In The Clear: Games XI
Level 2 - Common Room - 7:24 AM
"Order in the court, order."
Eris feels the girl stiffen beside her, despite the fact that they're nowhere close to touching. 006 has jumped at every footstep since they left the rooftop, including her own. Eris can hardly bring herself to look at her. Every time, it feels like another weight's been placed in her lap and there's nothing she can do to remove them.
She knows what's going to happen. 006 will be called for her trial alongside everyone else who hasn't yet completed theirs. Eris expects there'll be more holes, just like there was in her own trial. No doubt someone will be called to fill them, just like last time.
She can only hope that she won't be one of them. She shouldn't feel bad about that, but she does. There is nothing Eris can do for 006. She couldn't jump into the trial in the girl's place even if she wanted to, which she does not. With any luck, Eris will remain up here while the trials take place. She'll watch as much as she can bring herself to on the basis of informing herself about the others. Eris expects most of her time will be spent staring at the wall just beside the screens. Just like last time.
The only difference is that, this time, Eris can't stop wondering if the girl beside her is going to come back upstairs.
The next announcement comes far too quickly. "First order of business - calling of the defendants."
This time there are no coloured lines on the screens. There is only one, and it matches perfectly with the yellow around 006's wrists. "A. Yellow. Seven."
Only a second before it happens, Eris realizes what she's about to hear. Her hands twitch by her sides as if preparing to cover her ears, but they don't make it that far. Her face reddens anyways. How many days has it been and she still doesn't have any desire to know. "Lawrence Yao-Sartre and Marceline Toussaint."
Eris jumps as the girl suddenly grabs hold of her arm. She wants to pull it away, in fact she starts to. But when she sees the wide-eyed expression on her face, Eris' own limbs run cold. "Don't be scared."
"I am." The girl starts shaking again as she holds Eris' gaze. She wants to look away. She can feel the terror beating in her own chest despite the fact that, for now, she's in no new danger. Of course the girl's scared. Eris remembers being terrified when her own name was called, back when she had no idea what she was walking into.
Eris doesn't know what to say in response, so she chooses to say nothing at all. She lets her hand fall over Marceline's, flinching as the name settles in her chest. It's longer than Eris expected, more brazen than the girl sitting beside her. Still, the replacement of a number with a name, her name, makes Eris' stomach tighten.
Without warning, the girl leans forward into what could almost be described as a hug. She grips Eris' arm in two places and folds herself into it. Eris can hear her breathing, faster now than before. She can see that, to no surprise, the girl is trembling so hard that her grasp falters more than once. For a moment, Eris only stares back.
Then, she pulls Marceline in tighter. Eris only means for the embrace to last a second, if not less. Yet, she feels herself holding on almost as tightly despite not knowing why.
Casi has their eyes stuck to the ground as the other names are called. He doesn't recognize them. In fact, they're not certain that he even hears them. The only one he heard is the one that they knew was coming. He clenches his hands tightly in his lap, only releasing them slightly when the sharpness of his nails becomes too much.
The last thing Casi wants to do right now is watch him. They don't know what he wants to do. He hasn't been doing much of anything since leaving the morgue. It feels like Casi's been sleepwalking through the levels. He would reach one and take a few steps before deciding to leave. Nowhere felt right. Here feels just as wrong.
They flinch as the sharpness returns and he has to talk their hands into loosening once more. He isn't completely sure why they decided to leave. The morgue is just as fitting of a place as any, but it felt wrong in the moment. Lawrence's apathy to them leaving confirmed it had to be the right choice. They had been together for one reason and one reason only. Except that reason never even mattered.
"Defendants, report immediately to your assigned cell block. All other contestants must remain in the Common Room until further trials will begin momentarily."
"Hi." Casi doesn't even have time to fully turn towards the voice before it continues. He squints, unable to recognize him even when they're staring straight at him. The expression on Lawrence's face is somehow … legible. The way he's rubbing two of his fingers together on either side puts Casi immediately on edge.
It's still barely anything, but on Lawrence it's so much.
"I-" He starts, not looking at Casi at all. "I miscounted, there were eighteen boxes but not eighteen- not eighteen cupboards. The extrapolation was incorrect so-"
This is easily the highest word count Casi has ever heard come out of the inmate's mouth. It's too bad that they don't understand a single syllable. "What?"
"I-" Lawrence's eyes flash up to him before returning to the ground. They glance behind them to where the rest of the contestants are already heading downstairs. This all made sense in their mind, but now they can't seem to get the words out. There would be time to fix the misunderstanding, but truthfully Lawrence isn't sure how to do that. They're not even sure why they came over here in the first place. The pair's separation was clear. There is no reason for them to have come over here. Lawrence never actually told him about the panel. He doesn't know about their earlier hypotheses. None of this likely makes any sense to Casi.
For what feels like the first time in their life, Lawrence's carefully catalogued mind feels alien to even them.
They know the message they want to get across. It's not over. There are seventeen, not eighteen. Lawrence had assumed eighteen when they saw the panel, but the number of cupboards doesn't match. There isn't room for all of them in the morgue. It's not over for him.
Lawrence starts to turn away, their cheeks having turned far too warm in the seconds of silence. They feel a pressure on their shoulder and glance back, finding Casi's eyebrows furrowed in their direction. There's too much to explain and they feel strangely incapable of it. Their heart is beating too loud in their chest. They keep staring between the hand on their shoulder and the eyes that stare back at them.
Lawrence steps back until Casi's hand falls limply back to his side. He has no idea what to think about the interaction. What extrapolation? What cupboards? None of it clicks in their mind, but he has no choice but to watch the inmate disappear into the stairwell. For the first time since Omar's announcement, Casi feels wide awake.
At this point, he's not sure if that's better or worse.
Basement Level
"You have all been brought here for a second chance."
Riley doesn't believe that for a second.
This isn't a second chance to do better, like the beginnings of every trial thus far has stated. He was better. Riley's fucked up so much in his life but what brought him here wasn't one of those things. The only thing he regrets is that he didn't finish what he decided to do only halfway. It was for him. In fact, it was probably the first non-selfish thing he's done.
Riley doesn't want to hear what the voice is going to say about him. He's been telling himself that it's bullshit since the first trial started. It doesn't know him or anything about him. Whatever it's about to say, Riley won't pretend he's better but it will still be lying. He doesn't need a lecture. He knows that what he did was wrong and he'd do it all over again. No, he'd do far more.
The voice's words mean nothing to him.
"In honour of the tenth season of The Cut, each of you have been chosen in the likeness of a Winner."
Nothing.
"You, like each of them, must overcome what binds you to this darkness you sit within. Season 3, Mina Coffman." Riley braces himself, remembering the number because it came before his name upstairs. He has every instinct to put his hands over his ears. Instead, he forces himself to glare up at the screen overlooking the cell block.
You don't know anything about me.
"She came into The Cut as someone willing to go to illegal lengths in order to maintain an illusion of self-sufficiency. In her season, she learned the importance of honesty to one's self and has built a strong portfolio in the world of poetry."
His throat goes dry despite his demands. Riley tells himself not to listen. It won't change anything to know what the world thinks of him. He doesn't carewhat it thinks of him. The only person whose opinion matters isn't watching.
He wonders if that's true. Riley glances down at the front of his uniform, where the discoloured stains have dried into something that barely even looks like blood anymore. He'll tell himself that Alec isn't watching until it's the only thought that fills his mind.
"Riley Lenihan, you have been chosen in her image. You possess not only the same conceited independence but also an indifference towards others in your life. Thus far, you have let these traits define you, much as your predecessor did before The Cut."
Riley clenches his fists on either side, but there's no one to swing at. The cell block is empty beyond concrete and metal. I don't care. He doesn't care about what it's saying about him. Alec will know it isn't true.
Alec isn't watching.
Yet, when Riley's eyes move along the ceiling searching for cameras, his gaze is notably softer.
"Season 7, Guiliana Abelli. She came into The Cut in the midst of a double life fueled by animosity towards the stagnancy in her life. In her season, she was able to find her true voice, choose its message, and propel herself towards a successful career in theatrical arts."
Marcy sniffles as her arms collect around her torso, making herself as small as possible in the large room. She can't close her eyes, she's far too afraid, but she also can't look at him. She feels his gaze each time it reaches her, in fact his eyes seem to set her skin on fire. Marcy slouches until she's even shorter. She wishes she could disappear into the concrete floor but it's so solid beneath her feet.
"Lawrence Yao-Sartre and Marceline Toussaint, you have been chosen in her image. You each possess the same displeasure with the uneventful alongside a willingness to deceive those around you. Thus far, you have allowed these traits to guide you away from others, much as your predecessor did before The Cut."
Marcy's watery eyes lift slowly to the screen as her lip quivers. She never meant to deceive anyone. She never meant any of this to happen. The fires, the smoke, the tender redness on both her and Eris' cheeks even a day later. None of it happened because she was displeased. However, Marcy can't explain why it did. She's never been able to.
"Season 9, Vito Zirensky. He came into The Cut in a flood of disbelief, shocking everyone who knew him with such a heinous crime. In his season, he was able to connect the disjointed pieces of himself and start on his way towards excellence in medical research."
Bowie feels like they're frozen in the dim room, the air as still as ice around them. Disjointed pieces - Bowie can't help but understand what that means. They look around, their eyes seeming to land anywhere but the screen in front of them. It looks so different than the last time they were here. Watching from upstairs doesn't do it justice. Even though their skin feels as hot as it did on the upper levels, the room feels so cold.
"Bowen Bridges, you have been chosen in his image. You possess stark depravity inside you that has, after years of normalcy, managed to take control of you. Thus far, you have allowed this to remain unopposed, much as your predecessor did before The Cut."
Bowie's hand moves over the front of their sweatshirt. They don't want to understand what the voice is talking about, but they do. They could have just been happy with what they had. They had a roof over their head and a mom that loved them. They did lose control. It's right. Bowie should never have hurt their father. They should never have even picked up a weapon on day one.
They stand up as straight as they can. There's no use hiding from the words, not now. They probably couldn't even if they tried.
"The Cut gave each of them the chance to prove that they are more than the vices of their past. Now it's your turn to prove if you are capable of following in their footsteps."
"Will you be honest?"
"Will you be satisfied?"
"Will you be victorious?"
"Or has your time already run out?"
Level 2 - Common Room
"Riley Lenihan and Bowen Bridges, you two are the only surviving likenesses of Mina Coffman and Vito Zirensky. For the completion of your trials you are each required to select a new counterpart, else one will be selected at random."
Bridget swerves her gaze as 012's eyes find her. She feels the burn of them for only a couple seconds before they're gone. When Bridget looks back, 012 is watching the screens again. The heat in her cheeks doesn't leave, but Bridget eventually manages to pry her eyes away.
She finds it hard to focus on any of the words that the voice is saying. It's little more than a cartoon droning in the background now. Bridget tries again to focus. She knows that she isn't in the clear yet. Just like the first trial, someone is going to have to take the place of the dead contestants. It could be her.
Bridget finds herself staring at the girl once again. She doesn't know which voice she was, but she knows she was one of them. Bridget heard the girls whisper before Marceline went downstairs. It was the two of them that she overheard on the roof this morning.
"Riley Lenihan, please make your selection."
She isn't watching the screen where he's standing, but she hears his reply. At first it doesn't phase her. However, it doesn't take long to remember the number etched into her uniform. "Four."
It takes no time at all to read the name that overtakes every screen in the surrounding room. After all it was the second one that Bridget learned to spell when she was three, the first being her sister's. She swallows and rises from the bench she'd been sitting on. Her legs feel incapable of holding her, but thankfully they do. She keeps her face as neutral as she can, but still freezes as she turns to face the stairwell.
I'm going back down there.
Bridget's legs start to tremble as she forces them forward. She can't show that she's afraid. She shouldn't be afraid. She's done this before; she's won before. Bridget will do it again. She has no choice but to do it again.
"Bowen Bridges, please make your selection."
Bridget only realizes there's been a pause when all she's able to hear is the heart thundering in her chest. She feels the eyes slowly leave her as they no doubt drift towards the screen. They all want to know that it won't be them. Finally, a timid voice speaks.
"No. I won't."
It sounds like whoever it is is already crying. Bridget's fists shake against her hips as she struggles against doing the same. Silence builds again and Bridget forces herself to keep moving. It doesn't matter who else is selected at this point. She just needs to get downstairs before she shows even more weakness than she already has. Unfortunately, downstairs is the last place her shoes wish to take her.
"No!" The single word is cut off, but it's loud enough to capture Bridget's attention. She turns just before stepping inside the stairwell. All the screens now show the same thing. The inmate whose voice she didn't recognize is Bowie, who kneels in the middle of the cell block alone. Their lips form words - no, just one word, over and over again - but the screen has cut it away. Half of the screens that just seconds ago showed their silence pleading become overlaid with a name that Bridget would be hard pressed to forget.
The two girls lock eyes from across the room as Dom slowly reaches her feet. Something about this moment feels far too similar to the last set of trials, right down to the second that both girls tear their eyes away.
Final - that's the feeling that Bridget now feels beating in her chest.
And maybe this time that feeling will prove true.
Cell Block B
Both contestants scowl across the table as the room transforms around them.
The walls stretch until the space doubles in size, bringing the pair further apart. A thick barrier separates the room in half, with a space between it and the ceiling that's only a half-meter wide. The floor too seems to shift, forming a grid with stripes of darker concrete across each half of the room. When the boy steps to one side, the ground gives slightly beneath him as if the concrete has been replaced with plywood. He does not chance another.
Riley can't see her anymore, but it's somewhat of a comfort to have her here with him. Hers was the only number he knew off by heart. He wouldn't even call his choice personal. She's pissed him off a few times, enough to remember her. He doesn't know anyone else's name. It's an easy choice and Riley won't pretend to feel bad about it.
What the fuck is this? He wonders as he scans his side of the room. The gridlines ring a bell in his mind but he can't catch up to it. Thankfully, the instructions that stream across the dividing wall are enough to jog his memory. Riley can't help but laugh and doesn't bother to hide the sound. Fucking Battleship.
It's not the same, but the idea is close enough. They each have identical grids on their sides of the room. Some of the squares will give way when selected - hit. Others won't - miss. Each of them can either target the other contestant or move themself around the grid. They have to stay on their own grid. You cannot step on tiles that have been called out, whether hits or miss. Try not to fall through the floor. No further rules.
The fact that the instructions state that outright makes Riley believe there's going to be more to this game than meets the eye.
"Game start."
Riley jumps as his grid becomes illuminated. It feels far too bright against the strict dimness. He can't even tell where it's coming from for the first several seconds. It's as if the lines themselves are glowing, yet he can feel the heat of spotlights on his back. As if this needs to get hotter, he thinks bitterly, followed immediately by - I say that as if it's not my fucking fault.
He tried to go back and fix it. The show wouldn't let him. At this point, it can hardly be called his fault.
Riley stares through his eyebrows for several seconds before realizing that the barrier wall now bears a near-identical grid. He steps towards it, trying to ignore the uneasiness of his steps. Each one feels like it could be thin enough to break through. He doesn't want to think about it. Especially not when one of the creaks sounds more like a whimper.
He realizes that he's not actually sure how to take his turn. Riley stares at the grid and mentally chooses one. He wonders if it's the same as the board game. "A7."
Almost immediately, he hears a strange new sound from the other side of the barrier. He wouldn't know how to describe it if he tried. Then, the voice confirms his suspicion. "Player 14 - hit."
Riley looks around his own grid, remembering what happens next. He has to stay within the grid, and make sure that he's not on the tile she chooses. He considers placing each of his feet on different ones, but then remembers that the instructions specifically forbade that. Instead, he decides to simply stay where he is and hope she wasn't paying enough attention to his earlier footsteps.
"A7."
He raises an eyebrow. This was the strategy that his brother used to use when they were little. Apparently the logic was that someone might say their own location when guessing. It's too bad Riley never looked at his own ships long enough to know where they were on the grid.
Not to mention that, in this version, there are no ships. At least none that he has any control over. All he has are his own two feet and far too much confidence in them.
There's no way he's going to lose. Not to some stupid board game.
Nothing on Riley's side of the room moves. "Player 4 - miss."
"A6." He's not going to waste any time, nor give her enough to move. If she's smart she'll use her own turns to move. If this version works like the board game, Riley should be able to hit a few more tiles in this area. She's probably nowhere near it, at least not anymore, but that's not important.
"Player 14 - hit." They have to stay on the grid. He just has to make sure that, eventually, she'll have nowhere to run.
Cell Block C
Both contestants stare with damp eyes as the room transforms around them.
If possible, the whole area darkens even further. Walls spring up at random as the room doubles, then triples in size. A new ceiling cuts the room in half height-wise and both contestants drop to their knees to avoid it. They're both in the same small area - a hallway that closes in on most sides. Neither is able to see much of what lies beyond it.
Dom's hands are shaking so violently that they're unable to press her up from the ground. Tears quiver in her eyes, making the darkness even murkier around her. It looks too much like last time. It feels the same, smaller even. She takes a breath to try and calm herself but that turns into two and then four and then six-
"Here." Dom doesn't even see the hand that comes down to help her. She feels it as it wraps around hers and gives a gentle tug. Not even that is enough to help her to her feet. Dom shakes her head. She doesn't know what to say. She can't voice the fear that's trembling at the back of her throat. It already feels too powerful.
"It's a maze," Bowie says softly. She can tell that they must be reading from something, but no matter how many times she blinks the tears refuse to clear. Slowly, she uses the wall that hadn't been there moments ago to slide up to almost-standing. The ceilings are too short to go further. "We just have to get to the end."
"That's it?" Her voice is so small, so afraid, nothing like how Dom's been trying so hard to keep it. It's like the glass walls are already closing in on her again. She can hear the voice, feel the anticipation as it decides her fate. I lost. I lost and I'm going to die-
"First one out wins."
The trembling starts to overtake her again. Dom tries to nod but she doesn't know how successful she is. The same hand that tried to help her up now wraps around her shoulder, squeezing it gently, but it still feels suffocating. She shakes her head. She doesn't know why. Dom isn't sure if she's telling them to stop. She doesn't know what she should be telling them.
First one out wins.
I can't win. I didn't win. I lost. I lost and I'm going to-
Focus. She needs to focus. Dom puts a hand on her chest as if that's going to slow the breaths that pour from her lips. She looks towards Bowie but it's near-impossible to make out their features through her tears.
"Game start."
Instead of moving - running - to the first place her eyes take her, Dom finds herself collapsing again into panicked gasps. It's the same words. She puts her hand up and it feels like it's once again pressed on the glass; the same glass that held her. As the voice paused to await her fate. As someone else decided whether Dom deserved to die.
She realizes that Bowie hasn't moved either. She can still feel the constant pressure on her shoulder when she finally reels in her breathing. Dom glances up at them and shakes her head. They're competing. It doesn't matter that the expression her mind fills in on their outline is Bowie's eyes fluttering into sleep. One of them is going to lose. She has to start moving or it's going to be her.
"We can go together." Dom isn't sure if the statement is a question, but she still shakes her head. She wants to agree. She wants anything except to move through this alone. The walls already feel like they're closing in on her again. She can't get out of her own fucking head.
"That's not how it works." She has no idea if they'll be able to understand her. The words are like garbled sobs in her mouth; aloud she suspects they sound no different.
There's a pause and Dom wonders if they've finally left, but there's still that same pressure on her shoulder. Gentle, so gentle that she can't force herself to brush it away. "If we get to the end together-"
"They're not going to let us," she interrupts, her voice still trembling.
"We can try. Our practice looked like this, but it was on a screen. There was a book-"
Dom realizes that their voice is shaking too. She hadn't realized until this moment that they'd be just as afraid. She blinks and this time the tears clear just long enough for her to see them. They're staring at her, their eyes begging her to say yes. Dom doesn't even know them, not really. They could be lying to her about what their session entailed. They have every reason to. Yet, she trusts them.
She can't remember the last time she really meant that.
"We can try," she repeats weakly. She doesn't know if she actually believes that, but what else is she supposed to do? Dom doesn't want to do this alone. No matter what, they're competing. No matter what, at the end of this, one of them will be in the box waiting to hear if they're going to die.
But she still lets them pull her to her feet.
And they still face the start of the maze side-by-side.
Cell Block A
Both contestants watch the stale ground as the room transforms around them.
The walls shrink, seeming to dissolve entirely apart from a half-meter of fencing. Blue brightens the room in a way that's familiar. Unlike the calm air upstairs, the wind whips their hair and the girl has to turn to get it out of her face. It changes direction just as quickly. The other contestant looks up, but there's nothing to see but blue. The spot where a sun or moon should be is painted no different.
Marcy's arms tighten around her as the wind makes her shiver. The chill feels so foreign after the days of heat, but her soot-coated sweater is nowhere in sight. Lawrence still wears his, and he pulls the sleeves down further to cover his hands. Otherwise, he looks unfazed by the new surroundings. No, that's not entirely true. Marcy pushes the hair out of her face again as the wind changes direction, but he's already turned away. She can't figure out his expression.
She squints around the room for instructions. It's small, smaller than the cell block had been and she's not sure how that's possible. The other trials have pulled similar tricks. Why does it matter? It doesn't, she's just trying to think of anything but the trial she's already entered.
What's going to happen to us? Marcy grits her teeth and takes a tentative step from the center of the room. Room might be the wrong description, but she can't remember the right word. They're outside, at the top of a building. It looks a lot like where she and Eris came from this morning. Why can't I remember?
She can't find the instructions. Eris said there would be some. Or that there were some during her trial. She can't remember which it was. Either way, she can't find anything or anywhere the words could be. There's the blue, the concrete floor, and the short railing that can hardly be called that. It doesn't even come up past her knees.
Marcy can feel a pulse in her throat that she realizes is not in line with her heartbeat. She swallows and looks around for the source but finds nothing. Lawrence doesn't seem to be hearing it. He's still staring at the stairwell - where it should be because it too is gone. All of it's gone. It doesn't feel like there could be a whole tower above them. It feels like the world is far beneath them, but Marcy doesn't have the courage to look over the edge.
The wind seems to be getting even stronger.
"What's happening?" Marcy shouts, but her voice feels too small to make it past her lips. She squints and turns in the opposite direction, hoping to shield herself. The pulse is making her nauseous. She doesn't know anymore if it's her own or something else. She tries to think about the other trials - Eris', anyone's - but comes up blank. All Marcy can think about is the air whipping her burned skin.
Yarn. Cat's cradle. What do either of those have to do with this?
"There are two possible outcomes." Marcy has now closed her eyes entirely as she focuses on the words. They're unobstructed by the wind; it's as if they're coming from inside her skull. "Both may win if they outlast the other events."
She doesn't understand. The words don't make any sense to her.
Suddenly, Marcy feels the ground start to tremble. At first, she doesn't believe her own instincts. It must be her legs giving out against the strong winds. That has to be it.
The concrete starts to growl and groan beneath her.
Marcy's eyes fly back open and the floor is opening up at the center. Lawrence has already scrambled back, his perfect steps giving way to frantic flailing. He's come straight towards her. Marcy barely starts to move in time. She feels the floor fall away beneath her heel and she throws herself towards the railing.
Where do I go?
I can't jump over.
I can't-
Marcy screams as she grabs wildly for the top of the railing. She all but throws herself across it, but finds the ledge crumbling as well. Terrified tears blur her vision as her fingers scramble for grip. Just when it feels like the entire thing is going to disappear, the grumbling concrete falls silent.
She fights to catch her breath. There's still nothing beneath her feet to hold her. The only thing she can feel beyond the panic in her chest is the rough concrete under her arms. When Marcy is finally able to look around, she finds both her arms steadied against the top of a narrow ledge. That's the only part of the room that's still visible.
The rest is blue. The same blue from upstairs, but this one is angry. This one still whips her charred bangs across her eye. This one still makes her shiver.
It's all she can see above her.
It's where the rest of the railing should be.
It's below her.
And beside her, Lawrence clings to the same crumbled concrete with white knuckles pressing against it. He meets her petrified gaze with stark surprise. He glances behind them, but a thin square of concrete is all that exists now. It's all that's standing in the way of them both plummeting into the blue-tinged nothing.
Level 2 - Common Room
Each breath that Amadis takes feels more shallow. She has managed to tear her eyes away from the screen many times, but they always find their way back. She hadn't wanted to come back here for fear of the memories of her own trial. Amadis has hardly thought about it.
She keeps watching Dom. She keeps wondering if she's going to be okay all the while realizing that there's nothing she can do if she isn't.
She shivers as her eyes glaze over the other screens. The one showing two contestants holding onto a ledge makes her stomach plummet to her shoes. The one featuring a human-sized version of a board game seems almost as intense. Hit, miss, hit, miss. Amadis is trying not to pay too much attention to any of it. Her brain still heads towards the distractions every chance it gets.
She rubs her hands down her eyes but that changes nothing. There's no grogginess to rub away; she feels wide awake. There are no tears either. Amadis hates the helplessness more than any of the fear that's coursing through her. She hates feeling like, no matter what she does, nothing is going to change.
She's starting to feel like the beeping she heard downstairs is just another sign that she's losing her mind.
Casi said nothing similar happened to him. As infuriating as they can be, Amadis doesn't think he'd lie to her. That doesn't mean anything. People could lie. She promised Dom that she would meet her in the library after their trials. Amadis never even tried to show up.
That's different.
How?
She lets her face fall once again into her outstretched fingers. Nothing has ever been this complicated for her before. Amadis' goals were always so concrete, so unmovable, but her life now is anything but. She doesn't know if anything she's doing is improving her chances or just making them worse. She was so proud of herself at the beginning. She even started to think in the back of her mind that she was making her mom proud.
Amadis wasn't playing by their rules. She helped all of them escape from her cell block on the first day. She realized where the seam was in the walls and it worked. In a classroom, that innovation would be celebrated. Except this isn't a classroom. And workarounds aren't going to save her forever.
How long until they decide she's done enough? How long until something doesn't work? How long until the odds are so stacked against her that bury her alive?
Amadis doesn't know the answer.
Not only that, but this might be the only answer she isn't going to fight to find out.
She lets the tears slip through her fingertips without wiping them away. She doesn't want to feel this helpless. She knows that it's not going to help her. Amadis doesn't know if anything will. The last thing she wants to do is sit here and feel sorry for herself, no, the last thing she wants to do is give up.
Is letting the tears fall the same as giving up?
Amadis doesn't hear anyone approach her, so when he speaks it makes her jump an inch off the floor. She whirls around to face them, but Casi doesn't look the least bit concerned about her uneasiness. "Why wasn't it us?"
She narrows her eyes, but shakes her head. When the selection ended and all the competing inmates were downstairs, Amadis had wondered the same thing. If the show is trying to get rid of her, to the point where it's alerting others to her presence, why wouldn't they send her down there again?
"He picked her," she says, stating the obvious.
"They didn't, though."
Amadis lets out a slow breath. "You're right."
"I know," they shrug. It's not the same irritating playfulness that she experienced during their session. Still, it's something, and Amadis is almost grateful.
It was breaking her to see them giving up. She suspects if she told him that, Casi would roll their eyes. They're not allies or friends or anything of the type. They're just two people in similarly shitty situations.
And if they can smile then so can she.
"Are you sure about this morning?"
She knows immediately what they're talking about - the beeping. The problem is that Amadis still hasn't come to a conclusion about it. He looked at her like she was insane yesterday. Stress and trauma can contribute to psychosis. It's not out of the question at this point, almost nothing is. But until insanity is proven, Amadis has to choose not to doubt herself.
"Yes."
They pause for long enough that she starts to believe that the conversation is over. Her eyes drift back through the screens, landing as always on the one containing Dom. The two contestants move through the hallways at a glacial pace. 001 seems to be looking for something.
Suddenly, they wince and throw themself back into Dom. Amadis sits straight up and leans in, squinting to try and see what happened.
"How long do you think we have?"
Amadis can't even think about their question for a moment. Not until the pair start moving forward again and she can be sure that Dom's okay. Only then does she turn back to Casi. "Until what?"
She doesn't even have to wait for them to answer. Amadis can see by the look on his face, and by the fact that she's been wondering the exact same thing since their trial. The number of contestants remaining is dwindling. The voice made it clear that it considers the two of them to be terrorists, not only against the country but against The Cut itself.
Is she really still kidding herself that they'd let her win?
"I don't know."
For the first time, she actually hopes for one of Casi's flippant retorts. Yet, even though he doesn't give one, it feels right that they don't move from her side. No matter that it's the last thing she wants, his silent support is exactly what she needs. She's no longer used to doing everything by herself.
And, when Casi's words start once again weaving themselves around the pair, she's more than content to listen.
Cell Block A
Lawrence's hands feel warm against the rough concrete. The bottoms and sides have gone white from the pressure. Their fingernails have started to pale as well, though they suspect that is more a result of the cold. Their shoulders feel tight, like they've been locked in place by their position. Lawrence supposes that this is a good thing.
Their mind refuses to stray far, instead focusing on the things it can easily see. Hands, elbows, shoulders, chest. Lawrence tried once to look down but it made the air seem to move even faster around them. They know that, logically, this couldn't be true. However, that fact didn't remove the unpleasantness from the experience. In fact, thinking about it now has made their mouth feel strangely dry.
They can hear her beside them, but Lawrence hasn't looked. It feels uncomfortable to invade her space in that way, no matter that their spaces have nearly combined into one. When Lawrence looks down at their left elbow, they can see her right one. It hasn't stopped moving, as if the girl were shivering, but they suspect this is something else.
Right, what else? Lawrence goes back to the cycle of watching. Hands, elbows, shoulders, chest. They are unsure what else to do to occupy the time.
They swallow and their mouth still feels dry, though there is a bitter taste beyond it that Lawrence doesn't recognize.
"Comment allez-vous?" How are you?
She flinches as they speak and Lawrence shifts their eyes politely. They're unsure what possessed them to ask the question, not only because the answer is obvious but because small talk is not something they have a tendency to enjoy. Now, they have no choice but to await an answer. It's only courteous.
They feel relieved that the internal logic has settled itself.
Lawrence does not understand her response. It's said through gritted teeth that shiver so violently that tears start to gather on her cheeks. She shakes her head. Lawrence isn't certain that is the answer she intends to give.
She's afraid.
Of course she is.
Lawrence's eyes flicker downwards again and the same twisting sensation comes over them. Their face starts to tingle and they can feel the concrete press even harder against their palms. This is the first time that Lawrence wonders if what they're feeling might also be described as fear.
That word has rarely fit into their vocabulary. Of course, there have been moments where Lawrence felt caution towards the world. In Marcel's presence, in their mother's as well. Though in those instances, there had always been something that Lawrence could do. They could remove themself from the room, which was generally what was asked of them anyways. The on-end alertness would be gone by the time they closed their bedroom door.
Lawrence would very much like to go there now.
Hands, elbows, shoulders, chest. They complete the rotation again but it's getting more difficult to focus on them. Lawrence is becoming more acutely aware of the person beside them. They can feel her trembling as if the concrete were somehow shifting the sensation towards them. They swallow and readjust slightly on the ledge as they've felt her do a dozen times. The rough surface feels far worse against fresh skin.
"As-tu peur?" Are you scared?
They feel her gaze lift to them but are only able to look in that direction for a short while. Her eyes are bloodshot and there's stickiness running from her nose. Never mind the redness on all sides of her face that they remember from the panel's video.
Lawrence can hear her breaths, though they sound more like gasps. It's enough of an answer; she is afraid.
"As-tu?" Are you? She asks. Her voice is far louder than it needs to be but before they can decide if they've angered her or otherwise, the tears start to come again. Now, her breathing is even faster. It sounds almost painful.
She's staring at them now.
Lawrence takes a slow breath and she mimics it, though they're unsure if that's purposeful. They do it again and again, she follows suit. After the third time, it seems that her breaths have finally calmed.
She sniffles and stares down at her hands. Lawrence does the same, but they immediately wish they hadn't. They're now shaking almost as violently as hers and no amount of focus is enough to stop them. Lawrence swallows and starts the rotation again - hands, elbows, shoulders-
"Pourquoi es-tu gentil avec moi?"
This question catches them off guard. Lawrence's brow drops towards their nose and they watch the girl for a moment as if expecting her to say more. Why are you being nice to me? They're not certain they have an answer to that. They don't believe that this is them being nice at all.
She continues to stare at them until Lawrence's eyes return to their hands. "Je suis désolé."
I'm sorry. Her voice is softer this time but that fact doesn't answer any of their questions.
"Je ne sais pas comment répondre." I don't know how to respond.
It's the most true statement that Lawrence can come up with.
The last thing that they expect her to do in response is scream.
Marcy grips the back of the ledge just as her forearm slips. It's just enough to steady herself, but not enough to stop the shriek that coats the back of her throat. She pulls herself as far up the wall as she can despite the shaking that starts at both shoulders and continues all the way down. Her arms are exhausted. She knew that even before she slipped. She's never done anything like this. She never wants to do anything like this again.
She cries into the concrete, no longer caring about the tender burns on her face. They hurt but so does everything else, everything but her legs that have gone numb beneath her. She has every expectation that if she happens to slip again, she's not going to be able to get herself back up.
Lawrence has never felt anything as strongly as the girl in front of them. They don't have to know her well to know this. They cannot remember a time when tears have streamed down their face or when screaming felt like an option. They've felt euphoric and they've felt anger but suddenly none of that feels as raw as the girl in front of them.
They think about Casi and the rage that twisted their expressions into something so unlike him. They remember his smile before the game started, the playful eyes that were so intense that even Lawrence got caught in them. They remember the putrid disappointment written on his face just before Casi turned around and left for good. Lawrence has never felt anything like that.
And maybe that's the reason that the next time their hand threatens to slip, they allow it.
Lawrence's body drops several inches despite their opposite hand still holding tightly to the ledge. They gasp and their eyes widen so far that it's actually uncomfortable for a moment. Their stomach feels suddenly light while the rest of them feels the exact opposite. Their heart quickens again in this chest, but this time Lawrence can hear it in their ears and feel it against their temples.
In the background, the girl screams again. This time, rather than the sound overpowering their every sense, Lawrence barely hears it at all. They close their eyes and listen to every sensation as it pours over them.
It's terrifying. Lawrence does not hesitate in calling it that.
They open their eyes a moment later and the girl is staring down at them. There's only about a half-meter between them, but it feels much further. She's gasping again, her breaths too fast but Lawrence finds that theirs nearly match. They glance down at the blue that swirls around their feet.
It feels alive. They feel alive.
No, they feel human.
And Lawrence realizes that's all they've ever wanted to feel.
They look back to the spot of blue where the stairwell disappeared. The game is still waiting for them. After this is over, Lawrence could return to the morgue. They could press play on those videos and wait for new ones. They could have what they've called freedom for the past few days, before they realized what freedom can actually mean.
(They think about Casi, about the eighteenth coffin that doesn't actually exist. They spent so many days assuming it did, wondering what that meant not for themself but for him. They think about the fact that it doesn't change anything for them. They don't want to win. No matter the outcome of this game Lawrence will, physically or otherwise, leave this place in a coffin more constrained than they've ever been.)
This freedom - this emotion - it's horrible. It's made their body no longer feel like their own. They feel their gasps and wide eyes and quivering jaw and it's awful but Lawrence still drinks in every sip. It's proof against everything they've ever felt, everything Marcel and their mother has ever said.
And, as they start to pull themself back onto the ledge, they feel that little bit of leftover gasoline start to dry up.
No one can control me here.
Marcy closes her eyes, unable to watch as she hears him start to struggle. She doesn't know what happened. He was holding on and then one hand let go and-
She can't think about it. She can't think about how that could happen to her. She wouldn't be able to hold on like he is. Marcy knows she can't. She's already shaking. Her body already feels well past its limit yet fear is keeping her in place. There's no other choice. She has to stay up here. She's too terrified to even look down at him.
She doesn't notice the silence. Not for several seconds at least. And, when she finally does, Marcy looks down and all that's waiting beneath her is blue.
Marcy's lip trembles in disbelief as she turns her head slowly around. There's no sign of him. She didn't hear anything if he did fall. There's nowhere else that he could be. Her breaths start to quicken again and her hands are shaking so violently that she's not sure how they're keeping any kind of grip.
She doesn't know how long it takes before the voice finally comes. Marcy can hardly hear it over the sound of her own panicked sobs.
"The trial has ended.
Lawrence Yao-Sartre has been found guilty."
Cell Block C
They weren't able to find the map book. Bowie isn't even sure anymore if there's supposed to be one. They wonder if they're getting too caught up in the details. All the instructions told them to do was get through the maze.
That's proven to be more difficult than they expected.
"I'm sorry again." Bowie doesn't know why they keep saying it.
"It's not your fault." Dom's answer feels like it's automatic by this point. Except she's wrong, because if they would've chosen someone else she wouldn't be here. Bowie doesn't know who they would've chosen. They don't know the names of many of the remaining contestants. There's also the fact that, if there were anyone else down here with them, Bowie would feel guilty for that as well.
There was no good option. That doesn't change the fact that they wish this wasn't the one they'd ended up with. Bowie hadn't wanted to face her. That's why they left.
They shift their expression so that she can't see it as they lead them around another corner. Bowie isn't sure how much time they have or if there's even a time limit. All the instructions said were that the first person to get to the end would win. Even though that's the part Bowie is desperately trying not to think about, it's also where their mind keeps ending up.
Is it going to work? The truth is that they have no way of knowing for sure.
They just have to keep going and hope that it will.
Bowie swallows and squeezes her shoulder again, gently pointing her towards a symbol on the right side of the door. "Look."
"A cross?" Dom asks.
Their cheeks pale. They hadn't thought that's what the symbol was, but now that they're looking it's hard not to see it. Both lines are the same length; it's more of a plus sign than an actual cross. It still makes their stomach sink.
It reminds them of him. Everything does.
Bowie swallows and eases the pressure on her shoulder. The last thing they want to do is hurt her, even a little bit. That's also why they don't argue with her observation. "There were symbols in the book. It had a bunch of different maps and they had symbols."
"Which symbol was the right one?" She asks.
Bowie shakes their head and feels down the wall beneath the plus symbol. They find a couple of others - a dash and a circle. Unfortunately, that doesn't bring them any closer to an answer. "We never figured it out."
"Oh." They're not sure why they expected more of a response. Tears start to build in their eyes but a couple of deep breaths calm them away. They need to focus. Bowie is determined not to let their emotions get the better of them.
Dom was right last night - they do want to change - but she's wrong that this isn't the right place to start. They might not have other places to choose from, and they refuse to be remembered the same way they'll always remember Omar.
Bowie runs their thumb over the cross - the plus - one more time before ushering her through the threshold. It feels like the symbol was put there as a reminder.
Bowie's arm comes out quickly as a thud makes them both jump. They don't know what caused the sound, but nothing happens as they wait. Most of the sounds in the maze are like this one. Nothing happens, or at least nothing nearby. Perhaps whoever designed this expected them to remain apart. Maybe making progress in one part causes something in another.
They could keep wondering about the maze for hours and still have no answers. For now they need to have just enough courage to keep going. That, of course, is easier said than done. Bowie has a dozen good reasons to be afraid, probably even more if they really thought about it. Their mind pulls them in that direction even now.
Afraid of what their classmates would say.
Afraid of what their mom would think.
Afraid of losing the first person to say everything Bowie wanted to hear.
None of those people are here anymore, but they are. Today was the first morning that they woke up and only cared about that. Bowie wants to be proud of themself. They want to see someone that is good and deserving and maybe it doesn't matter anymore what happens to that person. They can't control what other people do or think or see.
They've done some awful things in their short life. Bowie can't ignore those no matter how badly they wish to forgive themself. It's not their choice. It wasn't Omar's either.
They scan the next threshold and find another plus sign waiting. The make is starting to make some semblance of sense. The symbols do mean something, but maybe it isn't what they first assumed.
Plus, dash, circle.
Bowie had them following the plus symbols. With the next step, they change directions and move through the next hallway. It takes several more turns and more than a few heart wrenching thuds until they find another circle.
"This way." They say gently and, in their periphery, they see Dom nod. The small action makes Bowie feel infinitely better, even as the doubts start to creep back inside. This is just another hunch. It doesn't mean they're right. Bowie had assumed that plus meant good, meant exit, but it was starting to feel like they were going around in circles.
Following this different path feels immediately strange. Bowie thinks about turning back more than once as they continue, but she doesn't miss a step. She hasn't since they started inside. They look back and Dom meets their eye instantly, a worried look on her face, but she continues to follow.
Their first thought comes quickly - I don't deserve this blind faith.
Almost immediately, a second one follows - I won't let her down.
Dom lets out a quiet breath as they move through the next passage. She feels as turned around as she did during her first trial, but there's a small comfort in the person next to her. Bowie hasn't done anything to make her not trust them. Besides, they're together. They'll reach the exit at the same time just like they said.
But what if it doesn't work? She tries to shake the thought away but it refuses to budge. Dom's been trying to focus on anything else, but the maze is too confusing. She doesn't understand the symbols. Bowie tried to explain - something to do with their practice session - but it hadn't helped. As much as she hates to admit it, she's relying on them to get her through this.
But what if they're lying? Dom closes her eyes as another nearby thud makes her chest tighten. They haven't figured out what the sounds mean. She half-hopes they would but suspects it wouldn't make her feel better.
"Why did you leave this morning?" She doesn't realize she's spoken until Bowie looks over their shoulder.
Several seconds pass and their gaze falls closer and closer to the ground. Dom's not sure why this matters, but it does. It's the only uncertainty she has about them. It's what her mind keeps circling back to when she thinks about trusting them.
"I wanted to do something."
"What?" She asks.
They visibly swallow and shake their head. Dom wants to press, but Bowie's already started walking again. Against her better judgment, she starts after them. She doesn't have much of a choice. They seem to know where they're going. Dom doesn't have a clue.
Her mind won't stop racing. The pair's steps might be slow and methodical, but Dom's thoughts are anything but. They have to be getting close to the end. They have to be. The trials don't last this long. How long has it been? I don't know. As far as she's concerned, it might've only been a few minutes.
She doesn't notice that her hands are starting to shake again until Bowie squeezes her shoulder again. This time, Dom doesn't know what to think of the gesture. It feels like the walls are closing in again.
When they finally come to a stop in front of the door, Dom has to wonder if she's imagining it.
"Is it-" She starts to ask but finds that the utter relief coursing through her makes continuing impossible. Dom lets out a slow breath and turns to them. Her feet are closer to the door, and she won't pretend that's not on purpose.
"I think so."
Neither of them move for what feels like several minutes. Dom doesn't know how to break the silence. It was them that got her here. If it weren't for Bowie, she can't honestly say that she wouldn't still be back at the starting point. Even now, the darkness behind Bowie makes her limbs tense. This is their victory. No one watching would say otherwise.
Dom doesn't step away from the door. Her body is half-blocking it, not enough to be confrontational but enough that she feels safe. Bowie won't be able to surprise her and go through first. She'll be able to stop them if they try.
Maybe that's why she feels more confident in asking now. "What did you have to do?"
"It's not important," they say gently. Dom would usually be inclined to believe them, but not now. She needs to know if she can trust them. They left before the trial was even announced. There were no strings attached but she needs to know why.
Dom wonders if she's asking the right person but quickly shakes the thought away.
"Tell me." The plan was clear from the start, they're going to go through the exit together at exactly the same time. It is important. "I need to be able to trust you."
Bowie's lips part ever slightly before their expression deflates. "You can."
"Then prove it." Dom knows her words are harsh, but right now she doesn't care. She needs to know. It almost doesn't matter if she's projecting. Before they go through with this she needs to know that they aren't going to betray her. It would be too easy to go through a split second sooner. It would be so easy for her to-
Her hands reach out instinctively as they push her back. Dom tries to grab for them, to grab for anything because in that moment she knows she was right. They were always going to go first. They were never going to take her with them. This was just some plan to make sure that she lost, that she lost again.
Dom lands on her backside and stares through the doorway. Bowie just stands there, their arms still half-outstretched and fearful tears wet in their eyes. It's at that point that she realizes.
Bowie isn't outside the maze. She is.
"You can trust me," they say softly. She can hear the terrified cracks in their voice but she doesn't understand. They didn't- she didn't- Dom doesn't know what to think. All she can do is stare as the same glass box that trapped her days ago falls around them. Bowie presses their hand against the glass and smiles, tears still unshed.
"The verdict has been chosen by trial outcome."
Bowie closes their eyes, but she still can't move. She doesn't know what the words mean. Dom isn't even sure she can hear them. They let me win. That doesn't sound right. They wouldn't do that. No one would. It doesn't make sense.
"Thank you," Bowie says, and the words are as clear as the glass surrounding them. "For everything."
Dom screams and leaps to her knees as a silver hatchet swings through the glass from the top of the doorway. It shatters the entire box on impact and slices down through the middle of their thin body. She screams again as it tears free of their stomach and falls to the ground in front of them. Blood sprays the ground between them, but Dom doesn't care. She crawls forward, ignoring glass as it bites into her knees and palms. She's still screaming. There's so much blood.
Her hands finally grab hold of something spongy atop their skin. Dom pulls both hands away, tears building until she's unable to see any of what's in front of her. This isn't happening. She knows that it is. She would have woken up by now if this were any kind of nightmare. Her screams have always woken her up.
"Bowen Bridges has been found guilty."
Their words couldn't be more wrong.
Cell Block B
Bridget holds her chin up just high enough that she's unable to see the wreck of open floor around her.
It doesn't make a difference.
She hasn't lost yet. That's what she keeps repeating to herself, over and over like a mantra, but the voice has gotten so quiet. At first it was a scream, then a shout, then a desperate plea. Now the voice is barely a whisper. Bridget is straining even in the silence to hear it. She needs to hear it. It's the only thing keeping her going.
Another tear slips past, but Bridget wipes it away before it even reaches her nose. She can't let them win. If they win then she won't. Except every time Bridget looks around she knows she won't. Their grids aren't comparable. After nineteen rounds, she managed to get four hits. Riley has managed ten.
That's not the problem, at least not really. The floor hasn't opened under her yet. She doesn't think that he knows where she is, either. The problem is that Bridget's running out of places to go.
She realized far too late what his strategy was. Not only can the contestants not walk on the hits, they can't walk on the misses either. Riley is doing the same thing to her that she did to Dom; he's trapping her.
And the most infuriating and terrifying part is that Bridget doesn't think he even knows what he's done.
I haven't lost yet. When she looks at the grid on the barrier wall, that persistent voice trails off even further. She might still have time to do the same to him, especially if Riley doesn't know where she is right now. Bridget doesn't even believe herself at this point.
She only has five more tiles in the area she can reach. Five. He's been focused on other points of the board but for how long? Bridget doesn't know the answer to that question. She doesn't want to think about it.
"G4." She tries to pour as much confidence as she can into her voice. He can't know. She can't let him figure out that he's already won.
He hasn't won yet.
Yes he has.
"Player 4 - hit."
She closes her eyes in silent relief. She strains her ears, trying to listen as carefully as she can for any sign of footsteps or flinches. There's nothing.
She can't give up.
I'm not going to.
You are.
Bridget shakes her head forcefully, telling herself to focus. It's not over. She hasn't lost. He doesn't know where she is. Maybe he won't realize. She has time. She has to believe that she has time or she's not going to be able to move forward. She slows her next breath, trying to use it to calm herself but it doesn't work.
Last night's overheard conversation whispers at the back of her mind. She wonders what the prison would look like from the sky beneath the clouds.
Fresh tears burn down the tip of her nose before Bridget can stop them. The answer to her wonderings doesn't matter. She is never going to see the prison from that far above, not if she doesn't focus on what's happening now. She will probably never see it. There are too many more important things to think about, to do. Her sister…
Everything has to be for her sister or Bridget's just as bad as everyone else who forgot.
She doesn't hear what grid mark he chooses. Instead, she hears the loud gasp leave her lips as the floor beneath her feet gives way. Bridget grabs out wildly for solid ground. She finds it, her nails digging so far into the material that two of them snap on impact. Bridget hardly feels it. She bites down hard on her tongue. She can't scream. I can't scream.
It doesn't take as much effort as she thought to get her feet back on the ground. Her entire body is trembling and her face stings with salt, but she gets there. Fresh scrapes on her forearms dot up with blood, but they're easy to ignore. The pounding in her chest, less so.
"F4." Her voice shakes, but only slightly. Bridget tells herself that he won't be able to hear it.
"Player 4 - hit."
The relief of that statement is short lived. His next move comes far too quickly to be a coincidence. Bridget can tell herself whatever she wants, but the truth is staring her right in the face. "F6."
Riley stands stoically facing the board, listening carefully even though he doesn't need to anymore. He knows where she is. Even when the move is announced as another miss, it doesn't faze him.
She still can't step on misses.
His body feels stiff in a way that's almost impossible to describe. He stands like an opponent to the barrier wall's grid, staring it down no matter that it can't stare back. He wants to get to the next move. He wants to keep going. He wants to see this through to the end even as the background whimpers get louder in his ear.
He's going to win. There's not a doubt in his mind that he's going to win.
And Riley won't let anything ruin that for him now.
This isn't the cell block anymore. There are no memories here. They can't touch him. He can't hear them. Winning matters. It's going to take all of this away. It's going to bring him another step closer to where he needs to be and that's what matters. The cries in his mind don't. The eyes that even dead refuse to look at him don't. No one needs to like him.
That's not true.
Riley clenches his jaw until the pain pulls him from his thoughts. He can still hear whimpering in the background but that's all it is, background. This girl won't become another cry in his head. He doesn't care about her. She's been nothing but a pain in his side.
But wasn't she right about him, back on the first day?
The answer that comes isn't an answer at all, but a demand. Shut up.
"Player 4 - miss."
Riley doesn't skip a beat. "E5."
"Player 14 - miss."
There are only two more tiles left. Riley clenches his fists to stop more thoughts from clamouring for his attention. They don't matter. Nothing matters. He flinches as the whimpering grows, forming words that he doesn't want to hear. It doesn't matter what he said. It doesn't matter what any of them said. Riley can't even remember if any of these memories are true. He has no reason to listen to them.
His neck cranes towards the ceiling again. He keeps doing that. Riley forces his gaze back to the grid. He's not watching you. Alec isn't watching you. Why is that his fear now? Why should it matter who's watching? Riley is doing everything he can to get back to Alec, to the only thing that matters even though he might have already lost it.
I haven't lost anything.
You don't know that.
One of the nearby tiles moves but he barely pays it any attention. It might've been a hit. He doesn't care.
I haven't lost this. Riley finds the next tile name and forces his lips to read it. "E6"
"Player 14 - miss."
There's only one tile left. No wonder she's hesitating to choose. She knows that, at this point, she's already lost. Riley doesn't know what the verdict will be but he almost doesn't care. She will still have lost. He will still have won.
Riley looks up towards the ceiling again. He sees a tiny black dot where it meets the descending wall that looks just enough like a camera. You'll understand, won't you, Alec? Riley swallows, but no matter how intensely he stares, the spot doesn't answer.
Crackles of static pull his attention away from it. "This trial has exceeded the allotted time limit. A mistrial has been declared."
"No!" Riley shouts. He takes a deep breath, but rather than calm him it just puts more force behind the word. "No!"
There's no further answer.
This can't be happening.
He won. He won. He was going to win.
Except he didn't.
"I fucking deserve this!" He yells, turning to face every aspect of the room because he doesn't know where to direct his frustration. There's no one here. No one but her and even Riley can't declare that this is her fault. Time limit? That's bullshit. One more move and he'd win. They couldn't give him one more move?
Riley readies his fists, but no matter where he turns there's nothing there. It's all concrete, just like his cell, just like the first cell, just like the people who refused to tell him anything about Alec. He has half a mind to put his fist through it anyway. Even he knows that won't end the way he wants it.
His breaths come quickly as he stands rigidly at the center of the room. It's their rules. He's playing their game and so it's their rules. Even now Riley knows this. Even when he wants to put his fist through the screen behind him, he knows that he can't.
It's their fucking game.
And, no matter how much he despises them, he still wants to win.
10th: Lawrence Yao-Sartre, 18
9th: Bowen Bridges, 18
A/N: Long time no see! Hope everyone's doing well and enjoying my atrocities. We're nearing the end which means there will certainly be more of them to enjoy soon.
First, I would like to thank and apologize to the two submitters that lost their characters this chapter. Erik, Lawrence was a special one for sure. They had so many complicated layers, some of the horrific and others somehow so relatable. I knew I wanted to go a very different direction with them from the start and I hope you enjoyed that. They have been a joy to write. Wiki, Bowie had to have been one of my favourites of the cast. They were so relatable and misguided, with an inner narrative that spoke to me so clearly. I've had this end in mind for them for a while, and I knew that I wanted to give them the closure they deserved. Thank you both for trusting me with your wonderful creations, it's been an honour.
And, of course, thank you to everyone still reading / discussing / reviewing / cheering me on as I cry into my coffee. I appreciate each and every one of you.
~ Olive