Killing (And Other Games)

(Thirty Seven)

(Thirty Seven)

You'd think I wouldn't be in the mood for Pulp Fiction at a time like this but for some reason all I want to do is watch a violent movie. Laptop tucked under my arm, I sneak down to the dungeons for what seems like the millionth time. I may as well set up the TV down here; hell I might as well bring my bed. I don't plan on doing very much other than being with these guys.

I slip the Book of Blood through to West but he's facing away and doesn't seem to notice me. I don't say anything, just hope he'll find it before he needs to fight whoever he's fighting.

Everyone is asleep or inactive except Ryker. He's pacing around the cell, looking at cracks in the wall like their artworks. I can't tell if he's exploring the environment or planning his escape. Blood still clings to parts of his clothes but he seems to have got rid of most of it, somehow.

"Ryker," I hiss and he jumps, turning to look at me with wide eyes.

"Immy? Why are you...how's the investigation?" He doesn't give me very long to think of some sort of reply. He gets the point. "Well, come in then. Make yourself at home." I unlock the door-the key now hanging around my neck on a silver chain-and I step in, quietly closing the door behind me. Ryker sits on the bench, eyeing my wearily.

"We're fighting tomorrow."

"I know," I say, trying not to sound offended. Of course I know. It's the only thing I really know.

"Do you want to know?"

"Do I?"

Ryker looks down at his hands and says, "We're not fighting each other."

"Oh my god, that's-"

"Except Zane."

My heart stops beating, air caught in my lungs. "Against who?"

"West."

I don't really know what to say. Do I say that that's good? I don't know West well but I feel a natural affinity for him just because I've lived with him, because I've fought for him this far. He's a nice guy too. All I can remember is him being the first to tip me off that things weren't quite right in the house. Suddenly, I wonder if I should go wake him up and spend time with him too.

"But the rest of you are okay," I whisper.

"Not that it's about the rest of us," Ryker mutters, probably intended for me not to hear. I ignore it completely, my ability to just block things out growing by the day.

"Let's not think about it," I declare, destroying the tense mood. "You've only got to think about one thing right now. Tarantino, Fincher or Spielberg?" I hold up the three DVDs, grinning. Somehow, the smile isn't forced. I've moved past depression into shock. At least I'm pleasant when I'm in shock. I should be in shock more often.

"Whoa," Ryker laughs, standing up and taking them out of my hand. "You remembered."

"When someone promises to watch one of the top five with me, I remember it like my freaking bank code."

"Top five?"

"Oh wow-you have a lot to learn."

Ryker looks at the boxes, debating between them all. Eventually he holds out Pulp Fiction and I'm very pleased. "Good decision."

"You were going to make me watch that anyway, weren't you?" Ryker chuckles as I sit down in the corner, laptop on my knees.

"Probably." Ryker slides in next to me, letting his head sit back against the wall, and we watch a pleasantly violent movie. I mouth the lines under my breath, my head falling against Ryker's shoulder. What time is it again? The last time it was day must've been the day before I came to Jackson Street. My life after that only replays in my mind in black and white-all neo-noir style.