『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』
“Sixth week in this place, Tango, how are you feeling?”
“Good, good, nice to see you again.”
Skizz stops.
His gaze of the horizon dappled by the gentle morning sunlight, distracting him from checking the status of the Heart Lottery, is ripped away. He takes a good look at his friend, who is organizing the alliance’s food stock for the morning.
“Are you okay?”
Tango is wearing a pair of shades he didn’t have the night before, Skizz notices. He’s met with a toothy grin. “Yeah, except we’re low on honey.”
“No, buddy, your voice, are you okay?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying—“ Tango stands up completely from the barrels organized neatly along the wooden canopy of the Heart Foundation. “I sound funny, right?”
It wasn’t just that he sounded funny, Skizz reasoned with himself. His voice was completely different.
Yes, it was still Tango. Except Tango’s raspy, friendly voice had been completely replaced by a suave alien tone. Even down to the inflection and accent it was unfamiliar. And he’d gotten his hands on sunglasses, somehow, in the field with no civilization for as far as the human eye could see (and step, considering the bubble entrapping them).
“You do sound funny.” Skizz said, wary, trying to see if he could parse a familiar accent from his tone. He wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, that he’d just sounded a little strange and that was that.
“Well, we’re low on basically everything, including honey, and If I’m going to be a sick little Tango, I rather be feeling alright– you need to eat too, don’t you, dearest Skizzle?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Skizz wondered if he should be interrupting the illusion or not, or if it was safer to play into whatever game was being played before his eyes.
Nothing about the voice was Tango’s. But whoever it was didn’t seem to be in a rush to hide themselves. Just that they had a preference for keeping the status quo.
Same build, same face. Just with a pair of dirty sunglasses on, and a dramatic demeanor that didn’t fit his teammate. It was as if Tango’s skin was being worn like a costume. Or he was possessed. It was so atypical that Skizz was sure he would’ve noticed even without whatever sandpaper had been rubbed on the poor man’s throat overnight.
Something about it was familiar, but familiar in the same way everyone else who was trapped in the expanse sounded familiar. Which gave Skizz nothing to work with or divinate.
“Why are we so low on foodstuffs?” Not-Tango asked in a tone that sounded genuinely baffled.
“I mean, you– er, never complained about the fish.”
“Man, if you– if we want to last in the final stretch, we shouldn’t just have a single food source, we can’t let them yoink it all away from us. No more trampling on our kindness!” Not-Tango brushed him off, stepping down the ladder to the mainland of the island as opposed to the regular ladder-slide Skizz had come to expect from his central ally. “We’re not cats, I’ll find some chickens for us or somethin’, dude.”
Skizz didn’t know enough about cats to correct him. “I mean, I’m sure BigB has some food we can share.”
“Oh, yes, BigB!” Not-Tango nearly fell off the ladder. “Yes, yes, much to talk about with him. Much to see and be this week.”
『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』
Roughly four or so days into living with Not-Tango (and BigB not being as supportive to his concern as he’d hoped), Skizz was struggling to make up his mind on how he felt. And yet, coming back to base was his best option after Lizzie nearly knocked his head off his shoulders. She managed to leave him alone once he’d plunged into the waters bordering Love Island for safety. Ignoring the searing pain in his back from where she’d tried to jab him, Skizz’s feet eventually met sand and dirt, hoisting himself into the terrain coated in pink blossoms and leaves.
“Skizz!”
Had Not-Tango not have spoken immediately upon seeing him, Skizz might’ve been more concerned about the many bruises that had formed upon the man’s head while he’d been gone, including a few streaks of blood that had begun to dry. Upon remembering why he hadn’t been back to the central base in a hot second, Skizz’s mood soured ever so slightly.
“I have achieved an alternative solution to our food situation for the rest of the…” Not-Tango falters suddenly, pursing his lips for a moment. “For the rest of our time here! It’s the Chickenificator 9001.”
It looks to be another contraption of sorts, although it’s not nearly as neat as Tango’s devices typically are. It’s a messy enclosure for a good handful of chickens that he’d procured over the course of the past two days, with time-activated lights connected through red wires disguised by cherry blossom galore. There’s what looks to be a butcher’s station and a grill to the side of the enclosure with a conveyor belt run by a crank handle. Certainly not an automated cooker, considering they still had to cull and de-feather the chickens to eat them, but the fact he’d set up an entire station for the ease of the group reflected the reliable Tango that Skizz knew.
But he doesn’t let the craftsmanship get in the way. “...How do you know to say that?”
Not-Tango looked up at Skizz. “Run that by me again?”
“I, uh.” Skizz doesn’t spend nearly as much time thinking over his words as he did the previous four days, asking rather bluntly. “How do you know how Tango talks? Because you’re not Tango. And I don’t like pretending that you are.”
Not-Tango stops to look at him. There is no animosity in his face, and Skizz figures if he could see his eyes it’d be the same. “Are you asking because you have nothing to lose right now?” His voice is tender.
“I guess.” Skizz replied, trying to ignore the burning sensation in his back. “I don’t know what you did with Tango. And if I’m going to go out, I rather go out making a stand.”
“Is it really bothering you that much?” Not-Tango sounds concerned, although Skizz can’t help but hold himself at a distance. “He’s not in danger, man. That thing with the bees was just me being a fool.”
“I don’t think you’re taking this whole thing seriously.”
Not-Tango’s shoulders slump. “I mean. I’m not really in your shoes. I’m really not trying to make you feel bad, man. I’m just…”
Skizz waits for him to continue.
“I’m not going to hurt you. We’re friends,” Not-Tango finishes, looking up morosely at the man before him.
Skizz wants to give more chutzpah, but he supposes there’s a reason he’s had so much ease with doing his task. He’s not a very sour person. It pains him to see Tango’s face clad in a frown because of him, technicalities aside.
Speaking of his task. It’s been a good day since he’d had a full conversation with Tango. He might as well have a go.
“Well.” Skizz huffs, taking a seat on one of the larger roots of the artificial tree, facing the Chickenificator 9001. “How about we chat for a second?”
Not-Tango takes a seat next to him, his expression unreadable.
“How are you feeling?”
Not-Tango smiles. Something about the way his lips curl makes it hard for Skizz to tell if it’s genuine or not. “I don’t feel my best.”
“Really? Why’s that?” Skizz says.
“I ate some South African sausage a few days ago, and my stomach and throat–” Not-Tango made a weak cough. “Hasn’t taken to it so kindly.”
Skizz scratches his head. He’s had many conversations with the other folks in the area– constantly theorizing about where in the world they could be right now, what was keeping them there, wondering if whatever they had forgotten prior to their entrance into the hellhole of secret tasks would ever come back to them. Where in the world would we find the materials for sausage? How far away is South Africa?
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, really,” Not-Tango says, a bigger smile on his face. “What do you think would make me feel better, since honey didn’t work? Do you have some, say, advice on what I can do to improve my sentiments? I’m not feeling my best because of it.”
What.
Skizz takes a good look at him. Glares at him, even. Tries to see right through the facade.
Not-Tango smiles wide, responding to nothing. “We’re not yellow yet, remember? So it’s okay that I know.”
We haven’t even crossed paths until now, Skizz realizes. How could he have figured it out?
“I, ah, We can’t really tell you how we learned.” Not-Tango says, again, without Skizz having opened his mouth. “But c’mon, give us something.”
“We?” Skizz cannot help but feel like he’s at the receiving end of a peashooter. He’s already out of breath, he’s not sure how much of another shock he can take until his heart stops from the stress.
“I feel bad. Tango feels bad. We are both sickly. We could use some sweet words to make us feel better about our predicament. I’m a little out of place, and it’s so terrifying.”
The thought of Tango being not just safe, but concretely present, is tantalizing. Skizz cannot help but take the bait, but he is cautious with his wording. He grasps Not-Tango– or perhaps, Actual-Tango’s –hands tightly, and a fuse lighting conviction finds itself alight in Skizz’ heart, although his adrenaline dampens his virtuosity.
“You’re both different people. Embrace it. With that comes different strengths. Learn to work together, and you will create this, this, this–” Skizz stammers, caught up in the implication. “This partnership. Unwilling, hopefully temporary. You will survive until the end of it. You’re stronger than you think you are.”
He looks at the hands he’s rubbing with his thumbs again, and realizes that they’re in dire need of being tended to. He can feel bee stings and little scrapes from thickets and poultry alike, not to mention machinery.
“Stay put,” Skizz stands up, wiping wet mud from his pants, trying to hide the shaking in his hands. “You’re not very good at taking care of Tango’s body. I’m going to find something for your…” He gestures to Tango’s body from head to toe, not having forgotten the bruising on his head. “...everything.”
“You’re too nice,” says Not-Tango gently.
Skizz stiffens for a second, before pleading in a way even he’s aware sounds pathetic. “Does Tango have anything he wants to say?”
Not-Tango’s expression falters. “He’s been very quiet.”
『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』
“Seventh week in this place, Tango, how are we feeling?”
“What?”
Skizz stopped, whipping his head around at the sound of a scratchy voice returning his greeting from high up in the canopy. Gone was that intoxicating suave tone.
“Buddy!” Just when Skizz was finally coming to terms he’d never hear Tango’s normal voice again, it’d graced him. “Buddy, hey, you feelin’ better? Good to be back?”
Tango tugged at the woven tie that suffocated his fiery golden locks while he’d slept. “Are you sure it’s not the sixth week?”
“Yeah, uh…” He stopped. “About your friend, uhm, do you care to tell me more about what that was about?”
“Did I get hit in the head with an anvil, or something?” Tango muttered in lieu of a solid response, clutching the sides of the canopy that housed his lanky body. “I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
“Twice, you got hit upside with an anvil twice.” Skizz corrects him. I’m worried about your skull goes unsaid.
Tango sat up, completely alert, rubbing his head absentmindedly at the newfound knowledge. “When?”
“After you started acting weird last week.” Skizz puts two and two together. “You remember, sausage throat? You weren’t talking much, your friend did all the talking for you.”
Tango smiled awkwardly, trying to parse if his teammate was joking or not. “What are you talking about? Are you sure it’s the seventh week?”
『𓆩⟡𓆪 』『𓆩⟡𓆪 』『𓆩⟡𓆪 』『𓆩⟡𓆪 』『𓆩⟡𓆪 』『𓆩⟡𓆪 』『𓆩⟡𓆪 』
Before the imminent apocalypse reached a boiling point, Love Island was tending to the chickens that had been gathered the day prior by whoever had taken Tango’s place. If the entire island went up in flames, so did their miraculous new source of food that had popped up while Tango had been… ‘dreaming’. Skizz offered to call it such, given what little he’d been able to describe.
‘Tending’ was to say that Tango was the one taking care of them, while Skizz tried to calm down the entourage in pursuit of Scar just off the island, aided by BigB playing scout overhead. Or BigB was just being himself and staying out of the way, it was hard to tell. Not like Tango wasn’t used to it— he figured he’d be more worried if BigB was doing something normally. But he would’ve liked a bit of company, especially in light of recent events.
Thus, Tango settled for finding an audience in BigB’s wolf.
Trained wolves were becoming a little harder to come by, now that the weather was worsening over time and final death was becoming conceivable. In BigB’s eyes, it seemed less of an asset and more of a furry companion to keep around— so long as it remained in the vicinity for more than a week. Tango figured he could use the comfort, considering the recurring nightmares he was starting to have for the past week.
The past week which he didn’t remember. A week which he was very much present during, conceded by… someone, for whatever reason. Tango wasn’t sure why he was pulled out of his body for just a single week, why he was placed back in like it was nothing, what he had missed, why himself specifically?
Hence, why Tango found himself left alone by the outskirts of Love Island, by the path that Lizzie had once built (may her soul rest), clearing a small temporary enclosure for the chicken coop until the chaos on the bridge sorted itself out. Rather, until Skizz had a good grasp on what in the world they were trying to do. Although he wished BigB would come to his aid, help Tango make sense of what plagued himself when he slept, from an oddball’s perspective.
Tango figures he enjoys the company, since it’s BigB’s wolf, not Pearl’s or Cleo’s, it’s not the subject of current greater concern at the bridge, and the wolf wouldn’t be there to question him about everything that happened last week, like every other soul he’d come across.
BigB’s sole wolf looked curiously at Tango with its head resting upon its paws. It’s a pretty thing, Tango admits to himself. It’s big and muscular, with pointed ears and deep black eyes that hold thoughts unknown to him. As opposed to silver and black, its fur was a luscious brown color, like a cozy hearth– a coat that didn’t seem to be common in the blossoming winter the region was starting to become home to.
“So, last week my dream took place in this deep cavern.” Tango begins, ushering in the chickens into the flimsy wooden coop, trying to handle them carefully. “I think it was a cavern, at least? I couldn’t see the sun, and the echoing made me think we were underground. There was this big creature on all fours chasing me, but whenever I broke its line of sight enough, It’d let up and leave me alone. I felt like I was gonna freeze up if I didn’t keep moving, except I had no idea where to go, and I felt like every time I made a noise it’d, like, reverberate around the entire cavern. But it couldn’t have been that cold, ‘cause there was still running water that ran at a decent temperature, and there were ever berry bushes littered around crevices I tried to explore…”
The wolf is looking at him intently, resting its head on its paws in a comfortable sitting position. Tango figures it’s because he’s rambling.
“But, like, there’s the part where it doesn’t seem to be like much of a cavern, right? At some point, it folded into these stairs made of some black rock, and the place just kept going. I wish I could remember it more vividly. I figure it doesn’t mean much to what’s going on right now, but like, who knows? Maybe if we dig deep enough underground we’ll find something that looks just like that.”
Tango didn’t want to stress either of his alliance members out, but the burn in his knuckles has become irritating over the past few days, especially as he recalls his story. During the depths of the night Tango has to run his hands through the cold of the island water around them, soothing little blemishes and stings he doesn’t remember getting. Skizz supposedly did the courtesy of his bandages last time, so perhaps the irritation comes from some infection he’d unfortunately procured prior to the wrap. There’s a dull pain in his chest too, an aching that makes it hard to breathe the biting winter air. He hasn’t died yet, and a part of him is beginning to fear what it’ll be like when he finally does.
“What makes me think that it may be a real, tangible place is that it was just, like, so vivid.” Tango stopped for a second, allowing himself to catch his breath as he got their modest amount of chickens in one coop. “I was sweating in the dream, despite the cold– like, I was cold in my dream, I don’t think it was from… my body getting piloted, I don’t understand it and I think I’ve given up on trying to, I just want to stay focused on keeping us alive.”
His stomach rumbles. Tango could see his breath as he exhaled.
“I got hungry in my dream, too. The berry bushes there were… so tasty. Not out of season like the ones I’ve nabbed around here… but how could they be in season, if it was so cold?”
He spared another look at the wolf. It was looking at him with its snout resting upon its large paws, as if it could understand what he was saying and Tango’s story was just a complimentary inquiry.
“I wish I remembered more, like why I was in there, or maybe what I was looking for.” Tango smirked to himself, stuffing his hands into his woven coat pockets to warm them up. “But I guess that’s asking a bit much for a… ‘game’ full’a secrets, huh? I shouldn’t expect any of my questions to get answered.”
“You’d be right about that much.”
Tango’s head swiveled around him, to try to detect the source of the unfamiliar voice. Warily, his eyes found themselves upon the dog.
The icy blue eyes were now boring into his soul with a chill colder than any of the nights experienced thus far, including the chill he was standing in.
The pain in Tango’s arms and chest intensified, a headache beginning to rev its engine, rattling his brain. As if his body had called upon every emergency signal in his body, calling for every nerve in his body from head to toe to spontaneously combust then and there.
Tango stood, despite his entire body deciding to spontaneously fight against him, his knees threatening to give out from under him.
“It’s a game about secrets.” The dog said, in a masculine voice smoother than silk. “What comes before and what lays beyond is a secret, my friend. To do otherwise would ruin the Game.”
Despite the fact he has to look down to see the dog, Tango feels smaller.
『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』
BigB blinked.
Scar pushed him, albeit not intentionally, from the chaos of destruction. Two beings heralding demise surely would kill a good amount of people– BigB was just collateral damage. A fool would say that such a sentiment was nihilistic, or self-deprecating. But BigB was a well-rounded man. Fate would even argue that his death was perfect timing: in the midst of chaos, missed by those occupied with obvious matters, leaving him to his own elements for something he feels he’s been deprived of for the past six weeks.
BigB knew where he was. This was the limbo before he gained consciousness in his body again, before he was dropped into his second chance in the Game. It was comforting, compared to the pain of falling that brought him there.
It also meant he got to speak with someone he technically wasn’t supposed to know about, for Game purposes. BigB would simply argue he was playing within what the Game had presented him with– a set of secrets.
To the untrained eye, the void of temporary death was just that. BigB was better than the untrained eye.
In this void there was a floor. And in addition to that floor, there were walls. His feet made no sound as he stepped, advancing with his eyes closed. They existed because he willed them. They existed because he could see them.
To many, death is an unconquerable fate, an inevitable demise, the tide that will never recede but will certainly wait. BigB knows better. To give death such a label is demeaning to its significance, especially in a Game where one can live and die thrice. Death is not the inverse of life– but they certainly walk in tandem.
There is one man who has proven such a mantra to be of value before, during their first ever run of a Life Game. Coincidentally, he is the only member missing this time around.
What better time to finally speak with him, than in the time before he regains consciousness?
BigB is aware there is a door in front of him. He phases through it anyway, aware of it in the same way a person is aware of their own skin. Finally, he can have a one-on-one with the Secret Keeper, who administers their tasks, who facilitates the game, day-in, day-out, for the first time since the game had begun.
Ren had always been good at taking charge. Grian trusted him with facilitating Secret Life, since he did such a good job helping manage Limited Life alongside his other three cohorts. But Mumbo, Lizzie and Gem wanted to officially join the next season– which left Ren to make the selfless decision for the sake of their friends.
Grian trusted him with a plethora of important responsibilities: the induced amnesia of all their dearest friends to ensure the best results, monitoring their physical status while his friends were hooked up to the server running the Game’s simulation, and most importantly, of ensuring that no matter what a deathmatch would prevail in the end.
BigB cannot applaud his performance enough. Ren was the best Secret Keeper anybody could ask for.
Sure, BigB’s memories and abilities had re-blossomed during the first week, but BigB was BigB. Antics may as well have been his middle name– not to mention he wasn’t blabbing about his bulldog edition, nor was he using it to his advantage. BigB supposed that Ren’s soft spot for him would never go away, vice versa.
BigB has only seen the administrator’s room, never been inside of it himself. The room is lit by the ambient light from his view of the players before him. He has a single chair in front of several monitors, notebooks with paper strewn around despite his best efforts to keep the place clean and a mattress with nothing but a simple pillow and wooly bed sheet.
Ren has a perfect view of the bodies of all their friends from the window behind all of his monitors. They’re all in transparent pods hooked up to a massive console in the center. Each and every wire protruding from the pods looked like arteries. Denoting everyone’s statuses, secrets and perspectives is a massive screen overlooking all of the players. The blue lighting is soft, intended to be gentle for those who are opening their eyes for the first time in weeks. BigB finds it easier to appreciate the scenery when he is not enduring the excruciating pain brought by final death, excessive Giga Corp branding on key technology aside.
Speaking of Ren.
BigB can see what would be Tango’s point of view on his central monitor, beneath the diamond-studded headset Ren had equipped, watching him haul BigB’s simulation-body out of the debris and into safety whilst the rest of the crowd reassembled after the grand defeat of their two biggest threats so far. Ren looked like a mocap nightmare with other assorted wires and metal along his bodysuit and the treadmill in wait– far from the mysterious and elusive statue of the secret keeper upon the hill. If BigB weren’t incorporeal, he might’ve worried about trampling one of the many cables and ruining the illusion.
BigB does not announce himself, but he hears Ren huff a little laugh as he approaches.
“Are you gonna tell me how you do that?” Ren doesn’t turn, but BigB can see his toothy smile. He talks to his dead body rather than taking a wild guess at where BigB might be manifesting. “I think I’ve been quite the patient dog.”
“Hmm.” BigB knows the answer already. He feigns his thinking anyway to not hurt Ren’s feelings. “Nah, no way.”
“Well, I’m sorry you had to go out like that.” Ren is draped in some mysterious robes, over the lines running around his body head to toe– to say he takes his given roles seriously is saying the sky is blue. “But hey, I missed your face. I’ve got a while until I get to take our forsaken three out of their pods. I’d say hi on your behalf, but alas…”
“Yeah, you got the right idea, don’t.” BigB meets his smile.
Ren whips his head around, even though there is no one to look at, nobody to meet his eyes physically. “Well, you know the drill, my man. G getting angry about you breaking the illusion is the least of your worries, man, if you don’t hold your paws before next week’s task–” His tone is concerned, but he’s smiling. He’s warning BigB primarily out of obligation.
“You make it sound like you’ve got something cooking for next week,” BigB observes. The books full of secrets are splayed upon his desk, carefully calculated and written out, accompanied by ideas as to what might occur when sent over to their recipients. For every task scratched out in Ren’s fancy feather quill pen, there are two others to take its place.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself just yet, buddy.”
“I’m sorry for worrying you, Ren,” BigB smiled. In spite of his words, there’s a bubble of excitement in his stomach, glimpsing what has been written under ‘GEM’, visible to his eyes despite being covered under piles and piles of faux-antique parchment. “I promise you, I won’t be of any concern.”
Ren didn’t reply immediately. BigB looked to his monitor to see that Skizz was bent over his body. Even though he was turned away and separated by an entire medium, BigB could see sorrow upon his face, cupping his cheeks as Ren– Tango? Rengo? Straightened him out.
“You know, Pearl and Cleo acted weird after Lizzie and Gem took over for them,” BigB notes. “Do you think it’s worth the risk? Personally speaking.”
Ren stops, glancing at Skizz, who is in the middle of inspecting his fallen comrade’s body. He presses something by his neck, and a little red light pops up under his chin as he speaks. “Yes, being the one in charge is cause for much fun. But I want to play again, you know?” Ren whines, although he lacks a tone of genuine complaint. He whines the same way a kid is denied a toy on a window display. “You don’t think Tango will be all that angry about me taking him out, will you?”
“Nah. He’s chill. I could use someone to talk to while the endgame approaches anyway.”
“Like, don’t get me wrong, I love being the man in the high chair. They’re both fun. But I want to play again too, you know?” Ren pouts, as he heaves simulation-BigB’s body, propping him to easier ground now that more of his fellow players have realized he is the only casualty of the incident to not be wiped out of the Game. “Alas, my yearning for adrenaline and blood must wait…”
“You learn to have fun with it,” BigB pretends to pat his shoulder, ignoring how easily his hand phases through him. “Besides, you’re doing great. There’s no one way to have fun.”
『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』
BigB recognizes the Secret Keeper in the form of a furred friend, on the morning when the seventh week starts. He’s the same, yet completely different. The Secret Keeper has interpreted some of his words as advice.
He watches Gem’s army traverse into Love Island. He also watches Tango express his concerns of what he does not understand to the being whose entire job is to understand.
BigB takes his attention away from Tango, to the Boogeymen accumulating by the roots of Love Island. He can see a hunger in their eyes, a hunger that had previously been restricted to just a few souls, almost all of them gone from the Game now. The lack of carnage had made their thirst harder to quench, he supposes. There’s a different look in their eyes, now.
It reminds him of someone familiar.
He can hear a scream from Tango’s direction.
BigB decides to not spoil the surprise for himself. He carefully descends down the ladder, beaten to the chase by a panicked Skizz, who wastes no time breaking away from Gem’s entourage to come to the aid of his friend.
“Oh, boy.” Impulse’s concern is overpowered by his impatience, now that he’s won the ballot for the week. “That wasn’t any of us, was it? Pearl?”
Pearl checked the headcount of her wolves alongside Bdubs, then pursed her lips quizzically. “I didn’t give them any signal. They’re all here.”
“BigB!” Skizz cries out from the other side of the bridge, pained. “BigB! Get over here!”
BigB keeps his gaze on the group just before coming to Skizz’ aid, ignoring the look in their eyes. “Give me a second.”
Sure, he’s no stranger to carnage. But seeing Tango’s bandaged body splayed out and covered in red brings in a sense of sorrow to him.
Tango’s first death was not an act of passion– the gushing of his wounds implies the Secret Keeper intended to put him out of his misery as soon as possible, as opposed to letting him suffer. To rid him of what he had recalled in the moments before he died, what would have broken the flow of the Game, keep his mind elsewhere and in the dark.
It is sloppy, and BigB does wish the almighty Secret Keeper had been a little smoother with his interference. But he figures The Secret Keeper wanted to play it safe, even if it meant cutting down Tango’s lifespan by external means. He’d at least be healthy again, BigB thinks, trying to be optimistic about what is an unearned punishment for one of the few things not well-understood by anybody who played the games. It’s easier for him to deal with it, given the fact he’d already seen the truth, remembered all the deaths that had come before. Some deaths are perceived as meaningless, that is the unfortunate truth.
BigB catches himself at the thought of considering Tango’s death meaningless. To see meaning in everything is a little silly, and even then, if it was meaningless and Tango still remembered what he shouldn’t have, he’d at least have a fellow Gamebreaker. He must remind himself to not think about it so hard. He can only hope that The Secret Keeper made the right judgment, and that Tango will be okay at the end of it all.
Skizz, the sap he is, is tearful at the sight of his friend. He is a man who prefers to stay in the present moment, and in that very moment he cannot forgive himself for not being there. The Heart Foundation is now composed of men who now understand what it’s like to die with little warning. Although tending to his body will not quicken the time it takes for his second life to emerge, Skizz seemingly cannot help but make a little tourniquet around his neck.
“If we can get him inside the base, I can clean him up.” There’s a slight quiver in Skizz’ voice as he surveys the mess, trying to separate red snow from gore. “Clean his clothes. Make sure he comes back alright.” He’s practically rambling to himself, forgetting completely about the siege at the bridge led by Gem.
BigB does not need to turn around to understand the situation as perceived by Gem’s group. There is a curiosity in Gem’s own eyes as she scans the situation.
It does not surprise BigB that she was the one chosen to be the menace of the Game this week. He is not shocked by her conforming to her task’s orders so smoothly, nor the complacency of her cohorts, nor the fact she manages to tear her eyes away from two if not three easy targets with their backs to her. Gem was an excellent addition. It is not her ruthlessness that makes her dangerous, but her patience.
Let’s go back to looking for Scar. BigB can’t hear her voice, but he can see her lips as she adjusts her grip on her naginata. He couldn’t have gotten far, he’s around here somewhere.
Scar is, in fact, still in the area. BigB can see him hiding under the bridge, panting heavily. He too will be dying soon, that’s a given. He looks BigB dead in the eyes– Well, he would be looking him dead in the eyes, if BigB didn’t physically have his back to him –and then hustles back underneath to give himself a chance to breathe, then sneaks another glance at Gem’s quartet as they search.
None of them seem all that preoccupied with Tango's death. Good.
Perhaps Tango’s memories of the past will wither with his first life, perhaps The Secret Keeper has simply bought a little time. They’d have to wait and see, if it was anything like what’d happened to Pearl and Cleo.
Skizz, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to care about the blood pooling at his hands nearly as much as he cares about keeping it in Tango’s body, fruitless as it is. His expression is difficult to read, but his gaze is not– he keeps flicking his eyes between Tango, the forest, and the small cluster of chickens to the side, as if trying to piece why Tango made for easier prey.
He picks up Tango by his lower back and addresses the teammate that remains standing. “Bopper, can you help me get him into the treetop? I don’t want him to come back to life in the cold.”
As he follows Skizz’ lead, he cannot help but see the irony in their trio. Three men breaking the Game in wildly different ways: Skizz, though promoting safety and generosity in a mondo cane that relied upon people keeping their vulnerabilities close. Tango, through his continued work on the radios that kept the entire population of the Game connected in spite of turbulent allegiances (not to mention Mumbo’s support on that project– BigB can only hope he’s having fun spectating right now). And BigB, being himself.
That’s what BigB likes about these Games. He sees his friends continue to surprise him in ways that just make sense.
Speaking of surprises that made sense: He could see Scar following them at a pace, watching them carefully guide Tango up the tree, keeping himself low to the ground.
BigB supposes he shouldn’t be surprised as Tango’s first words as he wakes are him asking what was burning.
『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』
It’s the night before the ninth week. The region is a canvas, primed with a red undercoat.
Skizz cannot help but be reminded that he was in Tango’s vicinity during his prior two deaths, with a guilt he cannot wash away especially for the second one. Not to mention that he did nothing to stop BigB’s completely avoidable deaths as well.
It would be a miracle if Tango lasted longer than his other two cohorts, even for seconds. The tourniquet around his neck from two weeks prior had been upgraded to one wrapped around his face, as if he needed to keep his jaw intact or it’d dislocate itself. To say he’d been in a rough state ever since the seventh week would be an understatement, but Skizz could not bring himself to suggest that sacrifice was a good idea. BigB echoed the sentiment, although for him it seemed more sympathetic than empathetic.
BigB. Skizz could not help but imagine what might happen to him. He knows neither of them will win, seeing the competition, but given the pit in his stomach that widens when thinking about Tango meeting his demise, he tries not to think about who between him and BigB will go out first.
His mind betrays him. There is no better option, and that’s saying a lot, considering the incoming worst-case-scenario. Either he is forced to come to terms with them both dying with him not being able to save them, or BigB is left alone and neither of them would be there to defend him. He should not be surprised, there was always an inevitable deathmatch from the structure of the red secrets alone. They have been sentenced to a cruel, cruel fate. Skizz does not think he will come to terms with it any time soon.
Ever since Scar had burned down their base, Skizz and Tango graciously spent the night in BigB’s sprawling underground network of tunnels that belonged in a horror movie. The occasional scarecrow-armor stands gave Skizz an occasional fright at night, thinking one of the other reds had finally found them and had come to finish off the three-man alliance in their sleep. No matter how many times BigB insisted “Bob” was “nothing to worry about”, he cannot find solace in the many cavities. Skizz chalks it up partially to the adrenaline of blowing up Trader Scar’s– there was still a distant ringing in his ears. Combined with the ominous underground lighting and their present circumstances, the illusion of safety had an uptick in price.
Some of the chickens from the base managed to get salvaged, although they left some additional scratches on Skizz’ skin. He didn’t think he’d be so upset about losing the Chickenificator 9001, considering they hardly used it and the person who made it had lied directly to his face. They ran amok in some of the hallways, as the trio was too drained to try to make any kind of formal enclosure.
Still. They made do. Skizz swore that everyone who had wronged them over the past few weeks would meet their demise, even if he died trying. His rage was boogey-induced, but even as the curse had passed he found himself unable to forgive any of them. He felt as if his efforts to be hopeful in a world full of schemes and lies were deemed a waste by the powers that be.
They had fish cooking over the fire. It felt weird to eat fish without being able to enjoy the evening light of the riverbank from where they’d fished their dinner. Silence washed over the entire cavern, so even the slightest shuffling feet and crunching jaws felt decibels louder than usual.
Tango has a hard time stressing his jaw, having to prod at the fish in little bites. Skizz watches as he does so. Everything is a threat to Tango’s health in his eyes now, the concept of a piece of fish he didn’t chew enough going down his throat is enough to scare him. If Skizz hadn’t been so stressed, he’d have laughed at himself for how antsy he’d become.
It was as if Tango could read his mind.
His eyes, yellow irises bathed in red sclera, meet Skizz’s blue. And then he opened his mouth.
“I know how I die,” Tango says, an oddly toothy smile on his face. “I fall from a ledge, and I die upon impact.”
“Top,” Skizz tries to hush him.
“I know, I know,” Tango continues to smile. “I just want to get it out of my system, and I don’t want you to beat yourself up about it when it happens.”
“No, no, buddy, I don’t want you thinking like that whatsoever, okay?” Skizz doesn’t know what to say to make him feel better, if anything could be said.
“Ah, man.” Tango’s smile is wide enough to jostle the tourniquet. “We’re going to have the time of our lives once we get out of here, I promise.”
“Once we get out?”
Tango laughs. BigB laughs too, startling Skizz out of his skin.
“Ah, sorry.” BigB says after seeing Skizz’s face. “I promise you, Tango’s telling the truth.”
“But the heartbreak is part of the Game.” Tango adds.
“Yes,” BigB nods, a distant half-lidded stare in his eyes. “Pain and confusion and heartbreak is what makes it fun.”
“I had fun.” Tango smiles. And it’s only then that Skizz realizes that their words are not funded by despair or nihilism. “Did you, buddy?”
Skizz holds his breath, realizing that both of them are looking at him. He’s not sure if there's a ‘right’ thing to say in such a situation. He settles for a cop-out. “I think so.”
BigB giggles. “Do you think we did the right thing?”
“Yeah.” Tango answers. “I think we’re going to look back, and realize that no, we weren’t pushovers just because we decided to do something good to people who will inevitably turn on us. We were strong and willing to take risks. And we did it for our friends. They’ll apologize later.”
The lucidity of his words leaves the pit in Skizz’ stomach feeling heavier. He does not refute anything spoken. The entire group’s eyebags are more apparent in the dim firelight, BigB’s especially so.
“You should both get some shut-eye,” Skizz says. “You especially, Bopper.”
“I don’t know what that means,” BigB brushes him off as if he were a doting mother. “Both of you say hi to Ren for me, okay?”
Skizz’s heart skips a beat for what feels like the thousandth time in the past two weeks alone. “Who?”
BigB becomes a laughing riot. Tango laughs with him. It’s a joke Skizz isn’t in on, but one that will click once Joel smashes his hammer into his skull. And then he will laugh with them.
『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』『 𓆩⟡𓆪 』