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Only a handful had accidents worth erasing for the greater cause. LACHLAN was VINCENT's greatest reason for designing the TRIAL OF HEARTS. It was the only way to make LACHLAN win fairly.
The candlelight was unkind to LACHLAN. It deepened the hollows beneath his eyes. Sorrow, it seemed, was the most faithful of his tenants. "I haven't slept in weeks." His voice fractured as he spoke. Time, that great promised mercy, had kept none of its promises at all. His brother's, COLIN's, face remained where it had always been: Precisely behind his eyes, permanent and irreplaceable. "It's my fault," he sighed at last. "All of it."
"You never told me." VINCENT stood mere steps away. He had always been cursed with too much curiosity. The particular, restless kind that transformed him into something of a bloodhound the moment he caught the scent of something buried. "You called, and said nothing. You knew I would find out eventually. Still, you said nothing."
"Is that why you abandoned me?" LACHLAN rasped, his love and resentment for VINCENT tightly intertwined. Betrayal laced every word, a beast that grew with abandonment. "You think I murdered my own brother?"
VINCENT narrowed his gaze. "You would not be here," he countered quietly, his words like two hands closing around the throat, "if you had nothing to hide."
LACHLAN's lungs seized. His vision blurred, and in the space where VINCENT had stood, his brother materialized. Pale, accusing, lips moving without sound: You killed me. You were too much of a coward to even warn me. He did not hear whatever VINCENT said next. He had stopped being in the room.
"Stopā" LACHLAN choked out, sudden tears cutting bright tracks down his face. "Pleaseā"
Without a word, VINCENT drew a dagger. A leather bracelet coiled around the hilt, stamped with their initials, a memory of some former life in which they had both still believed in the word forever. He watched his closest friend unravel like worn rope. Slowly at first, and then all at once.
"Would you kill me too?" He held the dagger out, grip first. "If it came to it, if it helped you prove whatever it is you're so desperately trying to prove, would you?"
"No." LACHLAN's whole body trembled with the word. "I can'tāI would neverāthis isn'tā" You killed me. His brother returned, one finger raised and pointing. How can you live with yourself?
How could he? Even VINCENT had already decided who he was. Perhaps death was truly the last debt left. In one fluid motion, LACHLAN seized the dagger and reversed his grip. The blade pressed against his own throat, and the steel was foreign and terrible, and for one long and devastating breathā
"No!" VINCENT lunged, seized by the sudden, visceral terror of going too far. The dagger, slick with sweat and tears and the salt of grief, twisted between their grasps in a struggle both as brief as it was violent. The blade arced wild, a motion neither of them controlled, and opened VINCENT's throat in one clean slash. Crimson bloomed across his collar, spilling down the front of his uniform.
LACHLAN staggered backward, the blood-slick dagger slipping from his grasp. In absolute horror, he watched the only person he had left stare back with eyes wide with shock before final, helpless, tragic collapse.
this was a good idea- or so he'd been told, by someone who knew more than him. it would make him feel better to write the words, even if he would never read them. he stared down at the folded pieces of binder paper in one hand, mindlessly fiddling with the lighter in the other. he was hesitating. he'd have read through the letter one last time, but his eyes couldn't make out the words in the darkness. it didn't matter. he knew what it said. he could never forget what it said.
he lit a corner and quickly snapped a photo. he watched ink turn to ash. he did not feel better.
I spent a lot of time today thinking about that trip we took to Positano when we were kids. I think I made you watch Jaws on the plane or something, so you wouldnāt go in the water, but it was so warm, and so blue. I didnāt want you to miss it. Dad was being such a dick, telling you to be a man or something, but I just took your hand and we inched our way out, and then we played and swam until it was time for dinner. Iām in Italy now. I wish you were here. I guess I canāt remember a time in the last two years that I didnāt wish you were here.
I told you once, that you needed to feast on your life. I read it in some poem in high school, thought it was really deep. But I meant it. I wanted you to not be afraid of going out and just fuckin tearing into it all. The world, your life, everything. I wanted you to see it all.Ā
You were born with the fear and good sense that I donāt have. We were supposed to balance each other, and now Iām all lopsided, and Vince is gone, and youāre gone, and everything just keeps getting worse. Even if this bullshit trial works out, and everything they promise is true, I donāt know if anything will get better.
I wish I had something better to say. I wish Iād been a better brother. Iām sorry I canāt make this okay for you. I wish it was as easy as taking your hand and walking out into the water.Ā
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setting: italy, a few hours after he met with archer to discuss the cryptic journal entries of THE TRAGEDY.
Heād only had one dream since Vincent's death, and it came to him every night- unrelenting, vivid, and torturing. He stood on one side of a crowded, bitterly cold train car, and on the opposite end, he saw the back of Vincentās head as he moved through the corridor to the next car. Relief would overwhelm him, prompting him to push his way through the crowd, calling out to him, trying to catch up. They move in the same pattern through the rest of the impossibly long train until the moment he exits the last car, and finds himself outside, watching the tracks fly off into the endless expanse. He is left alone, struggling to breathe, his vision fading as the ache stirs him out of sleep.Ā
Thereād been an attempt to settle into bed after meeting with Archer, but it was half-hearted and doomed from the start. Lingering sweetness from the cake turned rancid in his mouth, the wine had given him a headache, his legs tingled and ached with restlessness, and the house loomed around him with a silence so suffocating that he was beginning to feel as though heād been buried alive.Ā He could not face the dream tonight.
The moon was half-empty, but still bright enough to light the way once his eyes adjusted. He walked out into the countryside, not bothering to pay attention to anything but the dirt path ahead as it snaked through fields, eventually coming to a steep hillside. As he climbed, his breath grew heavier, his lungs vaguely stinging with the effort. Heād been able to evade the memory of the dream for most of the walk, but by the time he reached the top, it had consumed him. Always chasing, always running, never quite able to reach him. In death, as it was in life.Ā
But the journal had given a voice to the ghost, and he did not know how to cope. He could not escape from the pain like he could before, couldn't find a drug or a drink strong enough to dull the beat of his heart as it attempted to fall out of his chest.
He yelled, and the noise came out of him bloody and feral, echoing against the hills and the trees.Ā
He yelled, because they would not let Vincent rest. Even in death, The Society is impossible to shake. The weight of the collar around his neck felt heavier than before.Ā
He yelled, because the permanence of Vincentās death began to grip him. They had not had a consistent friendship since they were children, always rising and falling, reconciling and shattering apart. A cycle he could never bring himself to break- because at least in the cycle, there was connection.Ā
He yelled, because there would be no more forgiveness. There would be no more chances to mend what he was constantly breaking. They would never be inseparable again, like when they were younger. He did not know that hope for it remained. It did.
He yelled, because he thought Vincent no longer cared for him. But there it was- one of his last entries spent begging for connection, begging for Lachlan to come back to him.
He yelled, because Vincent still saw through him in a way that Lachlan thought him incapable of, after so many years of disconnect. Regret. Guilt. Things he thought heād successfully smothered out of view, but that Vince picked up on so easily.
He yelled, because he could not tell him what happened. He did not think Vincent wanted to know. Vince, why didnāt I tell you? Why didnāt you ask?Ā
He yelled, because he had lost a friend.Ā
He yelled, because he had lost a brother.Ā
He yelled, because even in his absence, Vincent had been the center of his life, and without something to orbit, he was plunged into darkness.Ā
Purpose. Vincent saw it in him, so it must be true.Ā
His voice cracked, and the yell shifted into a wail. Layers of anger that heād hidden behind began to peel away, revealing his soft underbelly to the stars, the trees, and that wretched moon. Rage gave way to anguish, and for the first time since this all began, he started to weep.
PROMISING - the only thought you had as you left him on that first night with a faint smile on your lips. he was unlike the others here, and you couldn't help but want to indulge in him.
NOW
CAUTIONARY TALE. that's what you are to those who got too close to you. you don't know if you could handle the consequences of letting lachlan burn under your touch. you both wish you could have met under different circumstances, maybe then you would be able to be together. for now, your stolen moments and whispered secrets in between the chaos will anchor you.
you and lachlan carved a kingdom of excess, a brotherhood bound by pleasure, chaos, and the unspoken promise to spiral together into oblivion. you are aware that dying stars burn out. if you must fall from the sky, you will go together.
NOW / all is not well.
the pair of you move like apparitions through the same haunts, but something broke after vincentāsomething neither of you wants to name. you joke like you used to, drink like you used to, but now thereās a flinch beneath the grin, grief beneath the silence: one of you has to lose.
this was a good idea- or so he'd been told, by someone who knew more than him. it would make him feel better to write the words, even if he would never read them. he stared down at the folded pieces of binder paper in one hand, mindlessly fiddling with the lighter in the other. he was hesitating. he'd have read through the letter one last time, but his eyes couldn't make out the words in the darkness. it didn't matter. he knew what it said. he could never forget what it said.
he lit a corner and quickly snapped a photo. he watched ink turn to ash. he did not feel better.
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father dearest and ceo of one of the world's largest pharmaceutical companies. his power hangs around him like a fog, looming as a wordless threat. he's magnetic- a venus fly-trap waiting to close his jaws around his next meal. he will eat you alive, and convince the world it was in their best interest that you be devoured. lachlan was once alistair's proudest achievement, until lachlan learned how the sun got its warmth. charming, demanding, ruthless.
SHREYA -
the picture-perfect mother, always willing to turn a blind eye to the uglier things in life. she covers the smell of rot with fresh-cut flowers in every room and keeps herself busy with summer pharmaceutical's charity. she knows how their world works, but it never turned her stomach the way it did lachy's- and he'll never forgive her for it. warm, polished, insincere.
COLIN -
younger brother, on track to be a neurosurgeon. colin was handed the role of golden boy after lachy's outsides started to rust. he wore the pressure better, didn't allow it to crush him like his brother did. lachlan always envied the way he kept his softness despite the cruelty of the world he lived in. maybe it was a naivety, or maybe it was willful ignorance, but colin never did see the monsters hiding in plain sight, all around him. after colin died, his father went around the house replaced nearly all pictures of lachlan with more pictures of colin, but they rarely talk about him publically. kind-hearted, shy, passive.
FIONA -
youngest sister, valedictorian, and head cheerleader. all too happy to stand dutifully in the wings and let her brother make his mistakes in the public eye. she carries her mother's warmth and sweetness on her skin, but internally? she's more like their father than any of them, and is waiting for lachlan to finally put the nail in his own coffin before she makes her move for the family throne. she lies in wait, not bothering to usher in his downfall herself- she knows he's too keen to dig his own grave. ambitious, strategic, duplicitous.
A bemused smile played on his lips, just as it had when heād entered the recording room, but there was a new fragility in his eyes. Not fragile like a teacup, but fragile like a grenade- like heād take someone out with him, if it came to it. Lachlanās jaw clenched, and he broke eye contact, looking anywhere but the womanās eyes for a long, heavy moment.
{ ā¦ } Where did you last see THE TRAGEDY? Or when did you last hear of THE TRAGEDY?
āThe night before, in his apartment,ā he stated matter-of-factly, wondering if there might be a trap laid, wondering if he should prepare to chew off his own leg. āWeāre old friends, Iāve known him longer than anyone else here. Hell, I've known him longer than most people. We had a couple drinks and talked about our respective shit shows. It had been a while, so it was nice to catch up.ā Fuck. There was no reason to offer anything beyond the bare minimum of what sheād asked, so why did he keep talking? Didnāt he know better? āI left his apartment around, uh,ā he knit his eyebrows, searching for the specifics of the memory. Obviously, at the time, it hadnāt occurred to him that he should pay attention, and heād avoided thinking about the specifics of the night since heād heard the news of Vinceās death. āGod, I donāt know. Couldāve been midnight, maybe? Knew I wouldnāt be able to sleep, so I took a walk after, to think. Got to Cassās around two AM- give or take.ā
Ā
{ ā¦ } Where were you at time of death of THE TRAGEDY? And what were you doing?
āSleeping,ā he said curtly, overcorrecting from his previous mistake of offering too much information. His smile had faded. He was behavingā¦ wrong. Probably appearing slightly erratic. He knew that. But Vincentās death was a soft spot in his flesh, an open wound that he didnāt know how he was going to start to heal, and this interrogation was poking at it.Ā
{ ā¦ } Who can attest to your alibi?Ā (You may pick other characters, even without discussing beforehand.)
āCass. I didnāt feel like walking all the way back home, so I just crashed on his couch. Heard him snoring like hell in his room when I walked in, and he was gone when I woke up. Left a note on the counter though, so I know he saw me there on his way out.ā
{ ā¦ } The SOCIETY requires your verdict on THE TRAGEDY's demise: Was it the calculated hand of murder? The cruel whim of accident? Or the final, desperate act of self-annihilation?Ā (Pick one option. No explanation needed.)
āHe was the best of us,ā he mumbled, visibly agitated by the question. āOf course it was murder."
What's this? A piece of the interrogation was ripped away? Well, we can't have that...
{ ā¦ }Ā Has anything peculiar caught your attention ā a whisper, an object, a note or a text,... ā that might illuminate the identity of our culprit?Ā
āWhen no one is looking, Iāve noticed a certainā¦ levity around Nico. He doesnāt seem angry enough, and we should all be angry about this. In fact, Iād say he seems relieved.ā He cleared his throat before continuing. āI get itās a competition or whatever, but I canāt imagine reveling in someoneās death like that, unless you considered it a āmission accomplished.āā Heavy shoulders shrugged lazily, and he rolled his eyes. He hadnāt heard anything, and his accusations came off rehearsed and disingenuous, just like heād planned. These games were just getting started- why not make the puppet-masters believe that Lachlan Summer already had an agenda against one of his most obvious rivals? Why not let them think heād lie? Why not go for Nicolaiās throat, but aim for the back of someone else? āIām not necessarily saying he did it, only that heās someone to keep an eye on. Just one guyās opinion, though.āĀ
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A bemused smile played on his lips, just as it had when heād entered the recording room, but there was a new fragility in his eyes. Not fragile like a teacup, but fragile like a grenade- like heād take someone out with him, if it came to it. Lachlanās jaw clenched, and he broke eye contact, looking anywhere but the womanās eyes for a long, heavy moment.
{ ā¦ } Where did you last see THE TRAGEDY? Or when did you last hear of THE TRAGEDY?
āThe night before, in his apartment,ā he stated matter-of-factly, wondering if there might be a trap laid, wondering if he should prepare to chew off his own leg. āWeāre old friends, Iāve known him longer than anyone else here. Hell, I've known him longer than most people. We had a couple drinks and talked about our respective shit shows. It had been a while, so it was nice to catch up.ā Fuck. There was no reason to offer anything beyond the bare minimum of what sheād asked, so why did he keep talking? Didnāt he know better? āI left his apartment around, uh,ā he knit his eyebrows, searching for the specifics of the memory. Obviously, at the time, it hadnāt occurred to him that he should pay attention, and heād avoided thinking about the specifics of the night since heād heard the news of Vinceās death. āGod, I donāt know. Couldāve been midnight, maybe? Knew I wouldnāt be able to sleep, so I took a walk after, to think. Got to Cassās around two AM- give or take.ā
Ā
{ ā¦ } Where were you at time of death of THE TRAGEDY? And what were you doing?
āSleeping,ā he said curtly, overcorrecting from his previous mistake of offering too much information. His smile had faded. He was behavingā¦ wrong. Probably appearing slightly erratic. He knew that. But Vincentās death was a soft spot in his flesh, an open wound that he didnāt know how he was going to start to heal, and this interrogation was poking at it.Ā
{ ā¦ } Who can attest to your alibi?Ā (You may pick other characters, even without discussing beforehand.)
āCass. I didnāt feel like walking all the way back home, so I just crashed on his couch. Heard him snoring like hell in his room when I walked in, and he was gone when I woke up. Left a note on the counter though, so I know he saw me there on his way out.ā
{ ā¦ } The SOCIETY requires your verdict on THE TRAGEDY's demise: Was it the calculated hand of murder? The cruel whim of accident? Or the final, desperate act of self-annihilation?Ā (Pick one option. No explanation needed.)
āHe was the best of us,ā he mumbled, visibly agitated by the question. āOf course it was murder."
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