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you remember everything.you remember the first time; you were inexperienced, clumsy. she was efficient, cunning. (more importantly, he was dead.)you are ethereal, no longer corporeal but not quite pain-free. your lungs are sore and even though you don't need to anymore, you inhale deeply. the air is intangible and you only feel more suffocated.in the space between games, there is nothingness. interaction is minimum, relationships fade away, friendships wither and rot like the first victim; the victim you were, the victim that you, in a way, always will be.in the years you've known him he's become distant. he's a ghost of a person, even more than in the way of being dead, which you all technically are. a soulrending goodbye to a tearjerker of a greeting slowly devolved into complete apathy at either end. with an ever-changing schedule and an inconsistent identity, you almost understand, though that doesn't change the fact you wish things were easier. some things never change, you suppose.in the same way, some things always change. you remember gentle words traded in secrecy in the safety of locked rooms, but you also remember shouting and screaming, tears falling, throats slit and wrists bound with chains you once prayed would be metaphorical. you have experienced every experience there is to have; and the opposite, by that logic.still, uninterrupted silence to the din of intimacy. a sincere attempt at kindness leading directly into lost tempers and broken bones. you've been hung twice, once by the neck, once by the ankles. a room so clean it stung across from a room where--(it's right there, isn't it? you thought of it right as you passed it. whether it was a coincidence or instinct is up for debate.)where, from personal experience, you've witnessed three murders, commited five, and been the victim of two.the victim of three, really.the first time, she played god, and it backfired. a mockery of you he became, only furthered by her... third party, you would call them. you were her only one.by the end of your turn, you'd taken thirteen and kept one. another was simply lost. you'd pity him, of course, considering who he was and continues to be; but it was all your fault, and you're not the kind of person who would claim you "weren't yourself". the change in atmosphere, in already differing aspects, had not been so severe as it had in the past.
you question if you are any different now; you remember with regret how much venom with which your once-friend spat your name. a malicious, sadistic, shitfaced slut, she called you, didn't she? hypocritical of her, you note with disgust. you've come to find her distasteful, a over-the-top has-been who once was funny, now just disappoints you with her predictability.
the end of the hall is bleak and unappealing. you remember a confrontation and wonder idly where you found the strength in your pacifistic, naive soul to commit such an atrocious crime. you remember how much blood there was, on your hands, your shoes, the wall and floor.
recalling such things does not encourage you. the longer you think, the worse you become; the worse you become, the harder he is to reach out to.for the rest of them, you feel nothing. but the two of you are the few who are not truly opposites; you were meant to be a pair from the very beginning, before the both of you grew tired of facing the truth and simply gave up on it.sometimes you grow bitter and want to scream, want to tell him how pathetic he is, want to say you're awful for him, a disappointment, a coward, a despair-inducing fool but you can't change the way you feel for reasons that are no fault of your own. it is not without anger you recall the method of your conception, how the surely meticulous process was for nothing and you were useless in the end; entertainment for sick bastards, a waste to those you once inspired.the two of them -- they're better than you. never apart, never against each other, never anything other than together. they complete each other. even if some would beg to disagree.
having said that, though, you recall all the untimely deaths that've torn them apart... but as the rest of you are, they are a constant aspect of the program, and they'll always be stuck with each other. your bitterness turns caustic as you pass them, a deep-seated, acidic sort of anger mixing with perpetual loneliness. the urge to lash out passes, though, and you're left to simmer, bristling.time is running out. you could even go so far as to say you have none left. there's nothing to panic about, though, you've been through this so many times. the first time you were afraid, you were sick to the stomach you no longer had; but now you're boring. dull, apathetic, and unexciting. pointless, disgusting, useless, alone and foul. you have nothing left to give to the world. you're supposed to owe them something that isn't an apology, but they're as toxic as you've become. change is a far-fetched fantasy, and if desiring it makes you a dreamer, then you suppose that's what you are.you're long-winded as a person these days, a run-on sentence incarnate; fragmented, yet oddly complete in that. looking at him, his whole personality is stuttered, slurred and messy not unlike yourself, but different; less polished, less readable and more worrisome. you've both become incomprehensible wastes of breath in these short breaks, your characters (and present selves) worn out, personalities reformed time and time again.once the next game begins --(with a bit of thought you come to the conclusion you've got anywhere between three hours and thirty minutes. uncertaintly fuels your fury; your rage isn't yet murderous but you're getting there. your bloodthirst and simple petty dissappointment, despite similarity, refuse to merge, only cooperate. noting their near-identical yet individual qualities (and musing, for a moment, that perhaps it is odd to personify feelings in this way) the word 'incestual' comes to mind for how they interact... but you push that thought away. even now, capable of feeling on your own, you're full of barely contained anger (as you've found yourself countless times) and can't bring yourself down enough to be disgusted with the way your thoughts wander.)-- it'll be two weeks, a month at most, and you won't have to worry.despite the perpetual darkness that fills the place (it's precautionary, apparently, so nobody looks behind the scenes) your room is just barely lit by the light of the screen on the wall. it's always on, dim yet present. on some restless nights you'd considered covering it up to bring your room into full darkness... though having said that, you'd always fancied sleeping with the light on.you lay on a bed you've been on five thousand times before, waiting. waiting for something. what, exactly, you aren't sure at first; but then it comes, and you know.the screen flashes yellow (you recall another being red earlier, which hinted at your lack of time), then quickly fades to green. the usual pre-game info blurb shows up, and you, having learned the hard way it was important to read those, don't hesitate to do so.
ATTENTION! GAME 256 (P 5.9 (V3), SET 2) IS SET TO START IN APPROXIMATELY FIFTEEN MINUTES. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR ROOMS AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTION. IF A DELAY OCCURS, ASSUME YOU ARE ALLOWED FREEDOM UNLESS SPECIFICALLY TOLD OTHERWISE.
ADDITIONAL NOTES:
TS - WE POLITELY REQUEST THAT YOU REFRAIN FROM TAMPERING WITH THE ELECTRICAL WORKINGS OF THE BUILDING DURING OFF-HOURS... AND ACTIVE HOURS, FOR THAT MATTER. THANK YOU!
HY - AS MUCH AS WE VALUE YOUR DEFAULT TALENT, OFF-HOUR REPLICATION IS PROHIBITED. DISCIPLINARY ACTION MAY BE PURSUED IF THIS CONTINUES DURING MID 256-257 OR IN MID 256, DR/DM OR NOT.
THE TIMER WILL START AFTER THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE.
THANK YOU FOR COOPERATING THUS FAR. GAME 256 IS A SET 2 PROCEDURE, WHICH YOU ALL ARE FAMILIAR WITH BY NOW. THE SELECTION IS RESTRICTED TO THE CURRENT EDITION, SAVE FOR APPEARANCE (DEVIATION WILL BE MILD BUT NOTICABLE) AND CERTAIN MISCELLANEOUS TRAITS.
AGAIN, WE THANK YOU FOR COOPERATION. 8 MINUTES AND 12 SECONDS WILL REMAIN AT THE VERY END OF THIS ANNOUNCEMENT. PLAN YOUR ACTIONS ACCORDINGLY.
GOOD LUCK AND GOOD HUNTING!
SIGNED, PZ.
... "good luck and good hunting," you repeat softly. in a way, you know it fits.