Cut It Out and Restart - Chapter 2 (now edited!)

[sunlit_skycat]

Title: Cut It Out and Restart

Rating: Mature

Major Warnings: Graphic violence, character death

Genre: Canon compliant, side character focus

Summary: In less than a year, the entire direction of Brie's life flipped on her -- not once, or twice, but three separate times. She went from a desperate Innocent clawing for survival to a Host of forces that most would never dare to approach, making choices that can never be taken back. Now, in a world increasingly torn with violence, Brie must decide what to do with all the time the Hungry Choir gave her. A story of Brie across the events of Pale.

Edits to ending to make it longer!

 

Part 1: The Hungry Choir - Chapter 2

Brie's doom began with the hope that if she could just make it past the ritual, everything would be okay.

She wasn't the only one with such aspirations. The first day that Brie arrived at the listed location, 30 minutes before sunset, she found three people already there, setting things up. The dirt road ended in a clearing filled with thick trees all around, sunlight filtering through the branches in a bright golden glow. Like this, it was easy to ignore the dark shapes moving in the distance, child-sized but otherwise impossible to make out.

A woman armored in full skating gear and a patched up flannel jacket whistled, pointing at Brie. "We got our fourth!"

"Woo!" The sound came from a man with bright red hair and rolled up magazines tied around each of his limbs.

A grizzled, scarred man with a cane limped up to Brie, bite marks on his face pulling his mouth into a perpetual frown. He was missing both an arm and a leg, making it hard not to stare.

"What are you here for, girlie? Anorexia? Bulimia? Trust me, it's not worth it. It’ll tear up that pretty face like it’s nothing.”

"I — I have pica. Heavy metal poisoning. What are you here for?" Brie shot back.

"Diabetes, baby! Fucking OHIP doesn’t cover my insulin anymore, and it’s that or rent,” he spat. “They lured me in with a cure. Said they could fix me. It’s not worth it.”

Brie edged away from him. "I know what I'm doing, thanks."

The man with the red hair stepped over to Brie’s side, hefting a section of barrier. “Don't mind George, he's always like that. Help me with this?”

Brie grasped onto the other side of the barrier, eager to have an excuse to leave while George ranted. They walked away while skater woman said something to placate George.

“Thank you for that. It’s not as bad as he says, right?” Brie said.

“Mm, I don’t know. It’s pretty bad,” the man said. He pointed at the barrier with a mangled right hand, which was missing the index and middle fingers. “Here, this is how the pieces slot together. Make sure not to lock them in together. It’s important to be able to take them down if things get hairy.”

Brie did as she was told. “What’s your name? Can I ask why you’re here, or is that rude?”

“No, it’s not. I’m Stanley. I get ulcers a lot from my pain meds,” he said.

“I’m Brie. Pica, heavy metal poisoning. You might have heard.”

“I did. I hope you find what you are looking for,” Stanley said.

Brie put the barriers together under Stanley’s guidance, creating a circle around the perimeter. The barriers were sturdy things, staying standing when Brie bumped into them, yet able to be easily collapsed when she pressed a button on the side.

As they worked, Stanley named each of the participants present. First there was Joanna, the woman in the skating gear. She lived in one of the First Nations reserves, and didn't have consistent access to running water or food. Then there was George, who had the most rounds in the ritual of anyone. After that, there was Mason, who arrived in the clearing wearing a muscle tank and gym shorts that left little to the imagination. Mason frequently spoke about the riches that awaited those who won the ritual and spent lavishly on food, but Stanley thought that was a cover for some other reason to join. Last there was Hannah, coming in with a set of fishing nets that she laid just inside the barrier Brie and Stanley set up. Hannah was an older woman, who had food sensitivities that made it hard to get the appropriate nutrients.

That marked six of them total. They needed two more to start.

Brie glanced at the sun anxiously, which had almost set. “What happens if we don’t have enough people? Do we have to try again later?”

“Mm, no. I think we have eight. Not everybody shows up on time,” Stanley answered.

After a little more work, the clearing was properly encircled with barriers, drenched in gasoline, and had nets set down on all sides. The dying sun slipped below the horizon, taking the last of its orange rays with it.

Something in the air shifted slightly. The fresh scent of the broadleaf trees was gone, replaced by something musty and meaty. And was that a slight scent of gunpowder somehow?

The moon smeared across the sky, as if it was in multiple phases at once, all at different points of orbit. Brie turned on her headlight to compensate for the sudden darkness, matched by Joanna, who also had a light in her helmet. Faint singing echoed all around, and a line of children emerged from the trees.

George set his cane against the barrier, looking deeply upset.

Two preteen girls were being dragged over, barely older than the emaciated, waifish children around them. The one on the left had a puffy pink jacket and equally pink boots. The one on the right had black hair up in a ponytail with a white bow on it, with only a dance leotard and tights on. She let out a scream, and a waif leaned down to bite into her arm. Both girls were dumped forwards onto the ground by the waifs, shaking with fear.

Brie’s eyes widened. She hadn’t considered that children could join.

Stanley crouched down in front of the girls, holding a single finger in front of his pursed lips to signal silence. The girl on the right nodded, and then the girl on the left. Stanley extended his hands, helping them up.

A waif growled at them menacingly. Brie flinched, but Stanley stayed steady.

Once the two girls were up, Joanna clapped her hands three times and made a circling gesture, prompting everyone to group up in an oblong oval. She pointed to everyone in the circle in a clockwise pattern, designating order and roles with hand signals as designated by the wiki. She was the leader and would act as forward, along with Mason, the most aggressive role. Stanley and Hannah were to watch the flanks. George was given the task of igniting the gasoline if necessary. Brie was to open and close the fence. The two girls didn’t respond to the hand signals, and weren’t assigned any roles.

Joanna held her fingers up, counting down to give them all time to prepare. Brie watched with baited breath, watching carefully for her cue. Three… two… one.

“A song for your supper,” Joanna began.

“A morsel for a melody,” George spat out, looking unhappy.

“A ballad for your board,” Stanley sang.

“A chorus for your collation,” Brie sang, the pitch as close to the recordings on the website as she could make it.

“A tune for your tuck,” Mason continued, in a surprising baritone.

“A refrain for your refreshment,” Hannah sang.

The girl in pink was off a beat, tripping over her words in her nervousness. “A p-piece for your — ahhh!”

She was off by only a single word, ‘your’ instead of ‘the,’ but it was too late to take it back. A waif bit her in the hand for the mistake, and then again, for the second missed word afterwards.

“A song for your supper,” the girl with the hair bow quavered.

All together now. Repeat.

Squeaking noises sounded from just outside the barrier. Brie swung her headlamp around, trying to find the source of it all. The beam landed on a mass of gold and black furred rodents, scurrying around frantically. Lemmings. They were difficult to see in the darkness, barely taller than the grass underfoot. She opened the barrier for them to come in. A stream of lemmings flooded in, squeaking angrily as they all sang. 

Brie rushed her line as she closed the barrier again, and a waif bit her in the ankle. Teeth sunk in around the joint, a piercing pain that cut in deep. She instinctively kicked, and something tore as her ankle broke free of the waif’s mouth. She hissed, missing her next few words, and received another flurry of bites around her foot.

Joanna backed up to the nets, beckoning other people to move with her. There were only three, so she handed out the two others to Mason and Hannah.

They had until the end of the new verse after the chorus to get in place. After that, the animals were free to act with full malicious intent. Brie shifted her weight off the bitten ankle, trying to ignore the feeling of blood seeping into her shoe.

“If the tune is merry enough, will the dish be sweet?” Joanna called, readying her net.

Without his cane, George could barely move, but he sang along anyways. “If the song is jolly enough, will the plate be neat?”

“And if the ballad is lively enough, can we hope for meat?” Stanley sang.

The verse ended. The lemmings scattered from the center, going in every direction. Brie’s headlamp carved a path through the darkness, working alongside Joanna to illuminate the area, but it still wasn’t enough to see where the lemmings were going. 

Back to the chorus. They advanced upon the lemmings, singing in unison. Mason swung his net at a scurrying pile. He fell just short, recovered, and tried again. Hannah and Joanna had similar difficulty netting any lemmings. They were surprisingly agile, able to turn directions faster than a human could react.

Brie couldn’t rely on any of them to catch a lemming for her. She searched through the grass and ran, favoring her wounded foot. Behind her, a flame roared to life. The grass popped and crackled, the clearing suddenly much brighter.

The chorus ended. Brie sang out, moving over the wide expanse of grass, “How shall we cut it if we have no knife?”

“With our teeth, and with our nails,” Mason answered.

“Digging in and singing out,” Hannah continued.

Pink girl didn’t sing, instead screaming in terror.

The chorus repeated again. Brie dove for a lemming, ankle twisting painfully as she launched herself. Her fingers closed around sleek fur. She raised the lemming to her face, turning it around to try to get a good angle, when its teeth closed around her fingers.

She dropped the lemming and swore. And then again, as she scrabbled desperately in the grass trying to find where it went. Two waifs appeared, taking chunks out of her shoulder and side, adding to the stinging pain of her foot. Brie rolled over on her hands and knees, crawling after the lemming.

She was injured, but so was it. It struggled through the grass, slower than before. This time, Brie was less merciful. The moment she got hold of it, she squeezed tight, against the pressure of little bones and internal organs. The lemming’s chittering trailed off as its body gave way to the force of Brie’s palms.

“I’ll go to the table every phase this month — Moon, I meant moon!” hair bow girl shrieked.

She had to do this. It was the only way.

“And ne’er again finding myself picking up a spoon,” Joanna sang.

Bite.

“Nor fork, nor blade,” George sang.

Hair on the tongue, no. Spit. Try again.

“Nor plate, nor cup,” Stanley sang.

Chew, despite the overwhelming taste of blood. Swallow.

“Oh I’ll have stayed fully supped and sated since this tune,” Brie declared.

She dully dropped the lemming to the ground,. She was safe now that she had eaten from the ritual animal, even if it didn’t feel like it. The chorus repeated.

Her foot hurt too much to stand now, streaming blood from multiple different places and spasming badly when she tried to move it. Instead, she turned around to watch the others from her spot on the ground. Hannah was slumped against a tree, massaging a bleeding forearm. Joanna handed her net off to George, who tore a strip off the lemming corpse inside. Once George had his meat, Stanley picked up the net, bringing it around to Brie.

Stanley knocked his shoulder with a fist and pointed at his stomach, asking whether she had eaten. Brie nodded her head. He smiled, as best as he could while singing, and then went off with the net to the other participants.

Pink girl lay down on the ground in a boneless heap, the puffy batting of her jacket torn and spilling out around her. Her boots were thrown off, legs eaten all the way to the bone. With each word that she missed, waifs swarmed around her and took a bite. She shied away weakly from contact, but there was no escape.

Nearby, hair bow girl struggled against being lifted into the air by Mason, beating his back with one tiny fist. Her face was half torn off and her left hand was gone, but she resisted anyways. Mason carried her over to Stanley, who offered up a handful of meat to her. She refused.

They were dangerously close to the end. Stanley gestured with urgency, but she didn’t understand at all, staring at him blankly.

“Eat it or die, you damn fool!” George yelled, breaking from the song.

Three waifs immediately bowled him over, knocking him to the ground. He grunted from the impact, voice muffled by the waifs.

Hair bow girl finally seemed to comprehend, and took the meat from Stanley. She gagged, tears streaming down her face as she retched convulsively. Stanley beamed and gave everyone else a thumbs up.

Now that all the participants who could had eaten, the rest of the song proceeded smoothly, with only a few more bites here and there. At some point, pink girl stopped moving or making any sound, and the waifs dispersed from her body. The order for the lyrics shifted, now with seven singers instead of eight.

“Come moons eight, I’ll be surfeit,” Hannah sang.

“Full even when I’m empty,” hair bow girl whispered.

“Or else I’ll be forever a waif, barred from the horn of plenty,” Joanna concluded.

The moon shuddered in the sky, and then drew back into one piece as the song ended. The skin on Brie’s forearm smoked, and a black circle seared itself into her skin in the shape of a moon. She hissed in pain. Her injuries rapidly scabbed over, scar mass rising and then decreasing. Then her torn-up foot wrenched from under her, disappearing into nothingness. The end of her calf crashed into her newly empty shoe, skin healed over like there had never been a right foot in the first place. She cried out, and then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. Unlike before, no waif came.

Pink girl’s body faded away from the clearing, like it had never been there in the first place. The shredded batting of her jacket remained.

Stanley brought over George’s cane and bent down to help him up, but George refused. He pulled a bloody hand away from where it was clamped around his neck, revealing a large bite where the artery should be. Unlike Brie’s foot, this wound wasn’t survivable.

“See you… all… in hell,” George rasped.

Then his body, too, faded away.

Rosy fingertips of dawn broke out over the clearing, bathing the six survivors in its light. Each remaining participant had their injuries heal over, and a new tattoo appear on their arm, to mark another completed round.

Brie jammed the end of her calf into her shoe, and then staggered off to her car, lurching unsteadily. She gave George’s cane a wide berth. It might have helped, but it felt wrong to take a dead man’s things.

She got back into the car, slumping bonelessly in the seat with a weighty exhale. There, she stayed motionless for a good five minutes, and then leaned over to check her face in the side mirror, pulling a pack of tissues from the glove compartment to wipe things up. Despite the clean skin the mirror showed her, Brie couldn’t help but feel like something was still there, and the tissues weren’t enough to scrub it out.

Driving back without a right foot was more difficult than she anticipated. She had to switch over to her left side for gas and breaks, which she didn’t have any practice with at all, but at least the terror of avoiding a crash kept her from dwelling on the image of waifs tearing flesh off of the girl with the pink jacket. She crept along the road at a snail’s pace, panicking every time she saw another car on the road.

In the end, she got back home at 6 a.m. in the morning. It was erie, creeping back into the house while the birds sang merrily outside and her mom rummaged around in the kitchen, preparing her morning coffee. She didn’t say anything as Brie opened the door, or ask what Brie had been doing late at night. She didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at Brie, even as Brie limped her way into the bathroom and immediately take an hour long shower.

The rest of the day passed like that, completely and totally uneventfully. Her mom left for work. Her dad left for work. At 5 p.m., they came back. By that point, Brie had screwed up enough of her courage to approach them and ask, carefully, whether any of them had noticed her new amputee status.

The result was maddening. They thought she had been like this her whole life. They had never known anything different, and the words choked up in her throat as Brie thought of how she could even explain the ritual to them. Then her mom had to leave for a work call, and her dad told her that it was high time she got used to living with this disability, and that he’d schedule an appointment for her to get fitted for a prosthetic, even though the last thing Brie wanted was to go to the hospital again. Brie stopped talking fairly quickly after that.

The wiki had warned her that any injuries gained would be rewritten into her history before they got healed at the end, but she hadn’t expected that it would be like this. She shut herself into her room to cry in private, where it wouldn’t be seen.

At 7 p.m., a new message came into her account on the wiki.

Hi there! I made a groupchat for everybody doing the devouring song. Do you want to join? Send me your number and I will add you. - Stan

It was the fastest that Brie had ever responded to anything.

Shortly afterwards, her phone was added to the group, where her messaging app immediately blew up with a backlog of notifications. The first thing she saw were all the memes, sent from Mason in a seemingly neverending stream. Then she saw the short comments by Joanna asking when people would arrive on-site and what each person would bring. Most recently, Stanley was trying to find the contact information of Brie and hair bow girl to make sure that they were alright. He’d managed to successfully invite Brie, and thought he had found hair bow girl via the GoFoto account of Kelly Liu, a 12 year old tween who frequently uploaded photos about her quest to become a ballerina with her best friend. The girl in pink appeared in a handful of photos with Kelly, her account deactivated and face left untagged. 

Watching the messages fly in chat was oddly addictive. Here, there were people who remembered that Brie had started yesterday with two good feet. There were people who knew what it was like to run after and kill innocent lemmings while scrambling in the dark. Mason sent a meme about stupid people getting into trouble by showing up naked to a snowstorm, which caused Stanley to rebuke him for disrespecting George and the pink girl’s memory — and something about the cutesy graphics paired with objectively tasteless text caused Brie to snort with laughter, low and mean. He had a point. Brie wiped her eyes and found that she was crying again, but this time, she felt lighter and freer by the end.

Only seven more nights of this to go, spread out over the rest of the month. It was worse than she ever could have imagined, but she wasn’t as alone as she thought. All of the deaths she had witnessed had been — not self inflicted, exactly, but a direct consequence of failing to take everything seriously and play it to the end. If she could tough it out for seven more nights and survive to the end of the end of the ritual, then all her injuries would be healed and she’d have a cure for her pica. The long nightmare of her life might finally come to an end.