Work Text:
Sorry! is a board game that is based on the ancient Indian cross an
Players move their three or four pieces
attempting to get all of their pieces "home" before any other player.
Originally manufactured by
Sorry! is marketed for two to four players
The game title comes from the many ways in
which a player can negate the progress of another,
while issuing an apologetic "Sorry!"
“This is the best decision I'll ever make.”
The warm bubbling of blood down her nose is one of the last things Anya can succinctly feel before the rest of her face goes numb. She had long since given up on her futile attempt to pry the gun case open with her bare hands - broken and splintered bloody nails a testament to her efforts - and had just left it to rot in its drawer next to Curly.
Jimmy is yelling something outside still, angry tone all too familiar, and she can vaguely hear the distressed warbles of Daisuke's panicked voice. The tangy taste of iron fills her every sense, knees weak with the feeling of static and arms heavy with lead.
Everything outside goes quiet, the blood pumping in her ears being one of the last noises to die out - among the whimpers and pained cries being bemoaned from the ex-captain's stationary resting bay.
Her vision distorts and wobbles, what feels like the dead pixel expanding and consuming, the only thing she can focus on.
Everything comes to her and washes away like ocean waves, slowly but surely retreating like the tide as her eyes slip shut.
And she thinks, bitterly, of how long it's been during the crash. How long it's been since the take off. How long it's been since the birthday party and lay off and the hands over her body.
How long it's been since she's wanted to tear the ship apart piece by piece, ripping and tearing at the shrapnel, wanting to dump every single bottle of that sugary, disgusting mouthwash out, wishing to see it drain slowly down the pipes, wanting to take the axe to the foam and crack the seal, the cold embrace of space waiting expectantly with open arms, wanting to take her own two hands, now rough and calloused, around Jimmy's throat and strangle the coward to death.
Touching him was even too much, the gun in the lock box was the most favourable option. She couldn't decide if a painful, drawn out death was better than a quick and unforgiving one for him. She'd do both, if she could.
At least now she could get away from it. Away from the wreckage and the prying eyes and the conversations she wishes she didn't have to hear or be a part of.
At least now she could take it into her own hands.
At least now she could get rid of whatever unloved, unborn thing that was already leeching off her body. Deliver it elsewhere. She herself, able to get off the Tulpar too.
At least now she wouldn't have to resort to eating Curly through lack off food, carving him up like a thanksgiving turkey, like how all the others would have to do.
She doesn't think she'd have the stomach for it anyway.
Every Saint
has a past and every
Sinner has
a future.
The first time she opens her eyes and sees the wielded metal hold of the Tulpar again she almost screams. She tries too, anyway. Her mouth falls open but none of the exhaustion and frustration and undefinable amalgamation of emotions she couldn't express refused to come out.
Her silent scream causes her jaw to pop open with disuse, and she realises she can feel her face again. Her whole body, too. Everything is working as intended. All systems go. Nothing is wrong.
And Anya hates it.
Why is she still alive? Did she somehow get resuscitated? There's no possible way. She's the only one on the ship with any medical knowledge, and they had no way to treat her properly or flush the meds.
She was too far gone by that point anyways, and even if they did manage to save her, she would've been in a world of pain just about now. She would've been unable to move.
But there's nothing. No pain.
Everything is just fine.
Anya wants to bash her head into the nearest wall and bludgeon herself back to death.
She rolls onto her back and realises she's on her bed, not her actual bed, no, but the one set up in the 'living room' of the ship. She glances around and estimates, by the condition of the room, that it's sometime just before the four month point, gleaming by the lack of massive crack in the TV caused by Swansea's man handling of the axe.
It's surreal. She can barely even fathom it. She's alive again, somehow. Back on the Tulpar and in the past no less. Maybe she's a ghost, somehow? But haunting in the past wouldn't make any sense and the more she thinks about it the more Anya starts to realise, and resent, the fact that the only probable explanation she can think of for this is time travel.
Shitty fucking sci-fi time travel.
Anya rolls up her sleeve and pinches herself. Then she does it again, and another time for good measure. Nothing changes, only her fingers leaving tiny red marks in her skin.
She briefly considers that this is her brain making a weird memory soup as its last method of actual function as it slowly gives out, but the world around her is too real. Her body is too physical, if the pain from her pinching anything to go by.
This is real. This isn't some sort of dream, or a messed up, drug induced hallucination, hell it isn't even a fraction of her life flashing before her eyes. This is real.
She somehow time traveled, to a few months earlier, still after the Tulpar crash. After her death, she's been given a second chance at life, with the clock being wound back for her.
The worst part is that Anya hates it.
She hates that the only second chance she's been blessed with has put her back on the Tulpar. Put her back on the Tulpar after her assault, after the layoff notice, after the crash, and after practically every other horrible thing has happened. She has to start again from this point.
She's trapped.
As Anya shuffles through the ship, re-mapping all the corners and edges in her mind to try and find any minute details that may have been different, she realises something. Something she probably should've realised sooner, her sluggish mind working overtime.
She can change what happens. The outcomes. While she isn’t back further enough to stop anything from happening, she can still change the outcome from this point. She can do everything differently. She can't dwell in the past now - now that she has seen the future.
She realises, she doesn't have to do anything. Or, she can do anything. - Within the limited confines of the ship, of course - but now that she died and came back, and she knows what lies ahead.
The possibilities thrum at Anya's fingertips.
She doesn't want to do the same thing again.
She can't do the same thing again, she doesn't want to say the same things, act the same way-
She doesn't want to roll over - she remembers how she shifted her gaze and tone to meet whatever would piss Jimmy off less, cheery and enthusiastic to quiet and meek, doing everything so he wouldn't act out against her again.
She remembers how she would shrink down in group meetings, try to shift back into shadows to make herself less noticeable. She can feel a touch of bile rise to the back of her throat as she remembers his glares and his touches.
How she hated him. Despised him. With her whole being.
His touch and words were a disgusting, bubbling, poisonous substance. He was a deluded, despicable coward who deserved nothing.
She remembers her rage and her fear. She feels it now, it sharpens her mind and makes her walk pick up the pace.
Her feelings towards her other crew members are complicated, to say the least.
Swansea was approachable, only in the sense of a distant uncle or an old friend's absent father. He cared, she supposed, in his own, imperceivable way. He wasn't a good man, but he wasn't a bad one either.
He didn't make her stomach twist up in disgust or fear when seeing him, at least. He was a better man than most, surprisingly easy to confide in. He was better than Jimmy at least, and they shared the same dislike for the man too.
She wished she got to see him back on Earth though, that's how she wished they knew each other, outside of all this. It seemed wrong that they were coworkers on an interstellar ship, that their fate was like this. At most, she would've seen his life in passing glances. That's the way it should've been.
Maybe, she'd see him on the way home from the library, maybe when she passes by his suburban, white picket family house, maybe he'll be out in the yard with his daughters and barbecuing with his workmates. He'd shake his head and refuse the offer of a beer, flipping a patty and telling a story with his endeared sarcastic tone. And maybe, he'd look up when she drove past and maybe they'd wave at each other. And that would be that.
She liked Daisuke well enough, he was a good kid. Undeserving of his fate in this crashed wreckage, but a good kid still. He indulged her whenever she wanted to play Sorry! and he laughed good heartedly at Swansea's crude remarks.
He had a bright spark, and he reminded her of herself surprisingly, whenever he mentioned not knowing what he wanted to do. Aimless, under the pressure of others, having to come to terms with what expectations surrounding growing up.
However, she could feel herself feeling some form of - jealously? slight resentment? envy? she can't put her finger on the specific word but it's there - towards him. She hates herself for feeling it, it's an unearned irritation. He's young, kind, good natured, he hasn't done anything to her personally, it's all on her side, completely unmerited.
He was just a kid who had a better start in life than her, one gifted with parents who had money and spent it on him, opened the world to him with opportunities.
She'd kill to have been him, to have the possibilities, the chances, not having to work herself to the bone -- she failed at getting into medical school eight fucking times - but she guesses it doesn't matter now, they're both stuck on the same shitty ship in the same workplace. Neither of them wanted to be here.
Both roads lead to the same end.
Her thoughts towards Curly were perhaps the most complicated. Where would she even start with him?
He was blinded by his desire for admiration, to be good for everyone, to be the captain they call all fall back on. It left him an extremely neutral person, stuck in the middle. He tried not to properly pick sides, and he did more harm than good, towards her especially.
She didn't entirely despise him, not as much as she did Jimmy, but it was hard to like him. Not after his refusal to deal with Jimmy, too blindly focused on trying to play for both sides. Blinded by how Jimmy was his friend , as if that was an excuse.
Curly's action was inaction, and when he did what he thought was best, it wasn't, and lead to more harm than good. After all that he let happen, the outcome of everything, she couldn't bring herself to trust him, and although she didn't despise him, she couldn't bring herself to like him as a person.
Refocusing her mind away from the other crew members, remembering her rage and fear that fueled her steps, she continued down the hallway. Eyes searching for a specific target as she rolled up her sleeves.
She's not going to do the same things as last time. She doesn't care about the consequences - the impact of anything , now. She's going to change things.
She feels an odd sense of detachment now that she's died. Since she's died and came back, nothing really matters. Death isn't a scary, black thing that can be held above her head as a threat.
Physical violence doesn't make her recoil either, now that she's seen the edge of the world and the sea of souls in her vision. It doesn't affect her because now the impact of it towards her just doesn't matter.
The only real thing that could get to her was the memories - the negative mental effects, the trauma. But no, now, she does not fear death anymore than she did before.
Pushing away the memories, she steals herself. Remembers Jimmy's leering gaze and infuriating tone as he talked down to her, remembers the sound of the crew quarters door sliding open in the dead of night, the feeling of her knees giving out and the vomit on the floor when she realised she was pregnant.
Remembers how she'd go to sleep at night, imagining beating his head in with one of the stray steal pipes laying around. How she would angle every swing, no part of him would remain recongisable, a smear of red against the iron. He wouldn't make it off the ship.
Or, she'd imagine finally getting her hands on the gun, how the recoil of the pistol would feel thrumming through her arms and how the bullets - she wouldn't waste a single shot - would rip through him, leaving him nothing but a shredded, hole ridden piece of scarlet flesh.
If she had to die again, so be it. She wasn't letting Jimmy get away with it this time. Not after everything else.
She thinks of herself, the blood dribbling down her chin and onto the floor as her muscles seized and gave out.
She thinks about the distant sound of Jimmy hitting Curly's body with his fist from the med-bay hallway when he was supposed to be giving him his pills, thinks about the fact that Jimmy was going to eat him.
She thinks about Daisuke laying on the floor, bottle of mouthwash in hand, Swansea swinging the axe at the TV screen, and whatever else must've happened to them after she died.
She thinks of the unwanted, unborn thing growing inside her. Something that will never experience an ounce of care and love, something made out of hate. The thing inside her will never live, will never continue its suffering existence. Anya will make sure of it.
She thinks of the psych reports, all the shitty fake answers from Jimmy as he stared her down. She thinks about the fact that she never got to do one, either. She thinks of all the work she put into keeping Curly alive, the sound of rattling pills and gasping swallows.
She thinks of everything. Everything that happened on the ship, after the crash, and everything in her life before PonyExpress and every detail in between.
It stretches and tugs and pulls at her mind, fueling the fire inside. Pushed down emotions surge to the precipice and expel, memories locked and hidden crack open in her psyche.
All of her interactions, all of the parts she's had to play, everything that's happened to her rises, every emotion filling every part of herself.
Anya becomes whole with herself and at once she isn't.
At least now, she walks with purpose. Not bowing her head, shuffling her feet and putting up a front, trying to appease vengeful spectators.
She knows what she's doing, now.
It reminds her of her walk towards the med-bay, how she walked dedicatedly with every step. Where she buried herself in pills and made the best decision of her past-life, getting away from the ship and all that the wreck brought with it, all with iron pouring out of her nose.
She walks with dedication now, too. Now, with her head raised higher, and instead marching towards the cockpit.
The door slides open, and there he is. Standing behind the Captain's chair, staring up at the foamed, broken screens.
Jimmy turns at the noise, opening his mouth to say something, brow already furrowing, but Anya moves too quickly.
Jimmy's stronger than her, sure, and psychically larger, but she has the element of surprise - and adrenaline. He crumples into the floor easily enough when she slams into him.
He then fails to get back up when she slams his head into the floor, palm and nail digging into his scalp and forehead.
He sputters, trying to say something - the look on confusion on his face fuels her anger even more, like he couldn't even fathom that she would be mad . That she would try and get back at him for all the shit he's done - but is cut off when she slams his head into the floor again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Every shove and slam of his head hitting the metal grating is fueled by every single wrong thing he’s done.
Every demeaning word.
Slam
Every scowling look.
Bang
Everytime he raised his voice and his hand at her.
Slam
Everytime he demeaned her and held his position over her head.
Bang
Everytime she was trapped unwillingly in a room with him.
Slam
Everytime he turned to Curly and got his magic ticket out of any consequence or responsibility .
Bang
For all the times the door to the sleeping quarters slid open, because of course the cockpit and med-bay were the only fucking rooms that had locks.
Slam
For every single shitty thing the cowardly piece of shit has ever done.
Bang
For every single shitty thing he'd done after she had died, too.
Thud
She thinks of how he mocked her everytime she asked him to give Curly his pills. I'll take care of it he said, sneering-
I'll take care of it. Yes, she will.
The Captain will go down with his ship.
And who was that captain now?
The puddle of red on the floor seeps , and smears .
And then she stands.
She finds a lack of joy in doing it, only still remaining resentment - the actions she follows out like someone squishing a bug or throwing out garbage. An act of service, of duty.
Throwing something away, getting rid of the waste. This is what he deserves.
He lays now, motionless among the sea of blood and patches of iron floor that sneak through.
The back of his head must've -
A basilar skull fracture is a break of a bone in
the base of the skull.
Symptoms may include-
- probably -
Epidural hematomas occur when a blood clot forms underneath the skull, but
They usually come from a tear in an artery that runs just under the skull called the
Epidural hematomas are usually associated with a skull fracture.
- and -
Diffuse axonal injury (DAI).
These injuries are fairly common and are usually caused by shaking of the brain back and forth,
Diffuse injuries
may be very severe, as in diffuse axonal injury (DAI).
In DAI, the patient is usually in a coma for a prolonged period of time,
with injury to many different parts of the brain.
he's dead.
There's no shallow breathing of his chest, no visible movement.
His
head
is
in
pieces.
Brain mush and bloody gore surrounds the head and body - like a crater left after nuclear impact.
Anya sucks in a breath and breathes, slowly, out of her nose.
Then she moves.
Her leg moves in a flurry, her movement is jerky and uncoordinated.
She kicks the side of his body, near his gut. Then, at his liver.
And she kicks his body again, and again, and again.
He remains lifeless and still, even with the impact of the strikes.
She continues, only until she's out of breath, her legs as tired as her arms.
Both of which are covered in the dark ichor, the blood on her hands is already drying, flaking.
Jimmy is no longer recognisable.
She steps back, and stands in the doorway of the cockpit.
Her fingers ache and spasm, the muscles in her leg cramp.
The room stinks of death and gore.
This time, the blood dripping down her face isn't her own.
The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite;
no incident occurred from which my
rage and misery could not extract its food.
- Mary Shelley
and she wakes up again, lying on her side in the living room of the Tulpar, on her makeshift bed.
Ready to start again.