[BOSS ORP] We do not sow (WRAPUP P18)

[its me debz]

It starts like nothing scary at all, and in retrospect that should have been his first clue. It starts like this: a blue sky and a blue ocean and mirth. It starts like an island respite that's almost-safe and almost-fun, bringing a levity beneath his breastbone that is too delicate to last.

But the days-- and there are many-- turn to weeks, and Leslie realizes that having signal does not mean having rescue. One by bone, his bones fill up with terror, an existential dread that reminds him that no matter how much he wants to run from the situations that bind him--

Life always has a way of clapping him into shackles.

--

At first it is fine: his fumbling hands slowly learn the muscle memory of survival. Line fishing, weaving leaves, the tedium of water collecting. Sherry keeps him company, sometimes, and he speaks to the others, but even early on he retreats to the safety of distance.

With this isolation in mind, It is only natural that he doesn't tell anyone what happens.

It's the dead of night, in the first months. Before the ring games wear truly old, before people go their separate ways. Before it started to call. The night is black and full of stars, there's a fire going in the distance. The sounds of almost-revelry carry over the island, and Leslie looks out to the horizon, resolute.

They're hunters, aren't they? His energy is enhanced, and his strength too. For all the cold the water brings, Aleria shields him from the worst of it-- of course he is still cold, but not chattering-- and an idea hatches in his mind. On his own, Leslie slips into the water, and swims. He goes and he goes, as far out as he can manage. He keeps tabs of his position through the stars, remembering how they're aligned, what he's under and--

In the distance he seems the shore. In him a fire surges, triumphant and bold. Could it really be so easy? Leslie swam faster, powering through the waves until he hits the sand, and--

He stands, and it is That Island. He stands and it is after dark, the fire newly extinguished. He sees all the same faces, all the same huts, all the same structures. America is sleeping over yonder, and he wants to be sick. Leslie looks back over his shoulder, and can't remember how the stars were oriented before. He can't remember much of anything at all.

Leslie doesn't try again until The Cove begins to call. He puts it off in a corner of his mind, convinces himself that he's foolish for thinking that he could escape without a sense of direction. He begins to think he's lucky for washing up on the shore again, and that thought remains until he seems them.

The shadows of a pair, slinking off from an evening meal. Three months, give or take, by his counting (and Leslie always counts the days: he always has, and always will, a habit too old to break) as they walk in unison. Under their breath he can hear them talking, and instead of melancholia there is only joy. There is only relief.

They do not return by evening, and Leslie resolves to move his woven mat of leaves from the Cove side of the island to the opposite side, too afraid to see. Had they taken each others' lives? They'd seemed so happy, so content to have a fate of their choosing. But he learns too late that it is not their choosing at all: it is the Island's will. It is The Cove that sings its song, inaudible to all but its chosen few.

--

They're half gone when Leslie finds his resolve, sliding into The Cove to investigate. Aleria is not in hand, as they normally would be: they have been quiet for some time, a comforting presence fading from a chill that kept him cool, a promise of protection, a promise of company-- they'd faded to nothing at all.

He'd followed Sherry, chasing the thread of her gold hair, brightened further by the sun. He's too slow, too late, too full of disbelief: The Cove is empty, its glowing worms and algae undisturbed. Leslie passes his fingers over every inch of it, wades into the pool, tests for every secret entrance--

There is none. There is nothing. Something is wrong and he doesn't know what, something is wrong and he can't fix it. They'd been in a dream before that had felt so real, where he'd been full of bugs and gore and delighted in all the wrong things and--

That night, Leslie puts on the pants he'd worn the day they washed up. There were plenty of pockets to hide stones in, and every one is a promise. He will get out. He will wake up. And so he swims again, each backstroke leaving him facing the new moon, staring at its hidden surface in the sky. He does not look where he goes, he does not hope to leave. He simply aims to put distance between himself and the island, so that no one can see the waves of his soon to be flailing arms.

Even a hunter gets tired. Even a hunter drowns.

The waves grow as he thinks, clouds rolling in for a storm as the waves roll big. It's easy to let go. It's easy to hope... But it's not so easy when water filters into his lungs and he realizes that he's made a huge mistake.

--

All the same, Leslie washes up on shore the next morning, wreathed in seaweed and caked in sand. All the same, Leslie lives out another day of repetition, terrified of the bubble he's trapped in. He does not bother to eat and does not bother to sleep, and when he lets the sea take him a second time, he washes up again.

And again.

And again.

--

Sleeping in The Cove does not bring him closer to selection. Sleeping in The Cove means he does not wake when the sacrifices are called. Sleeping in The Cove means he can etch a new day onto its walls, redrawing them with every passing day.

--

They're all gone now, leaving him on his lonesome. There is only the sea, the wind, and The Cove. Reason slips away as he is left on his lonesome, shuffling through the acts of survival only when he must. Is it a dream? Is it real?

Leslie realizes he does not ache to go home, as he'd never really had one at all.

He's so tired. There is only the sea, the wind, and The Cove.

--

He marks the wall. Three hundred and sixty five days. His hand is cramped from carving each mark into the stone, his back aches, his wrists are sore. Solitude is a sorrow that runs bone deep, and Leslie wishes he'd thought to reach out for more. To make more memories to call on in his times of desperate loneliness, to think of fondly. To craft an imagination with friends and family and love.

But he has nothing, he realizes. Nothing but the sea, the wind, and The Cove.

And finally, it calls.  

[Meegane]

This world is too dazzling.

The world has been too bright for her since that day. So many things happened on that day, she lost someone she loved and she lost her identity as Dong Shu Lei. She had become a stray, like the cats or dogs wandered on the street. There wasn't a place she would call home. She was a loner and she had accepted the destiny that a monster shall be alone.

The short vacation turned out much longer than she thought. Gradually, she had to fish, learned to set up fire after countless failures and pains as well as scavnege for water. Weeks, months, and eventually time seemed meaningless.

She was always alone, even though in her heart there were so many people there. She was meant to be alone, yet she hated to stay by herself. When she was just herself, she thought too much.

Commonly on her mind were her sisters and her brother in coma, the happiest moments they shared together, their voices and expressions. The more she had that on her mind, the greater the desire to go to them. The fact that she could not was agonizing.

Other times people once she cared occupied the thought. The perfect family that being their kids would be a blessing, a super sweet Brunette, the grumpy man who seemed to have similar childhood like her.

It could be the patient man who would be the best teacher or mentor, the man who enables her childlishness to play with her and brought her a giant bear plushie, the crush she always didn't do a good job in front of him.

Sometimes she thought of that cat-loving smoker who doesn't do well with body contact, the stoic man who she cooked together with and many more. Those memories were true even she somehow cheated them. She had no choice, her real personality was a disaster, just like what she had brought to her family. At least, she knew her heart was genuine the moment she was with them. Something even though she pretended not caring, she couldn't resist that desire.

Every day she was haunted by memories when she wasn't doing something. When she was not fishing or looking for water, she would just sit on a quiet side of the beach and watch the beautiful sunset. Despite what happened, the sun rises and sets regularly.

After the first week passed, she began to worry about the headquarters. There were quite a number of hunters trapped on the island with her and some were even full hunter rank. It was not a good thing at all. Their boss Caelius, she guessed he would be furious about uninformed absence. Even worse, they might be regarded as deserters. The fact that they had no idea which part of the earth they were at placed a problem too.

Then another week passed, the monotonous lifestyle soon bored her. She didn't find anyone to talk to, the Nian in her mind continued to rant from time to time. He was annoying but she found it rather pleasant to hear another voice. In a confined environment, people started to establish new relationships as to help each other. She did nothing and remained alone. She internally knew there was not a place she would find a sense of belonging. One said it's the people who makes a place home, she was a strong believer of that.

Without her family, no place she would claim it home. She still checked on others often, hid up and did it secretly without notice. A small smile appeared on her face when she knew they seemed alright.

As she realized she was doing similar things each day, she had stayed on the island for a month. On the day of her sister's brithday, like the usual practice, she celebrated it alone. She found a quiet side of the beach, used her finger to draw a big cake with candies, then she sang the birthday song. "Happy birthday, sister. I keep our promise for another year." She whsipered, staring at the strawberries on the cake she drew. "Remember the lady I told you that feels like you? Unlike you, she's kinda soical awkward. She becomes much better now, still not as great as you." She giggled lightly. "I don't think cute would suit you but it suits her. Sister, I miss you." She sighed, "I miss your soft voice, your warm hug and the smell of your perfume." A wave came and washed off the drawing, she did nothing. "They say June Bride's the most blissful, I'd love to see you in a wedding dress, sister." Even after the sunset, she sat on the beach and talked.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

On another sister's birthday who was a Leo girl, she drew a lot of balls. Football, basketball, tennis ball, and many more for the sport-loving woman. In her memory, she always wore vest and short, exposing her healthy tanned skin color. When she was with her, girls often hit on her sister, mistook her as a man. The great memory earned a smile on her face. "Yo, sister, happy birthday." She planned to pick some lovely hair pins for the sister but that year she was stuck on the island. She told her how she had one thing better than her - she learned how to swim and she had tanned skin in a dream so real.

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She didn't prepare anything for her brother's birthday, her feeling towards him was always complicated. She asked why he treated her so nicely when she tricked him all the time. She laughed at his foolish kindness to take care her after she became a puppet. She lamented for being harsh at and bullied him and questioned if he was not going to wake up. At the end, she bitterly admitted that she missed him and wanted to see him smiling shyly at her again.

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Time flied, one day, her phone stopped working, taking twitter with it. It didn't bother her except she lost a way to kill time. Runic products lasted longer than normal electronic devices but they also had a life expectancy. She could check on others if she wanted, just the twitter was a more convenient tool to get information.

She had been on the island for a year, she roughly guessed. She scratched the tree with a sharpened rock to mark the date in order not to miss her siblings' birthdays. Since the day the phone not working, things began to get wrong. Getting used to hear the grumbling noise in mind, she slowly realized he was gone. At first she didn't care, but one day she decided to call him but there was no reply. It was a strange unsettling sensation when something always with you disappeared all of a sudden. She had lost precious things before, her heart ached and that dug out sad past.

In a happenstance, she came across a group made of a few people. She overheard two of them saying the cove was calling them and they went towards the location of the cove, leaving the rest in confusion. "What cove? Wait!" One asked, but they didn't stop. She found it oddly suspicious and her sense of danger tickling. Under her observation, she noticed people kept going towards the cove and never come back. The number of people on the island was diminishing.

It didn't startle her until she didn't see the couples for a whole week, a whole month and - she took courage and walked to the cave they stayed, risking the hair grew out and the bright amber eyes would sell her out. Nobody was there, the cave was quiet and empty. She found a place to sit down, imagined the life of the family then laid down to sleep. It's unreasonable to feel the loneliness of being left behind when she didn't embrace their warmth at first. She curled up like a freezing kitten holding herself, it felt cold again.

Successively, more people disappeared, swallowed by the cove. In the end, she was the only person on the island. She knew that feeling well. On one hand, she hoped the cove would lead her to her sisters. On the other hand, she hoped it didn't if the people she cared were called to the cove. It was contradicting. Compared to waiting for the result, she preferred knowing the truth at once, ending her suffering quickly. Not only those who had left were pitiful, those who still stayed suffered even more. She knew it too well.

Endured the infinite-like agony, she began to hurt herself. Physical pains helped her to cheat herself it wasn't her heart that ached badly. "I never change," she mocked herself sarcastically, she did wrong things when she was alone.

Time passed was meaningless and she hated all the waiting. Finally it called, voices breaking the noise from the nature. It was her time, the moment that she waited so long. Yet, a strange fear rose from the bottom and her face twisted in terror uncontrollably. It was something she could not manage - it was -

She woke up on the shorelines and realized it was just a dream. She couldn't recall the last part of it, the most important session.  

[Meegane]

Gretel's solo here  

[and be blue]

warning: self harm

Vasily needed other people.

It wasn't something he knew about himself. In fact, if anyone had asked him about it, he almost certainly would have described himself as self-sufficient, as confident, as someone who could do things by himself. He was a young man without a real family, who'd been shunted around from place to place enough that he'd never really settled in, that he rarely stopped. He prided himself on being able to pick up with just a backpack of stuff and move onto the next location, as content (or discontent) here as he'd been there.

But wherever he went, there were always people around him. Whether he considered them friends or enemies, there were others; ones who might consider themselves friends, or acquaintances, or whose skin he could slide his way under. Vash didn't realize it, but he thrived on these little interactions. He lived for them.

Here, on this island, the stakes were different. The people around him were distracted or even downright afraid; he didn't know them and was out of his element enough that Vash himself was too nervous to be fully himself. After the first day, the first week, he felt worn down and desperate for something he couldn't put into words. The morose echo of his weapon in the back of his mind was the only thing that kept the buzzing at bay, and even that was weak.

When it started to fade, it set his head to static. It put his teeth on edge. It made his skin too small. And Vasily stopped being entirely rational.

In the beginning, it was just about testing the limits of his new body and what it could do. It was about picking things up that were heavy, moving them from here to there. He jumped, only to see how high he could jump. He tore at hangnails and pulled at his hair. He graduated to seeing what other damage his body could take and funnel back.

The shields were strong. When he fell, they patched him up again. Cuts and bruises faded away rapidly. It took his months to move beyond that, to fully test their limits. By then, his weapon was barely a murmur in the back of his mind, and maybe that was why the damage cut deep instead of fading away, why he was able to pull himself apart without being put back together again.

The first time he died was a revelation, and then a nightmare. The relief of oblivion was washed away by waters that put him back on the shore, battered and tired but whole again.

He tried harder after that. As the people faded away around him, as he was left more and more alone, he tried to find his own way out. And he succeeded, time and time again, only to be put back into his body, waves crashing around him and the buzzing in the back of his mind and a shudder going down his spine: underweight and desperate and more than halfway mad --

When he finally succeeded, waking with a gasp and a start in a different place, three days after he'd been swept away, it had been reduced to a distant memory. But sometimes he brushed fingers over his skin as if searching for scars that lived only in memory. And sometimes there was still a low hum in the back of his mind, a shiver of anxiety that took him over and froze the breath in his throat.  

[and be blue]

When Ever changed, when his life shifted, it was the way dunes in the desert did: sand sliding just grains at the time, while the shape underneath stayed, more or less, the same. His movement -- forward or backwards or along diverging routes -- was always slow. He was stable, easy and comfortable. He bounced back from every damage.

So far, despite all his trials on the island, despite every scrap of trouble he'd landed himself in, nothing had managed to break Ever. His life had never been easy, but he didn't complain, didn't measure his sob story against someone else's, didn't give in to sorrow or to fear or to simple misery.

This island was no different.

He'd spent more than a year hopping couches and struggling to survive without a home, lived his way through a winter that was bitterly cold and through weeks where his stomach was an aching pit. He'd lost friends, either through arguments or to fresh positions or simply through a lack of focus. He'd had blow-out breakups with more than one mark, and moved on to someone fresh the next week. He'd spent time in which he had no friends at all.

It was hot, and it was difficult. They didn't have supplies, nor the little things that made up their routines at home. Clothing started to fall apart, food was scarce, everyone got tired of coconuts -- and Ever was okay.

Their phones stopped working. People were bored, or frustrated. Days blended together, sliding into repeated actions, simply struggling to survive -- and Ever was okay.

Weapons quieted, going from chatty in the backs of their minds to nothing more than a murmur, and perhaps Ever's calm started to crumble a bit. Amory had never been kind to him, and they had never been friends, but it was a bond, and one that he had grown used to. He wasn't happy -- but Ever was okay.

People started to disappear from his life. People who he'd known for a long time, and people who he'd only just met; those he liked and those who he'd never realyl gotten along with. Finally, Ever began to crumble.

By seven months out, Zeke was gone, and he started to fall apart.
At ten months, he was alone, and slowly putting himself back together again.
He woke to find out it had been only three days and heaved a sigh, going to take a shower.

This was the way of things. Sometimes, Ever's life was hard. Sometimes things were miserable enough that he let himself go to pieces, that he starved or slept or drank himself into oblivion.

But none of it stuck to him; in the end, he always came back to himself.  

[Nuxaz]

Zane didn't think that it was possible to get bored of being lazy.

There had always been something to do before, things he could wave his hand at and go later because he could go back to it. Now? Now, things moved at a slow ticking place that left him little to do that wasn't coconut related or circling an island that only took half an hour to go across, an hour if he moved very very slow.

While there were others on the island, he had never really bothered getting to know any of them in any manner that was more than what he'd consider surface level. At first, it was because he didn't see much of a point, they would get off the island sooner or later. Then, it had reached a point where too much time had passed and he figured he had lost his chance to get too friendly.

Ah, well, that was too much effort anyway.

That would mean he cared more than a superficial level when people started disappearing. In fact, Zane didn't care much about anything until he realized that Lerna's voice had gone silent and he had lost his only true companion.

Once upon a time, Zane thought that he would be grateful to have that nagging voice silenced.

He wasn't.

Loneliness wasn't really an emotion he was very familiar, or even comfortable with, and it took a while to set on his shoulders before it seeped into his bones. He talked to people idly, here and there, while he added tally marks to the rocks he sometimes used a pillow when he couldn't get comfortable enough on his arm. He grew sick of the taste of coconut and sea salt.

One by one, the others began to disappear, a slow trickle that wasn't he didn't notice until he did. Days ticked by in a stream of restless sleep and idle wandering. Sometimes, he made an attempt to swim and ended up washed right back up on the shore. Other times, he wondered what it would be like to hear the call, to be chosen like he'd been chosen to become a hunter and what that might mean.

A few times, Zane wondered if anyone missed him now that more than a few months had passed. Then, he wondered if he missed anyone.

Empty, empty, empty was about the only thing he seemed to feel by the time he realized he was the last man standing metaphorically speaking.

He was laying in the sand, in the tattered shreds of his boxers, clothing he didn't quite understand how it survived the seawater and sand when he woke and realized that he couldn't hear anything outside of the sloshing of water on the shoreline.

By the time he was called, he spent most of his days laying at the mouth of the cove waiting. Always waiting.

Tick-tock, tick-tock. When was the call going to come?

He thought he was dreaming when it finally happened, with Zane waking with a start and his heart thundering in his chest. Rising up was easy, automatic, and he moved into the cave with the call screaming. It was...it was saying --



Then, Zane woke.

He had washed up on the Deus shore, blinking blearily and the hum of Lerna in the back of his mind. When he picked himself up off the ground, he discovered that only a few days had passed but everything still clung to him like the seawater to his coat.  

[medigel]

Nothing is impossible. Stories fill the gaps when you aren't sure. They are Dawson's bread and butter, what he feeds on and what he offers to soothe the ache that was day to day existing. There was once an Amazonian who suckled at a she-bear and was undefeated in hunting and racing. The Erinnyes, or the Furies, are the Avenger, the Jealous, and the Unresting, whose purpose was to torment sinners in Tartarus and on Earth. On an island far away, an immortal daughter loved and was left alone to suffer, unable to die and escape the pain.

(Some try that. He sees it in some of the grey faces the next day when they wake up, sometimes on their own, sometimes forced by whoever finds them. Sometimes that's him. He combs the beach in the morning and tries to be a piece of sunlight that doesn't burn. He doesn't ask questions, he doesn't need to. He offers for them to visit his shack later if they'd like some shade and a place to sit.)

There is Clotho the maiden, who spins the thread of life, whose name means The Spinner. His visitors come and spend time, and he spins tales of this and that to ease their pain. Advice is given, exchanged, withheld, edited. He's a paper towel for the bleeding souls, soaked through and temporary but at least within easy access. It isn't quite as messy as it could have been...right? Is he helping? Does anything he say matter? His own heart is swollen to burst listening, touching, but isn't it always?

(He watches America fish with the twins from afar, wrapped up in their own contest, and smiles. He traces constellations with Chance when his insomnia is worse until they finally find one that's almost d**k shaped. He passes America a small carved wooden shovel and asks her to hand it to Peter for him, as he's not sure Mimsy would allow him near any of them. He visits Mikhael's sandcastles and comments on each one's individual craftsmanship. He takes walks with Melvin, half for resource gathering and half just to help clear the clutter in the poor man's mind. He celebrates Halloween and Christmas and tries to give others cheer. He makes horrible puns. He listens. He holds. He--)

There is Lachesis the matron, who measures each thread of life, whose name means The Caster of Lots. They leave, one by one. America says it's people beating the game, that he had helped somehow. He doesn't know. The only certainty Dawson has is the fear of selection. It's random. It's unstoppable. She leaves to comfort someone else, to make her own space in people. He goes to restock his fresh water coconut halves and trim his beard. He wants them to be called to a good place, but he knows deep down that nothing good sat where nothing changed. There's no face to the enemy here, no means by which his hands can wring the neck and stop its threat. It's all static and the white noise of the waves.

(You can't take her, not again, not again, not ever again. He wakes up every day with that burning conviction to check on her, to make sure. And it's all for naught. She leaves for the calling one day. They all leave. He doesn't remember when, doesn't know how, doesn't understand why. At least Maebe wasn't there to--)

And there is Clotho the crone, the one who cut the threads, whose name means The Unbending. But he yields. The island has won. He lets his beard grow out and mourns each lost hunter in the heavy silence on his shoulders. He ties his hair back and tries to remember how America had braided it. He carves little animals from the wood until he amasses a zoo of rough figurines. He tells himself stories. He waits, patient and silent as stone, and takes his penance.

Day XO: Is Maebe still worried? Has anyone figured out how they got transported? Day OX☆: Remember that you're still expendable to Deus. Nothing you do matters if you're gone. No more washed up failed suicides, no more physical contact, no more gentle talks to soothe the restless, no more of anything. Day △△X: She must hate him by now, making her tethered to someone so that the heartstrings were once again ripped out from being held taut for so long. She must have sworn off love forever. No, worse. Day ---: She's dead. She's dead, and it's your fault. You took the soft parts with you, and now she's back to the wild-eyed machine begging for death like when you first met. There won't be a reason to run from it anymore. She'll spin out and flare and make it something beautiful because that's how she wants to be remembered, not this marked and lonely creature whose been used from day one.

Dawson does something he hasn't done in a very long while: he prays. Earnest, white-knuckled, tear strewn, quiet prayers. That heavy silence he carries kills him, but like any good Catholic, he was used to self-inflicted guilt and punishment. He prays that everyone came home safe, that they stay safe beyond that. He prays the troubles he's heard are resolved in the best way. He prays Maebe forgives him for always being so very slow in everything he did, for stressing her out one way or another.

When the calling rouses him, something dark and fiery sparks to life in his chest. If this is where it ends, so be it. But Dawson will not suffer losing people, not when he still had an arm to swing. He bears his shield and dagger and marches into the cave with a grim purpose and, without stopping, tries to tear apart the walls. The rocky ceiling. The ******** runic tiles. He becomes swept up in a rage that, like a tsunami, took time to built but was devastating when unleashed. He howls as the nameless fear strikes him like bile and threatens to remind him that he's a coward at heart, but he doesn't stop, he will never stop, not until--

He wakes up.

- - -

He lets his phone charge and approaches the door to America's room, knocks. Peeks if allowed. I'm making hot cocoa, he tells her in a soft rumble, because the silence, he's learned, is a very fragile thing. The people who hold them sometimes more so. It's the good kind, with milk. Just figured you'd like something non-water-coconut tasting. Tiny marshmallows on the table if you like, too. Talk to me. Please come talk to me soon. No -- I love you. Sweet dreams, honey. That's all Dawson says before he leaves.

(The instinct may not ever die, he realizes, the need to make sure she's okay. It went beyond just the island's fear and the horseman's dream, beyond anything his dumb a** could try to describe.)

When his phone charges enough to turn on, he attempts a message to Maebe.

Quote:

whatever happens u know i love and sup
i know its only been 3 days but u ttly missed me pingn u w
im never gonna eat sushi 4 five thousand years
god god god god i wish i could do better
u have to promise me u will li

He stops when he decides he's being too dramatic. It had been a dream; they'd certainly gone through far worse than a peaceful if boring island. No point in making Maebe fret over his attention seeking idiocy. There are more productive things to do this sleepless evening. And so Dawson takes a cold one from the fridge, sits on the porch, and idly watches shadowlings and water golems as he drinks.

And as he does so, he begins to think. Perhaps there is a way to help his slow-witted nature, to make sure he can be better prepared, more useful. Nothing, after all, is impossible.