I prepared myself like it was your average morning and not an ungodly hour of the day. Brushing my teeth, getting dressed and eating breakfast within the span of thirty minutes was almost relaxing.
(Did a scenario really happen?) I thought while eating.
Aside from some grunts, screaming, and banging outside and what I could only assume were the vicious sounds of murder, everything felt very chill. I was eating a slice of bread slathered in peanut butter and honey, and I stored some food into my backpack.
(Feel like Denji.)
The cries from next door sounded like an old woman's, and it was a mixture of English and some Southeast Asian language I was too uneducated to decipher.
(It's a shame that I'm monolingual,) I thought while taking another bite of my breakfast.
I heard my mother creep down the stairs; she was fully clothed and ready. It was like we were preparing for an outing, which was rare. It felt excitable, like we were about do something new since we don't do anything.
(Although, I've been doing my own thing.)
A grabbed another slice of sugary bread and slathered a heap of jam on it. I was getting full. My mother walked into the kitchen, grabbing food for herself.
"Do you have a backpack?" I asked.
"...No."
(What?)
"Are you going to store food in your purse?" I asked sardonically.
"I was going to put extra in your backpack."
"But what if we get separated?"
"Are you planning to separate from me?" My mother shot back.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head, turning my back to her. Here she was again, depending on me. Assuming I'd be there for her. Couldn't do anything herself. Couldn't even conceive of a different possibility. Didn't want to do anything else like carry a backpack because she's a woman, and it would look weird because she didn't have any clothes to match.
That spark once again, trying to ignite my rage.
"I remember seeing old backpacks from your high school days. Those string ones. Basically giant pouches. You can carry your purse and one of those at the same time."
My mother didn't respond, but she must've been persuaded because she went upstairs. Perhaps she wasn't listening to my suggestion at all, maybe she was just going upstairs for a different reason. She's made it clear that she doesn't have to listen to me because she was the parent and I was the child.
(Why is it that my ideas are treated as lesser?)
No one has treated me as there equal. In my life, I don't think anyone has truly taken me seriously. I felt constantly invalidated by the peers and adults in my life.
(So why do I try?)
Forget them.
(Maybe I should really ditch my mom.)
As the minutes ticked away from the First Scenario, that possibility burned brightly within my mind.
[5:20]
[5:19]
[5:18]
The seconds were burning away, slowly destroying the minutes. The First Scenario was going to conclude in a non-dramatic manner.
THUMP!
There was another heavy bang and clatter outside. Shit. That guy.
(Homeless Fucker.)
I gripped my knife but I had another weapon in hand: a long wooden stick. This wasn't grandpa's cane - this was a long, thick tree branch from the woods. I cut if off of a freshly fallen tree and preserved it, turning it into something reminiscent of a Japanese bokken. I'm confident that a strong whack to the head from my wooden sword could kill a person.
(Kill... I might kill a person today.)
I had to make a promise in order not to compromise my morals. I just need to kill the homeless guy... I'm not killing my mom or anyone else unless it's self-defense. I need to do that or else...
(Okay, I promise that I won't kill-)
Just as I was about to finalize the promise, I heard another loud thump. This time it was closer to my door, but not exactly at my door.
(Then which is it?) I growled to myself.
My inconclusive thoughts were starting to piss me off and I was getting angry at myself.
(If I can't draw a conclusion, then I need to gain the empirical evidence to do so.)
Wooden sword in my left hand, black knife in my right, I steeled myself for battle. I walked up to my front door, slamming it open and jumping outside, clutching my weapons. To my right was the homeless guy. He stood on the second porch across from mine.
He had a metal pipe in his hands, covered in blood. It was lightly dusted in glass - casting a quick glance behind him, I could see the home's cracked window of the neighbor I actually liked: an old Vietnamese man. The elderly gentleman was sandwiched between two neighbors: that old bitch and my raging hormonal ass. Premium retirement experience, honestly.
Now it seems that the homeless bastard was trying to kill him.
"What are you trying to do?!" I shot at him.
Homeless Bastard muttered some incoherent bullshit, muttering about me pissing off, fucking off - any expletive paired with "off," he aimed it at me. It only steeled my resolve even further.
(He's trying to kill the Vietnamese man.)
How dare you... How dare you try to kill a man who wanted peace, who lived alone, who was an old father to a family.
I clutch my bokken in rage.
"Step off of his porch, motherfucker."
I stepped off of mine, which was separated by some cheap fencing. Homeless Bastard mimicked my movement, and now we were returning to the Mexican standoff we had before, this time with weapons in hand.
(He shouldn't be able to see my knife.)
I wore a large black rain jacket; the sleeves engulfing my hand. I look like those smol anime boys, but I'm a murderous one.
(He killed his own mother. I just know he did.)
The door to his mother's residency was left ajar, like he wanted to get out in a hurry. He had a murderous panic to him; I could see it all - that rush of emotions. He was going through shock, exhilaration, and gratification.
He just killed someone and got rewarded for it. His dopamine levels paired with his drug-laden mind must've gone haywire by now.
(Like me, he wants the coins.)
Unlike me, this man was a certified East Side r*tard who couldn't think beyond the next hit.
[...]
There was a sudden silence in my mind, like something was judging me without saying a word.
(I'm better than you. I'll always be better than you. I've chosen to think instead of defeat myself with such stupidity like substance abuse.)
I consider the people who try and struggle against the circumstances as "Fighters." Who would win in this battle? The Fighter or the Defeated?
(But even so... he's dangerous. Always has been.)
He's still human. So am I. The Defeated pose the greatest threat not because of their raw power, but because of their ability to drag you down with them. I have to destroy him absolutely.
I enter a stance. My heart is thumping like a drum, creating a beat in my ears. I raise my bokken over my head, ready for a downward strike. I'll fake him out, making him think I'll perform a vertical hit but transition to a horizontal strike to the neck.
(I can't cut flesh...)
But I can rupture flesh. I can shatter bone. I can do that much.
(Down him and kill him with the knife.)
I take a prodding step forward, but just as the battle was about to reach its apex, I heard a step to my right.
My head jerked to that direction, and he did the same, turning to look at what I was looking at. It was my mother. She was standing in the middle of the doorway. She had a shocked look on her face.
Was she going to slam the door? Lock it? Leave me to it?
She called my name and said, "Get over here."
"But-"
"Get over here now!"
An order.
"Hey, hey, your's son -uh, he's uh tryna start shit with me ya know-" The Homeless Guy rambled.
"Shut up," my mom said to him.
I saw blazing derision in my mother's eyes. I felt a sense of pride from seeing that look. When my mother isn't afraid, she's vicious. If only she was like that all the time and not towards me.
"Get inside," she ordered.
"There's no point," I countered. "We're going to leave anyways."
"Get inside now-"
"I'm guarding the porch."
I said my piece and stood in place, resting my bokken by my side while keeping my knife hidden. I kept my eyes trained on my adversary, but made sure to widen my gaze to see anyone else while keeping my head on a swivel. This was all the combat sense I could muster from watching and reading about warriors and the military.
My mother gave me a look of disgust for not listening to her - probably worried about being undermined by my resistance. I couldn't care though.
[The given time has run out.]
[The paid settlement will begin.]
[You have killed 7 organisms.]
[Kill History: 3 ants, 2 mites, 1 spider, 1 mosquito]
[Due to killing non-resistant organisms, the number of coins you obtained has been halved.]
[You have a total of 650 coins.]
(My basic math was correct.)
I received coins from the scenario's end. A meager amount in the grand scheme of things, but savings start somewhere.
(I'll need to find a book about finances soon.)
I felt happy from this little victory, but all emotion was erased when I remembered who was across from me: the homeless guy. He had a stupid, giddy look on his face. Perhaps the coins excited him, or maybe they reminded him of the proof that he survived. I felt disgust.
The pride of my achievement morphed into bitterness. I feel like a bratty child who had his playtime ruined by a bully.
(I need to get my head out of this infantile thinking.)
So what if I survived one scenario? Big whoop. Now there's 98 more scenarios left, but that doesn't account for hidden or sub-scenarios. There's nothing to be proud of, not yet. The tension of our Mexican standoff is once again shattered; clicked away and swept aside with the unlocking and opening of doors.
The houses on my block are opening up. People... are stepping out.
(The other survivors.)
There was over a dozen people. I counted 15 in total. Each one of them was bloodied and battered... unlike me.
"Oh god," I muttered to myself.
I was about to confront people who probably killed their own families.