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clairyclue · 4 months

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ride the cyclone fic?

the dead crave the earth, more than anything. the saint cassian choir don’t feel dead. not yet. maybe because karnak won’t let them feel that sweet relief yet, so instead of their bones resting like they should, they are tormented. pulled between two worlds, both of which they do not belong.

ocean was the first to realize her death was upon her. and maybe she was the most terrified. no one else felt the loss the way she did—no one mourned their own lives as much as she did. no one felt the anger the way ocean did. her voice has no claim here, not when that stupid fucking robot can override her decisions. no one has EVER done that before. no one has dared. when she felt the ride car veering off the track, her heart beating twenty thousand kilometers per millisecond, enough to power the uranium mines for millennia, she felt her life’s purpose being ripped from her. what use was it to be written off as a “would-be” valedictorian at her funeral, a page in the graduation program and a commemorative bush planted outside the chapel in her honor if she never got to taste the sweet cake of victory. she wanted her cake and to watch it too. she never got EITHER. it was unfair.

noel gruber sometimes craved death, if you were to ask his bedroom ceiling, of which knew all of his deepest secrets. he did not want to die. but he wanted to be anything other, anything besides this life. he wanted to be reborn and emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, to shed this life and its miseries once and for all. he didn’t realize the roller coaster had derailed until it was too late. he wishes he could say he went down with a disturbed smile. a coy little smirk no one but him—and maybe mischa—would see. he wishes he could tell you his screams of terror were intermingled with screams of satisfaction, of fulfillment, of excitement. if he told you these things, he would be lying. and it’s that moment that teaches him the weight finality holds on all mortals and that his morbid musings were foolish.

every teenager thinks about death—right? and if she’s wrong she’ll apologize. constance aches for any choice other than uranium. the thought of dying in this town chokes her airways and makes her insides twist. this town chokes and suffocates and smothers the life out of her eyes. parties she never enjoys, dances that aren’t fun, best friends who don’t give you much choice in your own life. no one knows her name. they just know her squeaks of ‘sorry!’ directed their way at some point in their schooling career. when constance feels the car shiver, shake, and groan off the track, her life flashes before her eyes. and she’s never seen anything more wonderful in her goddamn life. she squeezes oceans hand, and screams with delight that the life she’s leaving behind was fucking FUN, and that if anything the way she dies mirrors that. it’s not beverly hills. it’s not rich. she’s not popular. but when she really looks at it from a birds eye view—it was everything she could have hoped for.

mischa is never scared. he wasn’t scared when his mother died. he wasn’t scared when his adoptive parents looked at him in horror when he arrived, older than they hoped and rugged with burdens heavier than they wanted to know of. he’s not scared when he fights people in the school hallways, when his phone is confiscated for the umpteenth time, when he’s sentenced to joining the choir as punishment by mr. whatever-the-fuck and forced under the rule of the five-foot-nothing dictator. and he’s definitely not scared now. he’s not scared for talia. he’s not scared about who’s going to tell her that he’s dead he’s not scared about meeting his mother again, maybe, face to face. he’s NOT SCARED. he’s not scared when noel gropes for any part of him to hold onto—he’s not scared when he grips him back—he’s never been scared. he’s not scared when death looks him in the face—and LAUGHS.

there was a time ricky potts had wanted to speak. years worth of words cluttered his mind, sentences clogging his throat. he wanted so desperately to try and blend in with the kids around him. he never got his chance. not as long as he had lived. (in death, though, that’s something entirely else.) he was uranium’s most imaginative boy. the musings of his own death had crossed his mind, sometimes. he hoped maybe it would be COOL. maybe he would die in a blaze of lightening, revealing the secrets of the earth and beyond just before his final exhale. he’s not thinking about his death when ocean shepherds him into the ride seat. he wonders why she even bothers—he can’t sing. he’s not very interesting. she had to argue with the carnie running the cyclone for twenty minutes just to get him onto this stupid thing. he’s thinking about the girl beside him—she mumbles to herself, and laughs, and he tries to imagine whatever is going through her mind. he spends the lift thinking about how much better zolar woukd make roller coasters—but of course, cats with advanced technology and intergalactic wars dont fool themselves with such trifles. they have better technology than the human mind can comprehend. obviously. he’s halfway through imagining what superior technology zolarians would amuse themselves with when the car lurches itself off the track and he’s almost pelted off the side. the screams of the other choir members haunt his ears. he’s eerily silent. he wonders what HIS screams would sound like.

jane doe… jane doe was not terrified, as far as anyone could tell you. she was not sad. angry. happy. she can’t tell you how she felt, either. the choir tries, they really do, to remember her. but the edges of their memories get fuzzy and they keep circling back to MAYBE. her chest feels empty when she tries to decide if she would be scared. she’s not even sure if she knows what that feels like. (she does. she feels lung squeezing, terrifying fear every time a hand grazes her neck. when she thinks about the afterlife without her soul, living the rest of eternity alone and with a deaf, suffocating emptiness in her chest where her heart should be beating.) penny lamb, however… she is a whole new story. penny did not know the boy sitting beside her. his name was, perhaps, ricardo? that sounds close enough for her. her brother is somewhere in the crowd—six people to a car, and he didn’t want to go ANYWAY—so she had shuffled in beside the kid who never talked and braced to be whipped around. it was fun…as fun as rollercoasters can get, when your guys aren’t being squelched around inside your rib cage. she wonders if it has lasting effects on health. she’s never been to a fair before, much less on a rollercoaster. she snorts to herself—she knows how to grow weed, but not what a rollercoaster is like. ryan shoots her an odd look. nothing else comes of it. she assumes that the shaking, shivering, creaking of the roller coaster is just part of the ride. it jostled her guts, worse than ever, but she grits her molars. penny lamb is no wimp. but as the sink farther to the ground, she starts to think that this isn’t part of the ride anymore. the final fun fact that crosses her mind, before her identity bleeds into the ground with her arteries: human minds can have a few seconds of consciousness when severed from the body. she heard the anguish of the street. everything is a hazy blur, watercolor of vomit, sparkles and garbled speech and sirens.

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