. It never would have ended if they didn't play, and Myra was never going to. She was so determined, but it was hurting her. The punishments were only going to get worse. Ram saved her. She just hasn't given them enough time to make her realize that.
She pulls down the collar of her shirt, exposing a mess of dried and fresh blood that runs atop her collarbone. Every bit of skin that isn't covered in blood is already starting to swell and bruise. It looks so much worse than it felt from the other end of the hammer. "Explain what?"
All Ram can do is stare. Their body feels frozen. They knew what they did, they chose it so how could they not? Yet, the way that her fingertips can't even touch the punctured skin steals all the words from their tongue. Her hand shakes as it holds the collar away. The edge of the fabric starts to stain with the blood that's still leaking from the wound.
Explain what?
They want to. They want to tell her everything, that what she was doing in the trial was stupid and that's the reason why they had to do it. Ram knows that she was trying to save them. They know she meant well. That doesn't mean that they don't want to scream at her for not just following the rules. What if The Cut had decided they were being rebellious and killed them both? What if the trial never ended?
Ram was the only one looking out for them both. Even as the thought crosses their mind, they know it's not even close to the truth.
"I wanted you to stay," Myra says through clenched teeth. Her fingers are trembling even harder now and she lets go of her collar. It doesn't move back up to cover the wound like they'd hoped. Instead it settles around it, stuck to the drying blood that they put there. "I was stupid. I wanted it so bad that I forced you and I'm sorry. You don't have to pretend anymore. You were never going to stay just like she was never going to come back. It's my fault, okay. Is that what you want to hear so badly?"
Myra takes another step back from them. The room is spinning so much that she can't even tell which way is out. She shouldn't be here. She should've left the first time Ram told her to but she stupidly tried to fight what was always going to happen. People don't stay. Even when they promise to, people don't come back. Ram never promised. Myra was the one holding them here when they never wanted to be. The trial was the wake up call she needed.
They never cared about her yet she cared so much. She always cares so much but that doesn't matter. Ram doesn't owe her friendship or allyship or whatever she was hoping to get from them. They don't have to risk their life just because she was willing to do it for them. Myra was willing for the next nail to go straight through her neck if it meant that they wouldn't have to hurt each other.
Maybe she knew? Maybe deep down Myra knew that they would do it in a heartbeat and that's why she didn't give them the chance. She didn't want to be let down again. She didn't want to see what was right in front of her face because it wasn't picture perfect waves on a sunny shore. Myra was trying to save herself from realizing that Ram has never cared just like she's tried to do with Serena.
You were never coming back, were you?
Why would she?
Ram grabs her shoulders and she's shaking too hard to push them away. Tears fall like rain down her cheeks but she forces herself to look at them. She needs to see it. She needs to finally believe it because the truth has always been written across their face. Maybe then she'll finally stop trying to light her stormy waves on fire just to prove that she's worth something.
"If you want to leave, go ahead, but let me say something first." They're so close that she can feel their breath on her forehead. "I didn't want to hurt you. I only did it so that we could get out because for some reason I care about you even if it's the stupidest thing I could've done."
They push her away, not hard enough that she loses balance but hard enough to feel the ache deepen in her shoulder. Myra watches them turn around, waiting for them to leave but they stop short. Her jaw tightens, but the words don't sink in. She doesn't let them. The embers behind them are so easy to extinguish.
"I knew you cared about winning," she says through clenched teeth. "But I tricked myself into believing that maybe-" She pauses as the words claw at her throat. "Maybe you could care about me too."
"Are you not fucking listening?" Ram asks, throwing their hands in the air. They stomp back towards her and Myra can't help but flinch in the opposite direction. She can't tell herself that she isn't afraid. She can, however, tell herself that she doesn't care if she is.
"It's not your fault," she says quietly as she shakes her head. "I'm going now."
Ram pauses, their fists clenched on either side of them. They stare as if they're going to say something else but Myra doesn't give them the time. She's done believing in something that was never real. Ram was right all those days ago, this is a game that's best played alone. If only she would have realized that before making a fool of herself.
She turns around and walks as quickly as her trembling legs allow. She doesn't hear their steps following; she doesn't know why she's even listening for that. They're free. They don't have to worry about her or anyone else anymore. They can play the game like they've wanted to this whole time - alone.
Myra jumps as something crashes into the wall in front of her. She spins around in time to see Ram enter one of the cells. She looks back and sees what made the sound - a hammer that looks exactly like the one she knows is tucked into Ram's pocket. It sits unassuming beneath a dull spot on the wall where it struck.
When she stoops down to pick it up, the unfamiliar weight in her hand couldn't feel more final.
Level 3 - Bathroom - 12:13 PM
Amadis flinches as the wall creaks beside her. She already has a hand over her mouth and is sitting back as far as she can on the toilet seat. It smells horrible, but at this point it's hard to even notice it. Her entire body still feels exactly as it did when her trial ended. She's surprised that the constant shaking hasn't exhausted her.
Deep breath. How many times has she coached herself through this since she left? Keeping count might be a good way to pass the time. She won't risk leaving now; the competition has already restarted. She doesn't need to run into anyone, that's why she chose here. Amadis needs to think.
Her fingers itch for her notebook. She carefully pulls it from her hoodie pocket and turns the pages as quietly as she can. The notes feel like relics, when in fact they're meaningless now. Amadis isn't even sure they ever had meaning. Back in the library, it'd felt like they did. Information was its own type of armour.
These pages were supposed to help her get out.
Amadis closes her eyes tightly as the tears start again. She can feel her breaths start to quicken, just like they did in the trial. She knows that if she allows it to, the feeling will overwhelm her again. It'll make mistakes more likely. She can't afford that.
Does it even matter?
A tear slips through her resolve and Amadis tucks the notebook to the side. It has to. She isn't going to give into the spiral of negativity no matter how strong it is. She can't because if she does, she's going to die. They put her in this game for a reason. They could have allowed her to rot in prison for the rest of her life and smeared her name across headlines for even longer. They might be betting on her death, but they also gave her a chance.
Amadis has to cling to the fact that she still has one. Otherwise, she fears she's going to fall apart entirely. She came close in the trial. She didn't think she would be able to find the bomb, much less get the correct answer when the instructions proved false. She knows that she has Casimir to thank for that, as much as she doesn't want to admit it.
They're sort of in this together, even if Amadis is glad that, for now, they're nowhere near her. The voice spoke about them almost identically. The world thinks that both of them are terrorists, maybe even that they're both somehow responsible for what happened to the late Victor.
Then why do I still think they'd let me win?
Amadis shakes the thought away without responding. She thinks that because she has no choice. She isn't going to fall apart, whether that's what The Cut wants or not. She is strong. She is her mother's daughter and if there's one thing her mom made sure to teach her it was to keep going. Things get hard. Things lately have been so much harder than Amadis ever expected them to get. She suspects that's not going to let up anytime soon.
That's why she's here, and not in the library where she promised Dom she would meet her after the trial. Things changed. Plans have changed. Amadis feels horrible about going back on her word, it's not like her, but going back would be so much worse. She likes Dom in a way that confuses her more than anything.
Maybe that's why she doesn't want to drag her into this. They're not on an even playing field anymore, and Amadis can't be sure that association won't hurt Dom's chances. She's considered going up and explaining it. It feels like it's too late now.
She's going to be upset. Amadis knows that, but she can't allow that to cloud her judgement.
Dom followed her downstairs this morning when she went looking for a door even though she didn't want to. She said it was because she was trying to look out for Amadis since they'd agreed to stay together. It was safer for them to stay together.
Now, Amadis is doing the opposite. She's staying away even though she doesn't want to because now this is safer. It's rational, she's thought it through as much as she can allow herself to. The trial was meant to end differently, Amadis isn't being paranoid in thinking that. Their instructions were wrong, therefore they were expected to lose.
Amadis doesn't want to think about what the show might do because that didn't happen. She has a chance, she has to believe that, but she's not stupid either. The cell block escape and now this, she seems to be racking up points against her with every passing day. How long before they've had enough? She doesn't want to think about that either.
Unfortunately, now that the levels have gone silent again, Amadis has no way of stopping the wonderings.
Level 5 - Utilities - 12:41 PM
Marcy's hands clutch either side of her head as she curls herself into the furthest corner of the room. Despite the dimness, it feels too bright. Her skin is cold even though she can feel the sweat slick on the back of her neck. Her fingers tremble against her temples but refuse to budge. It's like she is frozen in this position yet her mind is nowhere near it.
Each of you has been chosen in the likeness of a Winner…
She squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut, trying to will the words away but they restart again. Over and over they play like a looped recording, forcing Marcy to listen to every word. I'm like him. She tries to shake her head but it doesn't move, her fingers still rigid against it. I'm not. She doesn't know anymore but she has to. She isn't him. They can't be the same.
Marcy hears a creak from the drawer above her and gasps, pushing herself away from the counter entirely. Her hands shake so violently that she's not able to catch a grip on the floor. She stares at it, the mostly-closed drawer that she's certain was closed. Maybe it wasn't. She doesn't know. I don't know I don't know I-
She turns her gaze around the room. She's been here before, but it feels so unfamiliar. Her breaths heave in her chest, the only sound she can hear or maybe that's her heart beat. She doesn't know. Where am I?
Marcy can't remember. It feels like another planet but she can name each object she sees. It can't be that foreign. The sink on the countertop to her right - is that what's making the sound? Suddenly the pulses don't sound like breaths anymore, but drips. Drip, drip- but she doesn't see any water. It can't be that.
It can't be.
It can't be.
She folds herself back into her hands, but no tears wet them. Marcy can feel her body shaking but it doesn't feel like hers anymore. She can see him but he's not here. Her eyes are closed. How would I see anyone at all? She opens her eyes but the drawer is closed again. Maybe it was never open. Drip, or maybe a breath. That's all she can hear.
Another sound draws her attention, this one not nearly as subtle. Footsteps, she's sure this time but can she be? She thinks there may've been footsteps before too. Marcy presses herself even further into the counters, barely obscuring the view of the door. She closes her eyes, flashes them open again. I need to see them coming, followed immediately by I don't want to.
It only lasts a second, but she can't forget it. He catches her gaze out of the corner of his eye, just before he disappears into one of the adjacent rooms. There's no surprise, as if maybe he isn't shocked to see someone here at all. He doesn't turn back. Instead, he simply disappears along with the footsteps.
It seemed so real.
It was.
I know it was real.
Marcy's breath comes out all at once, her tongue no longer capable of holding it in. She doesn't know how long it's been. She can't hear them. Another breath, a beat, whatever it is - that's all there is. She doesn't know if he was even here at all, but the knot bleeding in her chest tells her that he was.
He's not me. This isn't me.
Then, a reply that doesn't even sound like her. But isn't it?
She sees it move this time - the drawer, an inch cracked just like the first time. Marcy reaches up and grabs hold of it without thinking. The contents rain down on her as the entire piece comes loose. She barely notices most of it, her eyes fixated on the thin stick that lands mere inches from her fingertips.
She doesn't remember picking it up.
She doesn't remember if it's her hands that strike the match against the counter.
She doesn't remember dropping it in the nearby trash can.
Marcy inhales and it's the easiest breath she's taken in this place. Tears blur the red and orange into a cascade of beautiful, dancing colours. She's free again. It's the feeling of smoke against her lips. It's her frailty melting away with the plastic. It's-
Growing.
She takes a step back as the trash can topples, sending a spray of flames towards the countertops. They move quickly across the surface, dripping down where a stack of cardboard boxes waits. They reach the floor where the drawer's contents are still scattered. They consume it all in seconds.
And suddenly, the flames aren't lovely at all.
They're terrifying.
Level 2A - Platform - 12:41 PM
Riley slams his entire body weight against the door, but it doesn't so much as budge. He should've known it wouldn't - they took the fucking door knob off for hell's sake. Still, he needs to try.
Not for anyone else's sake, but for his own sanity.
"Come on," he grunts, shoving another shoulder against it. Riley knows the temperature fuckery has something to do with one of the buttons he pressed in there. Even he can figure that one out. It must be nearing thirty degrees in here and it's only getting more suffocating. Even watching the trials was hell, with a temperature to match. They can't just leave him like this.
Why not? That question enters his mind at the same time that his foot rings against the wall. Riley knows they can pretty much do whatever they want, it's not like he has a say. Still, this feels ridiculous even for them. What good is smoking them out going to do? How many Canadians get off on watching teenagers get heat stroke? Riley doesn't think the number should be high enough to warrant this.
He can deal with the darkness. The led strips on the floor are plenty.
Just turn the fucking heater off.
Riley slumps back against the spot where the door should be. He could try to find something to pry it open, but that feels even more pointless. If they had any intention of letting him back in, they wouldn't make it this hard. More likely than not, he's not going to be able to change this any time soon. There might be some irony that the heat is his fault and he's the one complaining, but Riley doesn't find it very funny right now. If anything, it's motivation.
Fine, he thinks as he wipes the sweat from his hairline. If you want to watch us burn alive, be my guest.
Level 5 - Morgue - 12:45 PM
Casi notices the change in Lawrence before anything else. He doesn't remember what they were talking about, the trial almost definitely. There's so much to process still and Amadis didn't help him very much with that. All she told them before the cell block released them was to be careful. As if they weren't in the middle of The Cut.
"But I didn't do anything," Casi whispered back.
The gleam of fear in her eye would have been annoying if it hadn't looked so genuine. Even with all that they went through, almost being exploded as a team, Casi still wasn't sure if he liked the girl. They still didn't feel like himself enough to decide.
In fact, there's a half-memory of her helping them up the stairs that fits a little too well into their conversation.
"If they think you do that's enough."
"I can prove it."
Casi hadn't been able to see her face. It felt a lot like talking through the trial. It made him more apt to listen to her. "You think they'd let you? And admit they made a mistake and called an innocent kid a terrorist?"
He didn't say so, but even Casi had to admit she maybe had a point.
That didn't mean that Casi was even a step closer to figuring out what to do with the information. They'd whispered about it all the way up here, and in the common room, and here until the look of perplexity on Lawrence's face stopped him cold.
It's the closest thing to an expression they've ever seen from the guy and, quite honestly, it's somehow far more unsettling.
"What?" Casi asks after a pause. Lawrence isn't even looking at them, his eyes are fixed to the ceiling by an imaginary bungee cord. They follow the line up, but for a while he can't see anything. In fact, Casi doesn't see anything for the ten seconds they stare up at it for. He does, however, start to smell something. "Is that-?"
Casi doesn't even make it through the rest of the sentence. He follows Lawrence closely towards the nearer door, but the sudden movement brings back their earlier dizziness. Casi grabs hold of the edge of a table, narrowly missing having it knock against his thigh. When they look up again, the door is already open.
Smoke is pouring in faster than Casi can recognize it.
His eyes widen and they rush forward, but Lawrence is already pushing the door closed again. It's almost hard to tell when it's shut, the ceiling is a mess of black clouds and the heat sticks to every hair on Casi's body. When he reaches Lawrence, they pull him down to the floor beside him. The contestant lets out a yelp that sounds more than out of place.
Casi looks up at the ceiling but something prompts them to look back at his ally. He does, and is met with the widest eyes he's ever seen glaring back at them. "What?"
Lawrence doesn't answer, instead he starts to right himself but Casi shoves him back down. If there's one thing they remember from first grade, it's the firefighters coming inside to talk about fire safety. Smoke rises, and whatever's in this smoke is certainly not something he wants to breathe in. It's so dark it looks like tar billowing across the ceiling.
"What now?" Casi asks, but he already knows the answer. They have to try the other door. There's a good chance that one is blocked too, but they won't know until they're there. As far as Casi can remember, each level only has one exit. They've just happened to position themselves in just about the worst room to get to it.
He starts crawling to where they know the other door will be. It smells fucking awful in here but that's the least of Casi's concerns. They need to get to the door.
He glances back but Lawrence hasn't moved from where he sat by the first door. He looks up impassively at the ceiling, as if there were something written in the smoke that he's trying to decipher. Except there isn't. "Come on!"
Casi coughs as the smell burns the back of their throat. It tastes like chemicals and they can only imagine what he's breathing in. Where did this come from? There's no time to think about that right now, but the questions don't stop coming. Fire? How?
"Lawrence!" The other contestant still hasn't moved. Casi glances up, he's halfway between Lawrence and the other door but turns back around anyways. They don't understand why he isn't following. He saw the smoke, he's the one that noticed it first.
Casi scrambles across the floor until their clumsy hands reach him. It's hard to tell if the smoke of the leftover dizziness is clouding his vision now, but it hardly matters. Casi shakes him hard, until the earlier wide eyes turn back to them. "Why are you just sitting here?"
Lawrence stares back at them, his face somehow even paler than usual. Their wide eyes no longer look horrified, but almost… ashamed. There are no tears, nothing to even resemble the usual indicators of sadness, yet Casi knows without a doubt.
"I don't want to win."
And with those words, everything seems to stop. The foggy darkness above them is gone. The burn eating at the back of his throat dissolves. Casi can't even feel their hands that still grip tight to Lawrence's shoulders.
"What?"
He swallows, and the lump at the front of his throat trembles. "I don't want to win."
It's not an idea Lawrence had considered before but, somehow, in this moment, they know the words are true. They explained it all. Why they haven't been eager to play this game that they, for all intents and purposes, should be good at. Why they have been content here, in this single room, with no desire to leave. Why the same gasoline that fueled their dissatisfaction even in prison seems to have run dry.
They don't want to win. They don't want to make it out of this place alive. They don't want the one thing that everyone else in the prison seems to agree on.
And it only took their first glimpse of possible death, real death that would send anyone scrambling for escape just as it did Casi, for them to put it into words.
They stare back at Casi, who no doubt is unable to grasp the concept that's so alien it couldn't possibly be human, and finds themself turning away. Try as they might, Lawrence can't wave away the shame that collects behind their trembling fingertips.
"No." They expect Casi to let go but he doesn't. Instead, he seems to grip their shoulder even tighter. "We're getting out of here. There's a way. We're not fucked, not yet."
You don't understand. Lawrence raises their gaze just enough to see the ferality cloud their ally's eyes once more. Their body doesn't refuse to move forward because it has no hope of an escape. They haven't checked all possibilities yet. No, their legs decline because they've finally realized that it's not what they want.
Yet, at the same time, Lawrence isn't certain they want the game to end.
This, here, is the best life that they can ever hope for. Regardless of what The Cut regulations say, they will never let them be free. Lawrence has racked up far too many crimes of moral turpitude for that to be a perceived possibility. Certainly, if they proved themself to victory they might get some benign glimpse of freedom but it won't be complete. It never will be.
They'll never let them near their family again. Never let them near Marcel. Lawrence's life will remain incomplete for as long as it continues.
But right now, they're as content as they've ever been.
They don't know why.
They've tried to explain that to themself dozens of times and tried to reject it a hundred ways. This can't possibly be happiness. This is prison, this is a promise of death or incompleteness. Lawrence didn't find joy in their private room at their mother's house or in the library's books or in the piano keys. Why should they find it here?
Why are they content with this ending when the mere possibility should terrify them?
"Try the door," Lawrence nods.
Casi shakes their head. "You're coming too."
And that statement confuses Lawrence even more. Casi must see the apprehension because he tugs forcefully on their arm. He doesn't let go as they start to crawl back across the floor.
"Casi-"
Lawrence swallows, expecting the name to feel strange on their tongue like it has in their mind. However, they find the opposite. There's no syllable that feels strange, no letter out of place because why would he tell them their name in the first place? It's as smooth as gasoline but without any of the accompanying bitterness.
He doesn't give them an opportunity to complete their statement. Casi turns around with the familiar ferocity in their eyes, but it's directly squarely at them. "You're coming."
And all Lawrence can do is nod.
Rooftop - 12:47 PM
Bowie waits in silence for him to return.
They're not alone, far from it, and in fact they don't mind the company. It feels stiff, but hasn't the last day been the same? That's all they remember - stretches of nothing with breaks of things that confuse them even more. All Bowie's done is think, yet they're no closer to an answer.
They can't even be sure that one exists.
They don't know if they want Omar to come back, but they know he will. He only went to use the bathroom. He'll be back and until then they have Bridget. She's been quieter than they remember, but Bowie feels like a hypocrite pointing that out. Truthfully, that's not the only reason they feel like one.
They're not even sure why she came back. They didn't think she'd want to but Omar insisted and they couldn't think of a reason to argue.
There's never a good enough reason, not for long.
Bowie's posture sinks lower as the confusion melts again to overwhelming shame. Even hours later, they still don't know what to think. They hate him, yet when they look at Omar there's a sense of comfort they can't ignore. They know he's wrong, but can they even trust themself to make that judgement? Omar seems so sure.
And, despite everything, Bowie still wants so badly for him to be right.
"That fucker." Bowie flinches at the sudden voice, but they don't have time to think about what she's said. As soon as their eyes regain focus, they see it. They can't believe they didn't see it before.
Bridget leaps to her feet and starts to make her way towards it. Bowie finds themself upright as well, but they make no move towards it - the smoke. It's the same colour as the walls, nearly obscuring the door to the platform entirely. It's nearly as opaque as them as well. The longer Bowie stares, the closer it seems to come.
"Where's it coming from?" They ask.
The look Bridget gives them when she turns around is nearly enough to make them stumble. "Does it matter?"
"I-" Bowie stammers. The heat is starting to reach them even at the edge of the rooftop. They swallow and take another step back, but that doesn't offer any respite. Bowie glances up and realizes that the smoke isn't disappearing at all. It's gathering across the blue haze a mere story above their heads. "This isn't outside."
"Who cares?" She shouts as she stares into the entrance of the stairwell. Bowie half-expects her to run straight through it, but her shoes remain planted in place. "Your friend left us up here!"
The way she says 'friend' makes their throat go dry, or perhaps it's the ascending smoke finally starting to reach them. It stings like a slap yet warms their chest at the same time. They don't have time to think about what that means. Yet, Bowie can't help themself. "He wouldn't leave us."
"Oh yeah?" She asks. Her eye contact is so intense that Bowie finds themself looking almost immediately away. "Then where is he?"
"He went to the bathroom," Bowie says weakly. Even they don't seem to believe it. "He probably didn't know-"
"Look at it!" She shouts. "He left two minutes ago and you're telling me he saw nothing? He didn't see any smoke and maybe decide to tell us before we got trapped up here? You can't be that stupid."
"I-" Bowie tries. "He wouldn't-"
They don't know what to say. Everything Bridget is explaining makes too much sense, but at the same time none at all. They think back to this morning, the hug and gentle words that made every bit of anger melt away.
They remember the reason for the anger in the first place.
"He would." There are tears in her eyes but Bowie doesn't know how to interpret them alongside the laugh that follows. A dusting of soot has drawn itself across her exposed skin. It makes the sound feel even more out of place. They take a step back. "He's done nothing for anyone but himself. The night before this started, he chose to leave us out to dry while he stayed cozy in his cell. In his trial, he chose to kill her. He could have let them live, but he didn't because it was better for him if she was dead. He doesn't want to help anyone, he wants to win. Omar's been playing you like a string quartet and you still believe he cares about anyone but himself?"
Bowie can only stare at her. The heat on their cheeks intensifies until it feels like their skin is burning. When they wipe it away, black tear stains mark the edge of their hand.
"He left us to die up here," Bridget hisses. "And you're still defending him."
Their chin dips down until it nearly touches their chest. Tears continue to burn in their eyes, but Bowie doesn't rub them away this time. She's right. They know she's right. They've known she was right for how long but they've never had the spine to do anything about it.
And now it might be too late.
"I'm not defending him anymore," Bowie says softly. However, when they look up, their words only reach the billowing smoke in front of them. Bridget is nowhere to be found.
With one final breath, Bowie forces themself to follow.
The smoke thickens quickly, and they're unable to find even the stairs beneath their feet. It's hot, so much hotter than they expected, but they keep going. Bowie puts one arm out in front of them and the other holds firm to the railing. They can't breathe. They don't even allow themself to try. It feels like it's never ending. Stairs, a sudden flatness that tells them they've reached the lower level, more stairs that Bowie throws themselves down because their lungs refuse to wait another minute.
They hit the ground hard, knocking the little remaining air from their chest and drawing an instinctive breath in. It doesn't hurt. They can still smell burning plastic but can no longer feel the same heat on their cheeks. Bowie turns to look around and finds Bridget crouched at the top of the next set of stairs. Her breaths are coming just as quickly, but they can see the same relief in her squinted eyes.
"I'm-" Bowie coughs. They put a hand at the base of their throat as if that's going to help keep the clean air inside. "Not." Another breath. "Any… more."
Level 5 - Storage - 12:47 PM
It feels like, by the time Eris notices the smoke, it's already far too late.
She hadn't been able to find 006. In fact, she's been in the storage room since she forced herself to give up. She crumpled herself between boxes in a way that felt far too familiar but at least it's quiet up here. It reminds Eris a little of the days before she knew what would happen to her, before she knew what this place actually was. In the most ironic way possible, it almost feels safe.
A minute ago, she'd been able to smell the chemicals. She realizes now the scent must be burning plastic, but at first it hadn't raised more than a few questions. This place always smelled like bleach. It's not the stupidest assumption to make that someone nearby might've spilled some other substance or even tried to use it as a weapon. Truthfully, the thought had only made Eris more eager to shelter in place.
However, as the two contestants sprint straight through the room she starts to realize that something is very wrong. Smoke pours from the top of the now-open door and clouds the ceiling before she can even blink. Eris doesn't even think the pair saw her, despite the fact that the room isn't terribly large. They both looked like they'd seen a ghost and, considering where they are, that's saying something.
They leave both doors open in their hurry. Eris can't tell from which more smoke is coming, but she doesn't have time to sit around and guess. She jumps to her feet and pulls the collar of her undershirt up to cover her mouth. The chemical smoke is already irritating her eyes. The room is already nearly full and she's not even managed a step towards the door. Where is it coming from?
It doesn't matter.
She needs to move.
The doors must have been sealing part of the smoke away, but now it's tumbling inside with full force. With it, the heat seems to intensify but Eris can't tell if that's just a trick of the circumstances. She can't tell anything. She needs to stop trying. Eris coughs into her shirt and that brings forth a long string of the same. She's already taken too many breaths and she hasn't fucking moved.
It's harder than she expects to move through. She can't see any of the boxes that are strewn around the room and she stumbles on more than a few of them. It's easiest to keep herself in a crouch and move with one hand out in front of her. Unfortunately, the slower she goes the more success she has at staying on her feet.
Eris stops cold as she passes through the threshold. What was once the infirmary is now ablaze with tall flames that touch the ceiling. They're on the opposite wall from her, but that doesn't make them any less imposing. The heat isn't a mirage. The prison is on fire.
"Hey?" The word isn't loud enough to pass through the blaze, but when Eris gets over the initial shock she finds her voice. "Hey!"
If the girl hadn't turned around, Eris might have been able to lie about who it was. The back of her hair is covered in soot as is the entirety of her uniform. It's the bangs that give her away, or at least what's left of them. It looks like the entire right-side of them has been burned away.
Tears streak the black dust that's settled all over the girl's face. Her shirt's been pulled up above her nose much like her own, but it too is covered in soot. Her eyes lock with Eris and she doesn't know what to do. She doesn't look human but it's her. And her hands are quickly approaching the door that's just about the only part of the wall that isn't already blushed with fire.
The walls burn to nothing until Eris is standing outside of Memorial Provincial Park. She watches her sister reach for the briefcase's handle, even as Eris tries to pull it out of range. The same glass tears stare back at her, unshed but otherwise identical.
What is she doing? A million things to say string through Eris' mind, but only one word makes it out. "Kaya!"
The scream pulls Marcy from the shaking that's overtaken her. She stares at the girl. Why are you here? She wants to ask but too much soot on her tongue has burned it dry. She needs to close the door. She needs to contain the fire even if, at this point, that feels as impossible as floating away. Who is she talking to?
Marcy is ripped away from the door by strong hands. She isn't able to keep herself upright as she's knocked off balance and she collapses into the girl's chest. Sweat and soot, they feel the same as they rest against her scorched skin. The tears feel even worse. They burn in a way that Marcy can't wipe away. They're the worst pain she can imagine and everything hurts.
She hadn't felt any of it until now.
Come on. That's the best that Marcy is able to make out when the girl speaks. She tries to thrash but the girl keeps a tight grip on her, holding Marcy against her chest and dragging her away from the burning door.
"No!" Marcy shrieks. She slips free for a moment but a second later is enveloped again. She reaches out towards the door. I have to close it. It's spreading. Marcy tries to say so but the words come out in muffled sobs. I have to. She didn't mean it. It can't spread. She's the only one who can stop it.
I'm the one who started it.
She cries as the fight leaves her entirely. Her body feels stiff, like her own skin has tightened around her organs. Marcy's shirt slips from her nose and a separate hand pulls it back up. It wasn't her. She doesn't care. She only cares about stopping the flames that she started in the first place.
In an instant the air feels a little bit lighter. The girl lets her go and Marcy slumps to the ground, unable to see through the foggy tears or force her legs beneath her. All she can do is cry, but even that doesn't burn as much as it did downstairs.
"What happened?" Eris.
Marcy turns quickly and her world spins, but that's exactly who it is. She has a similar dusting of soot but it's not nearly as thick. When she pulls her shirt away from her mouth, Marcy's relieved to see that there's none on her lips.
"I'm sorry." It's all Marcy can say, but it doesn't even start to explain it. The air is clearer up here, but the smoke still billows overhead when she cranes her neck. She can still taste burnt plastic. She can still tell herself with every breath that this is all her fault. They haven't gotten out. In fact, they're even more trapped up here than they were downstairs.
And when she turns back to Eris, the girl refuses to even look at her.
Level 5 - Isolation - 12:50 PM
Ram stares at the ceiling of their isolation cell. It's been well over half an hour since she left, but their hands have only just stopped shaking.
She doesn't know what she's talking about. They're frustrated and angry, but there's something else that's creeping up that Ram doesn't want to identify. They don't miss her. It's not like they were ever actually friends. They knew Myra for a few days and half of those were spent knowing that it couldn't last. If anything they should miss their prison friends, their cousin…
…their mom.
The tears start building out of nowhere, but as usual Ram blinks them away just in time. They haven't thought about her in far too long, and they can't help but feel guilty. She's the one who always encouraged them to make the best of their young years. They smile as the memories resurface. She used to joke that Ram should go have fun while their back was still in full working order. They can hear her signature sigh right before she would remind them that hope for a better day was always just around the corner. She always said that after a bad day.
They wrap their arms around their stomach. Remembering her is as uneasy as it is sweet. There's some resentment there, resentment that they know has nothing to do with her. She didn't mean to leave. She never would've if she had the choice, Ram knows this. She was always doing what's best for them.
She just wanted Ram to be Ram. She didn't question if they knew what they were doing, and truthfully they never have. Thinking back on their life almost a year ago, it was nothing but a mess of finding themself. Ram misses that almost as much. It was stupid and simple, before everything had to go to shit.
Myra reminded them of those years. She might not even be younger than them, but they still see it. She didn't expect to be hurt by anyone, even after Ram did hurt her. She's naive in a way that they remember being, maybe even more so.
Ram swallows and the ceiling above them goes blurry once again. She's kinder than I ever was.
Maybe that's why their fingers have started to tremble again. Maybe they don't actually care that she figured things out and walked away before Ram could inevitably do worse. They were always going to choose themself. They shouldn't be surprised or upset that she decided to do the same. They should be able to give Myra that much grace even if she wasn't able to understand why they did what they did.
Maybe… maybe the tear that finally slips from their eye isn't because they miss her, but because they're jealous.
Ram hasn't been able to look at anyone in almost a year without expecting the worst. Sometimes it was warranted. Sometimes those people really were going to hurt them - the staff at St Catharines, the bullies in prison. Maybe some of them weren't - their jailmates, Myra, maybe even 014. They haven't been able to let themself even hope for safety and maybe that's just a little bit exhausting.
I'm sorry. They don't bother to specify who the apology is for. Myra - for pushing her away even if it ended up being for her own good. 014 - for starting something that they likely didn't need to. Their mom - for giving up those teenage years that she spoke so fondly of, for not knowing if this is even the person they were supposed to be.
Maybe it's to all of them.
Ram sits straight up as the window at the top of their cell shatters completely. They turn around to face it, not knowing what to expect yet they're still surprised. Thick smoke pours in through the opening. Within only a few seconds, dark clouds have covered the ceiling entirely.
They leap from the bed and throw the door open in front of them. In an instant, Ram can't see anything at all. The smoke moves past them to obscure the cell and in the hallway it's everywhere. They turn back once or twice and they've completely disoriented themself.
Ram holds their breath as they move through it. They have to close their eyes, but there's nothing to see anyway. The smell of burning chemicals makes their nose burn and seems to absorb every bit of moisture from their eyes. They reach what feels like a door but it takes several more seconds to find the handle. They don't even know which direction they're headed in. Truthfully, Ram doesn't know where they're supposed to be going.
Is the smoke getting thicker? It's impossible to tell. They hit something solid and immediately the pain is overwhelming. Their eyelids fly open and it feels like gravel is being rubbed into them, but Ram notices something else - a brightness that wasn't there before.
The skin along their hips feels like fire itself. Ram backs away from whatever they hit and tries to quell the scream that builds in their throat. The heat is overwhelming. They can feel each individual hair catch ablaze, but any smell is covered by chemical smoke. Ram tries to head back the way they came, but without vision that task becomes impossible. They wrap their hands around something metal, but when they pull it doesn't feel like a door. Instead, the skin of their palm cries out. It's almost too quiet to hear amidst everything else.
They can't hold the air inside anymore, and Ram takes a sharp inhale that burns like bleach on the way down. If they hit the floor they don't notice. They can't feel anything but agony. Nothing but a hard wall with a gap at the bottom that their fingers nearly fit through. The air on the other side feels colder, cleaner somehow than the vapour that hits their lips.
Or maybe that's just their mom, giving Ram one last thing to hope for.
Level 3 - Dining Room - 12:52 PM
Noam has no idea what he's doing.
That shouldn't exactly come as a surprise to anyone that's ever known him. When has he ever had any kind of direction in his life that wasn't straight down the toilet? The difference right now is that he actually wants to know and, perhaps, someone might even need him to.
Noam stares towards the stairwell, but it doesn't look any different than when he found it. There are the smallest wisps of dark smoke tumbling down, but they're not what worry him. Noam, stupidly perhaps, made his way up the stairs when he first saw them. By the next level, the entire stairwell was filled with dark clouds that would make thunderstorms jealous.
And, like the brave soldier he is, the second he saw the stuff Noam went scrambling straight back down the stairs.
Now, he's… what? Pacing? Is that what this is called? He doesn't know. Something's wrong up there and while that might mean something will be wrong down here very soon, that's not actually his fear. All Noam's been able to think about is what, if anything, he can do about this.
He's not a firefighter, full stop. Noam isn't going to run up those stairs like some kind of hero ready to pull people out of the flames. Hell, he couldn't even look at the dark smoke without nearly wetting his pants. He's never been this close to actual fire in his life. He doesn't know what to do. He just can't bring himself to walk away either.
Who would even want my help at this point? Noam doesn't push the thought away; there's no point. He knows who he is. He doesn't have any hopes and dreams of being the saviour that gets them all out of this alive. That isn't going to happen. He knows that now as does everyone else.
…but burning to death?
Noam shudders at the thought. He makes his way back towards the kitchen. It's not a good plan, really he can't even call it a plan at all at this point. It's just him, throwing every single bowl-shaped object he can find down onto the floor. Metal and plastic and something that looks like what his mom would call 'bamboo' clatter to the floor around him. Noam even crawls his way up onto the counter to reach the top cupboards.
"What are you doing?"
Noam doesn't even bother to turn and see who it is. "I don't know! Getting water."
It dawns on him almost a minute later that he recognizes the person's voice. Noam turns around, still crouched on top of the counter like a deranged frog, and sure enough he's right. Riley stands at the kitchen's threshold like he's somehow surprised to see him here. "You fix burns with water, right?"
Riley's expression doesn't budge. "What?"
Noam drops the plastic bowl he's holding and points back towards the dining room. "I saw it. Upstairs, it's all smoke. Something's on fire and there's people up there. And if they make it down here they could have burns. They'll need water."
He's aware of how absolutely ridiculous he sounds, but that doesn't stop him. It's the only thing he can think to do. Noam doesn't know where the fire is. He doesn't know where anyone else is either. Maybe he should be trying to put it out, but he's scared. This isn't a situation he ever thought he'd be in, or if he did he thought there'd be some exit route. There's not even a fucking fire alarm to pull.
"Well?" Noam asks, turning around again but Riley's little more than a blur through his tears. He doesn't even know why he's crying. It could just be the smoke in his eyes, but the panic beating in his chest suggests otherwise. He needs to do something, yet he's the most useless fucking person for the job. Still, he's trying.
He's fucking trying even if it's not going to change anything now.
He tried with Vasi. It had been too late, but he did. He'd made so many mistakes, and that's not exactly new to Noam. His entire life has been a mistake but he managed to convince himself he didn't care. His parents didn't. His siblings didn't. None of the people that he stretched to call friends did. Why should Noam? Why should he pretend that he was striving to be anything but a complete fuck up?
He trembles as he stares at the Riley-shaped blob still standing in the doorway. It feels like his breaths are coming too fast yet everything else is moving slowly. He just has to get the water ready. "Are you going to help me?"
"We can't do anything." Something inside him shouts that that's complete bullshit. He has to do something. He's done nothing and let things happen and now Vasi is dead and the only person that ever had any faith in him is gone.
"We can."
"Noam-"
Whatever Riley was about to say is interrupted by the loudest voice he's ever heard. "Ramsey Thorn has been eliminated. Twelve contestants remain."
"See?" Noam doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. This doesn't tell him anything he didn't already know. He knew someone was up there. Odds are better that there'll be more than one.
Noam lowers himself down from the countertop and shakily takes one of the containers to the sink. He turns the first knob, then the second. He turns them all the way open, but still nothing comes out. Noam stares at the taps for several seconds before bursting into tears. "You're right. You're always fucking right. I know. You don't have to say it. I'm an idiot and I'm sorry."
Noam doesn't expect an answer. Truthfully he has no idea if Riley is even still in the room. It would make sense if he wasn't. This is just about the most pathetic Noam's ever felt and that's saying something. The one thing he could think to do isn't working. He's not even trying to come up with something else. Instead, he's blubbering like a toddler while the people upstairs die.
He looks up, tears still blurring his surroundings. The next words are so muffled, Noam can barely understand them. "I'm sorry, okay?"
Level 4A - Platform - 12:55 PM
Dom hurries down the stairs with her hand over her mouth. The smoke is already thinning, but her irritated eyes claim otherwise. She doesn't know where any of it came from. She had been in the library waiting for Amadis when the entire floor started to smell like burnt rubber.
She still hasn't seen Amadis. She holds back a cough as she turns into the dining room. All of the rooms on the lower floor always seem so much emptier. They're larger, so it makes sense, but that doesn't make Dom any more comfortable. They make her feel far too vulnerable.
Still better than the cell blocks. Still better than the common room. Dom swallows and finds that her throat has already started to feel less dry. It might not last for long, but the air on this floor is safe enough. She's thankful for that.
She pauses in the middle of the dining room when she hears someone speaking. She can't place the voice, but that's not surprising. Dom hasn't interacted with many of the other contestants. She knows it isn't Amadis, which means she wants no part in it. She also knows it's not Bridget.
Dom considers where she should hide. The bathroom is the obvious choice, if only because she doesn't hear shouting in that direction. Still, something draws her towards the kitchen and Dom doesn't have a good enough reason not to let it.
She immediately wishes she hadn't.
Dom's entire body freezes as she peers inside. The first person she sees has his back to her, but almost immediately she finds the second. She can only see his feet, both kicking out behind him though he's still held in midair. The larger of the two has his hands wrapped tightly around the smaller boy's throat.
She feels dizzy, like her body is already rushing to the floor though Dom can't bring herself to move. It explains why the shouting stopped. It explains why she didn't hear anything further as she made her way over here. She wants so badly to run but her eyes refuse to even turn away. The smaller boy claws at the hands holding him, but they don't even flinch. The larger boy is still facing forward, though Dom can't see his eyes.
Without any warning, the larger boy throws the smaller one against the wall of cupboards. He doesn't even look like he's conscious, instead flopping against them before crumpling to the floor. The other boy is on top of him in a moment, bringing whatever's in his hand down hard on the smaller one's head.
The sound that results makes Dom's knees give out. She drops to the floor but she can still see the larger boy as his hand comes down again and again towards him. She doesn't know how many times. There's no sound but the crack as he makes impact again and again and again. Dom's hands shake so hard she loses grip against the door frame. She can't even pull herself up from the floor.
Blood sprays back each time the larger boy brings his hand up again. It splatters against the floor, parts of the ceiling, the countertops. The bits of his face that Dom can see are painted in the same colour, his hands and wrists are too. It feels like she's watching a horror movie, but there are no screens and the killer is only a few meters in front of her.
The whimper leaves her lips before she can stop it. If he can hear her he makes no indication. Dom can't make out what he's saying. She's not even certain they're words, but they're masked by the cracks that still have yet to stop.
Then, the larger boy stands up to his full height. Dom can't see the other one, she doesn't want to. Her heart tightens when she remembers that there hasn't been an announcement yet. He's still alive. Her eyes drift from the ceiling to the countertops to the blood sprayed across the larger boy's neck. How is he still alive?
"Sorry." His tone makes the single word sound like a slur. As if to solidify the comparison, he spits down towards the floor. "Did that fix it?"
Dom's gone before he turns around, not towards the bathroom but as far away as possible. She can't go up. Her only option is down, but she doesn't hesitate. She'd rather face the cell block. She'd rather face Bridget or anyone else that might be waiting down there for her.
Anything but him.
Level 4 - Gym - 12:55 PM
Casi blinks several times before realizing that the grogginess clouding his eyes isn't going away. They sit up quickly before being overtaken by another wash of dizziness that grounds him again. From this angle, the room looks like it's running circuits around them and the smoke is in the lead.
I need to get up. He turns over as quickly as they can while still remaining mostly horizontal. The room isn't as smoke-filled as Casi remembers. It takes far too long to realize that they aren't where he thought he was. The gym equipment is a dead giveaway, even if it is clouded by dark smoke.
There's no sound to give him away, but Casi feels a presence beside them even before he turns their head. Still, that doesn't stop them from almost leaping out of his skin when he sees Lawrence crouched so close.
"Where are we?" Lawrence looks behind him at the trio of treadmills, then back at Casi. "Good point."
"You fainted." The way he says it is so matter-a-fact that Casi almost doesn't think much of it. That would certainly explain the grogginess, and the fact that he's on the floor. Still, there's not a lot of time to think about that. It's all coming back to them.
Dark clouds of smoke that made the path forward impossible to see. Tall flames that shot out far above their heads. Soot that kept finding its way between his lips no matter how many times Casi spat it back out.
"We have to go." They shoot back up to sitting, and this time he makes it almost into a crouch before fresh coldness washes over them. He can't see almost anything, and this time they can't blame the smoke. What's wrong with me? The immediate answer comes in a memory from the trial.
"Something's wrong." Even his own words sounded far away. "Everything feels too slow."
The lightheadedness was easier to ignore then because Casi had already found their box by the time it set in. There hadn't been anywhere to go but the floor. He remembers how difficult it was to get back up after it was over. They half-recall Amadis leaning down to help him.
"No." Lawrence shakes his head, but rather than give even a shred of explanation he turns away.
"The fire-" they start, but he's quickly interrupted.
"Isn't down here." Lawrence snaps, and it's the most change in tone they've ever heard from him. "You fainted. I can't carry you any further."
"I don't need to be carried," he says, but there's little fight in their words. Afterall, Casi doesn't remember how he got here in the first place. The last memory they have is of the flames that made the infirmary look like hell on earth. After that, there's nothing. The realization dawns on him quickly. "You carried me here."
Lawrence doesn't bother to give a response, but he doesn't turn away either. Casi swallows, not quite sure what to think about that. It takes far too long before the words finally make it to his lips. "Thank you."
They sit up again, but this time he's not trying to get to their feet. Instead, he wraps their arms quickly around Lawrence's shoulders. Almost as soon as they do, he gives them a hard shove that lands him back on the floor and Lawrence almost a full meter away.
Casi's throat immediately goes dry. The last thing they intended to do was offend him. By the frightened look on the boy's face, it feels like he certainly did. "I-I'm sorry, I just-"
Lawrences shakes his head forcefully but gives no other response. They let himself rest back against the floor, heart beating quickly and confusion the only thing playing in his head. I should've thought- Why did I- Casi wants more than anything to apologize again, but that feels like it's only going to upset Lawrence further.
Before they can make a decision, a welcome interruption sprays down from the ceiling. Casi closes his eyes as water rains down on them both. It soaks through the soot covering them in a way that makes the room smell more like it's burning. Still, the cool water is easily one of the best things they've ever experienced.
Level 2 - Common Room - 1:13 PM
It's so quiet down here.
Omar folds and unfolds his hands on the table in front of him. He dusts the front of his sweater in between, despite the fact that he's confirmed several times that there's nothing there. It's just that the fabric still smells vaguely of smoke and he's always hated that scent.
He's uncomfortable to put it lightly, worried but why shouldn't he be? His friends are, as far as he knows, still upstairs. Omar considered over and over how he could try to get them out too, but he's come up blank every time. When he left them on the roof to use the bathroom, Omar never realized it might be the last time he'd see them. He still isn't willing to believe it.
"Noam Steiner has been eliminated. Eleven contestants remain." Omar closes his eyes and tries to remember the name. He says a quick prayer for them as he's done for each of the others.
I did everything I could.
The thought is a familiar one, but it's not as comforting as it's always been. His father told him the same many times throughout the years and Omar believed him every time. He did everything he could think of to save Sabina. He didn't realize how close she was to the edge. He's not even sure how she fell. Omar's dreamt about it dozens of times, but each time it's a little bit different.
The truth is that he closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again she was already gone.
It's not my fault. He believes it, he has to. It's what the police records show even if some people are hell bent on changing them all these years later. You couldn't have stopped it. That's what the first aider told Omar as they wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He believes that too.
Omar closes his eyes and takes a slow breath to calm his worries. He thinks about Meg. It's not my fault. He remembers the fear in her eyes right before the end. That's all there was - fear - nothing else. She was afraid and who wouldn't be? Omar himself had been terrified.
I couldn't have stopped it.
He thinks about Bowie and Bridget waiting on the roof. He wishes they knew what he did. He prays they got out too but the fact that he hasn't seen them yet scares him. Their names haven't been included in the announcements yet. He swallows down the smell of smoke that still sticks to his collar. He wonders how long it would take the blaze he saw in the infirmary to make it up there.
It's not my fault.
I couldn't have stopped it.
When Omar had gone down the stairs, flames had already been starting on the far edge of the infirmary. It would've taken too long to go back upstairs, to even shout for them. It could've killed him too if he tried. They'd understand. They'll know that Omar would've done anything to help them and maybe that will comfort them? He hopes so.
When Omar turns around to the sound of footsteps, it feels like he's seen a ghost. Or, more accurately, two.
"You're okay!" He exclaims, and stands from the bench as quickly as his legs allow. He approaches both of them with his arms extended outwards, relief no doubt evident on his face. They're soaking wet, with streaks of black running from their hair and clothes. The smell of burning is far stronger now, but Omar can see past it.
He grabs Bowie into a hug before he's shoved backwards. His eyes widen in surprise and he turns to Bridget, whose arms are still slightly out from her sides. Beneath the streaks of wet soot, her cheeks are ablaze with red. "Are you serious?"
Omar lets out a nervous chuckle. "Did you want the first hug?"
"You left us." He expects the words to have come from Bridget's lips, but they're still pressed tightly together. He turns to Bowie, whose eyes are rimmed with the same red as Bridget's cheeks. They stare and it takes several seconds for Omar to realize that they were the one who spoke.
Omar's expression falls. "Is that what you think?"
"What else would we think?" Bridget snaps.
He swallows and stands up just a little bit taller. "I escaped the fire, just like you. If I could've warned you I would have. There wasn't time."
Bowie turns to her and they share a look that Omar doesn't understand. He's glad they're okay and that they're getting along. The short time after the trial had been largely silent despite Omar's attempts at conversation. He's been trying to keep them calm and on the same page. That's all he's been trying to do since they got here. Where are these accusations coming from?
"You don't have any ash on you." Her words are so matter-of-fact that Omar has to look down to confirm. There might not be as much visible soot marking his clothes, but he can smell the smoke. He knows he escaped and was lucky to do so.
He swallows. "I brushed it off."
Omar can't remember doing it but he must have. It's the only explanation. He probably left the fire looking just as they do, covered head to toe, and then he wiped it away while he was waiting. It all makes perfect sense.
"I'm not stupid," she retorts.
He looks between them before focusing almost solely on Bowie. They know. They have to. Omar would never leave people behind, not here and not anywhere. He's a good person no matter that people are always trying to find ways to say otherwise. They're wrong. They're all wrong. Omar knows who he is and so do the people that matter most. Bowie knows, they know and they're going to tell her right now.
Bowie's gaze lifts until it's even with his. Omar tries to offer a smile, any encouragement he can to let them know that it's okay. They can speak against Bridget no matter that all Omar's promoted across the group has been peace. They can stand up for him. No, they can change her mind entirely.
The words are so quiet that Omar tells himself that he misheard. "We're not stupid, Omar."
"What?" He does his best to keep the smile on his face. They didn't say that. He needs to hear it again. He knows that Bowie didn't just agree with her.
This time, they're loud enough that he knows he heard correctly. "I said, we're not stupid."
"You know me." His voice cracks but that doesn't matter. It only proves that he's being genuine. "Does that sound like anything I would do?"
Bowie's eyes shift for a moment before they find the courage to return. "Yes."
It hurts them to say it almost as much as it hurt them to finally believe it. Looking at Omar now, it's easy to doubt themself. It's Omar. It's the only person in Bowie's life that they can think to call a friend apart from their mom. They don't want to think badly about him. But they can't keep ignoring the heaviness they've felt in their chest since Omar's trial.
He's not a good person. He's not a friend. Bowie doesn't know what his endgame is, whether it's winning like Bridget says or something deeper. They also know that they don't want to be part of it anymore.
They just had to gather the courage to say it to his face. Even Omar deserves that much.
"We're not good, Omar," Bowie says through chattering teeth. "But I want to be and I don't think you even know what good is yet."
"Bowie?" It hurts to hear him say their name. Bowie hugs their arms around themself and shakes their head. They're terrified. If his endgame really is winning, what's to stop him now? Still, Bowie knows that they need this closure and maybe he does too.
"I can't stay," they say softly. "I don't believe you anymore. I don't think I ever should have. Bridget was right."
There are so many other things they want to say, but suddenly their tongue can't find a single one. This hurts even if they've known the truth for long enough. Game aside, Bowie thought they'd found something here. Now they're back at square one. They have nothing.
Omar takes a step towards them, then another. He looks like little more than a blurry shape in their eyes, but they move back instinctively. It's only at the point that their back hits the wall that Bowie really does start to be afraid. They wipe their eyes and look up at Omar just long enough to see his expression. It's not confusion, or sadness, or any of the things that Bowie expects.
The best way to describe it is absolute betrayal.
Bowie tries to step back again but there's nowhere to go. They shove their hands out in front of them and make contact, but they're empty. The axe they'd almost forgotten about is tied safely to their pantline. There's only a split second for Bowie to even think about grabbing it.
They only see her out of the corner of their eye, but she moves quickly. Omar doesn't even manage to regain the step that Bowie took from him before she's right behind him. The flash of silver feels like a mirage. Every single part of Bowie tries to tell themself that it is.
Bridget grabs their wrist, or at least they think it's her. There's no weapon in her hand and Bowie almost lets themself feel the relief. Except when they look behind them as the pair reaches the door, they see it. The black handle of her knife is sticking out the edge of his lower back; Bowie can even see some of the silver blade still visible.
They expect him to fall, like what happened when they finally let Meg's body down in the cell block. They can almost imagine Omar crumpled on the floor in the same orientation. Instead, he remains facing away from them and Bowie pauses. They can hear Bridget's footsteps continue, but they stand frozen in the room's threshold.
Still perfectly upright, Omar slowly turns to face them. His hand reaches behind him to where the knife still sits, but there's no other indication that anything's changed. Much like Bowie, his body appears frozen.
But the look in his eyes is something they don't ever think they'll forget.
13th: Ramsey Thorn, 17
12th: Noam Steiner, 18
A/N: Well that was fun. I might be an inner monologue girlie but I do love action chapters every once in a while.
I'd like to thank and apologize to the two submitters that lost their characters in this chapter. James, I adore Ram and I did from the moment I got them. It's a joy to write your characters as always, and Ram provided me with such a layered narrative to explore. Z, Noam was an asshole and I'm glad I got to be the one to write him. He brought me immense joy even though he is the most pathetic thing I've ever witnessed. I will miss both these kids so very much.
And, of course, thank you to everyone still reading / discussing / reviewing / telling me that no that scene is not too cringe. I appreciate each and every one of you.
~ Olive