Post by Deleted on Feb 13, 2021 14:17:30 GMT -6
nobody has any right to die for steve harrington.
he knows death isn't permanent here, of course he does. there may be plenty of people in this godforsaken place who've been at this longer than he has, but in his humble opinion, it doesn't take all that long to figure out how things work. he gets dragged into a trial, he helps his fellow survivors as much as he can, and he tries his best not to die ... but whether he runs through that exit gate or gets hung from a bloodied meat hook (or worse), he always ends up back at the campfire, sitting in front of the undying flame and thinking about his old life — the one the fog carried him so swiftly and mercilessly away from. no, death isn't an escape, be it for better or for worse, and this applies to everyone else just as much as it applies to him. he wasn't special before this place, and he certainly isn't special now. the entity isn't so merciful.
but at least ... when death mattered, when life mattered, it gave steve a reason to take care of everyone. each time something dangerous reared its head, he'd live in fear until it was vanquished, terrified that the little band of people he cared about — a band that got a little bigger every time, it seemed — would lose a member to the sometimes-metaphorical maws of the demogorgon, or the mindflayer, or whatever the hell else those kids would name after a fictional fucking creature. no one should've died for him back then, that much seems obvious enough in his eyes. sure, you could wax philosophical about something like that all day, about how no one should die for anyone because each person's life has its unique value. steve thinks that's bullshit. those kids, his friends, all of their lives mattered a hell of a lot more than his did, and if anyone was going to die for anyone, it should've been him dying for them (be it one or all). he's the babysitter, after all. he's the one who's supposed to take care of everyone.
steve was that guy, at least. ever since he got here, he isn't so sure anymore. not just because there's no kids to protect (god, he misses them, even if he's glad they aren't stuck here), but because it always seems like people are protecting him, instead. he feels useless, like he isn't actually good at any of this no matter how hard he fucking tries. more often than not, he's most helpful as a distraction — not because he's the best at evasion, but because he can buy everyone a little time if he dies as far as he can from the nearest hook. it's not much, and he knows it isn't ... and yet, it's better than doing nothing at all, which is exactly what his very best effort seems to be. no matter what he does, someone is better than him at it. every trial that he's in, he feels, would go smoother and faster if someone else was there in his place. and ... he's sorry. he's sorry for being so useless, and for dragging everyone down with his lack of skills. unfortunately, he doesn't know how to say that much, so he just tries his best to make up for it in their moments of rest, offering his support through jokes and charisma because that's all he's ever really had.
thing is, someone else has been dying before him lately. if it'd been a one-off thing, he would've gotten it, y'know? everybody has those days (as if a "day" means anything here) where they don't feel like giving it their all, and they're struck down almost as soon as the trial starts despite how skilled or clever they usually are. that's all he'd thought it was the first time, and since the two of them are nowhere near close, he'd decided not to bring it up or anything. then, it'd happened again ... and again ... and again. and at this point, after all those trials she's survived before this started, he's almost completely sure she's doing it on purpose, which is exactly what she shouldn't be doing. nobody has any right to die for him, after all, and she's far from an exception. they're basically strangers. the guilt eats away at him every time he glances at her, be it in passing or during a trial, and it doesn't help that he has no idea why she's doing this at all.
there's only so much he can take. he's never been extraordinarily patient, or even a little bit patient, at that. when he comes to and forces himself up to the campfire, steve notices her there, sitting on her own. meg. he knows her name, at least, and she seems nice enough, though he's never actually gotten around to talking to her until now. "hey," he says, sits next to her. his brow eyes keep darting between the campfire and the girl sitting next to him, like he can't decide exactly where to look. his leg is bouncing with nervous energy. he's not usually nervous, especially not now that he's been hunted for sport so many times, but a confrontation like this, as good as his intentions may be ... it's enough to make his heartbeat pick up. "can we ... talk?" it's barely a question, though, because he's talking too fast and his brow is furrowed, and he gets right into what he wants to know without giving the other survivor so much as a moment to think before he begins.
"you keep— getting hurt because of me. only for me. are you doing that on purpose? i don't mind getting killed, i don't— you don't have to do that. die for me, i mean, like ... it's fine, i promise. i'm fine!" steve pauses for a moment, then goes on, "but if you are doing it on purpose, um ... do you mind telling me why? we don't even know each other, and ... uh, yeah." he's usually more charming than this, but hopefully, meg still feels inclined to respond to his rambling half-explanation.
he knows death isn't permanent here, of course he does. there may be plenty of people in this godforsaken place who've been at this longer than he has, but in his humble opinion, it doesn't take all that long to figure out how things work. he gets dragged into a trial, he helps his fellow survivors as much as he can, and he tries his best not to die ... but whether he runs through that exit gate or gets hung from a bloodied meat hook (or worse), he always ends up back at the campfire, sitting in front of the undying flame and thinking about his old life — the one the fog carried him so swiftly and mercilessly away from. no, death isn't an escape, be it for better or for worse, and this applies to everyone else just as much as it applies to him. he wasn't special before this place, and he certainly isn't special now. the entity isn't so merciful.
but at least ... when death mattered, when life mattered, it gave steve a reason to take care of everyone. each time something dangerous reared its head, he'd live in fear until it was vanquished, terrified that the little band of people he cared about — a band that got a little bigger every time, it seemed — would lose a member to the sometimes-metaphorical maws of the demogorgon, or the mindflayer, or whatever the hell else those kids would name after a fictional fucking creature. no one should've died for him back then, that much seems obvious enough in his eyes. sure, you could wax philosophical about something like that all day, about how no one should die for anyone because each person's life has its unique value. steve thinks that's bullshit. those kids, his friends, all of their lives mattered a hell of a lot more than his did, and if anyone was going to die for anyone, it should've been him dying for them (be it one or all). he's the babysitter, after all. he's the one who's supposed to take care of everyone.
steve was that guy, at least. ever since he got here, he isn't so sure anymore. not just because there's no kids to protect (god, he misses them, even if he's glad they aren't stuck here), but because it always seems like people are protecting him, instead. he feels useless, like he isn't actually good at any of this no matter how hard he fucking tries. more often than not, he's most helpful as a distraction — not because he's the best at evasion, but because he can buy everyone a little time if he dies as far as he can from the nearest hook. it's not much, and he knows it isn't ... and yet, it's better than doing nothing at all, which is exactly what his very best effort seems to be. no matter what he does, someone is better than him at it. every trial that he's in, he feels, would go smoother and faster if someone else was there in his place. and ... he's sorry. he's sorry for being so useless, and for dragging everyone down with his lack of skills. unfortunately, he doesn't know how to say that much, so he just tries his best to make up for it in their moments of rest, offering his support through jokes and charisma because that's all he's ever really had.
thing is, someone else has been dying before him lately. if it'd been a one-off thing, he would've gotten it, y'know? everybody has those days (as if a "day" means anything here) where they don't feel like giving it their all, and they're struck down almost as soon as the trial starts despite how skilled or clever they usually are. that's all he'd thought it was the first time, and since the two of them are nowhere near close, he'd decided not to bring it up or anything. then, it'd happened again ... and again ... and again. and at this point, after all those trials she's survived before this started, he's almost completely sure she's doing it on purpose, which is exactly what she shouldn't be doing. nobody has any right to die for him, after all, and she's far from an exception. they're basically strangers. the guilt eats away at him every time he glances at her, be it in passing or during a trial, and it doesn't help that he has no idea why she's doing this at all.
there's only so much he can take. he's never been extraordinarily patient, or even a little bit patient, at that. when he comes to and forces himself up to the campfire, steve notices her there, sitting on her own. meg. he knows her name, at least, and she seems nice enough, though he's never actually gotten around to talking to her until now. "hey," he says, sits next to her. his brow eyes keep darting between the campfire and the girl sitting next to him, like he can't decide exactly where to look. his leg is bouncing with nervous energy. he's not usually nervous, especially not now that he's been hunted for sport so many times, but a confrontation like this, as good as his intentions may be ... it's enough to make his heartbeat pick up. "can we ... talk?" it's barely a question, though, because he's talking too fast and his brow is furrowed, and he gets right into what he wants to know without giving the other survivor so much as a moment to think before he begins.
"you keep— getting hurt because of me. only for me. are you doing that on purpose? i don't mind getting killed, i don't— you don't have to do that. die for me, i mean, like ... it's fine, i promise. i'm fine!" steve pauses for a moment, then goes on, "but if you are doing it on purpose, um ... do you mind telling me why? we don't even know each other, and ... uh, yeah." he's usually more charming than this, but hopefully, meg still feels inclined to respond to his rambling half-explanation.