we play games with guns (valorant)

chapter 13

Jett gave Yoru a warning shove. "You maniac. You nearly killed Neon. You killed Fade, Raze, Viper, Killjoy; everyone's blood is on your hands." Her voice faded out.

"For three years, I've hated all of your guts. My life went to hell while I was with you all. Working with a bunch of bottom feeders who acted like they knew everything. You were all friends with each other, but God forbid you treat me like a friend." Yoru would enunciate, an expressive sneer aimed right back at Jett.

"What? That's not right.." Vivid flashes of memories. Jett tried to quash them. Yoru was aloof. But that was entirely inside the scope of normal behavior.

He went on and on.

Jett wasn't sure if she should intercept or if she should shoot, or what. This guy was not in the right mind. "Yoru. Ryo Kiritani," she forced through gritted teeth. "You ass. Listen to me."

Yoru paused, sporting that new wild grin.

"No one thought that about you. You belonged with us, dude. You amounted to something because you were a friend to us. I know you're going through stuff. Just let me help you."

Yoru barred the end of the knife with his palm.

Jett exhaled slowly. "'A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead.'"

It was the jailor's turn to appear confused. He glanced sideways at his assailant.

"The End of the Affair. You should read it." Jett allowed a smile.

"Sure. I'll stop by the library."

"I have a copy."

His eyebrow propped. Not in confusion this time. But in delight. "Lovely. I like a good story."

"It means," Jett searched herself for words. "We're going to make things different. The story keeps on going. It can stagnate, it can have troughs and peaks, it can be the most amorphous thing ever created. Yet it never has an ending. Because shit changes."

Yoru's lips downturned. "Yes, I wanted to see change, Jett. That's why you're here. You and me, we catalyze our own stories; we are the means to our own creation and destruction." He swung his arm at his side for a bit. "But this is my time, my show. You're right that it won't end. Not just yet. Not until the game does."

Jett rolled his words inside her head. "You think we deserve to die for a story?" Jett reminded herself every second of the knfie in her hand, and prepared herself mentally for a sudden attack.

"You can die, sure, but what's life if you don't live? And why does it matter the organic origin of the story? You're here, and you're here to write."

"I wish you hadn't stayed. I don't understand why you couldn't have just left."

Poor Jett, Yoru thought. Such a well-meaning person. "I thought I'd get a better life. Unfortunately, I was surrounded by assholes, you guys were like seven different cliques at once, and you still found a way to be bitch-holes."

Jett scuffed her heel on the wood, repositioning herself. "Your better life isn't playing with people's lives," she spat. "Doesn't that seem wrong to you?"

"A story is never simply 'right' or 'wrong'. A story is told from person to person. A good story is told from generation to generation." Yoru grabbed the shaft of the knife and smirked. "You would be inspired just like me if you weren't a weak-hearted philanthropist."

Then he sighed, dropping his hand. "I love stories. Fahrenheit 451, Moby Dick, all those were my selections." When she didn't respond, he went, "Look, since you came here to actually do nothing, you should leave."