Rose English knew that their ancestor’s were testing them; it was as clear as the cake boxes in the Crocker's closets and as alarming as the puppet’s ability to rise from the ashes reborn and unscathed.
She felt for her friends, for it was their cries that had alerted her to just how manipulative and premeditated all of their orchestrations had been.
John’s deep-seated hatred towards Betty Crocker made his brand filled home a constant source of emotional agony. While she felt for his plight, truly, she did; it sucked seeing her friend be constantly ruminating at the mouth over one anxiety fueled conspiracy theory after another, part of her resented him over his, well, cushy lifestyle. It was hard not to; out of all of them, he had a house to live in with food in the cupboards that he didn’t have to hunt or replicate on his own accord. And though John was the first and firmest believer of her own theory of their genetic forebear’s plans of them, it was hard for Rose to think that Betty Crocker was the evil mastermind of it all; she left the boy boxes upon boxes of every divine looking confectionary known to man or alien-kind and the guilt of her doubt was the firmest gap between them.
Jade she feels, understands her struggle less; it wasn’t that the girl didn’t believe or disbelieve anyone, she simply did not care. For any of it. She spent her days inventing crude machinery that functioned far better than it had any right to by the laws of regular physics. Every few days she’d set fire to her stuffed guardian, only for the soul-awaiting capsule to reappear randomly some days later. It was her aloof and altogether unenthusiastic nature that bothered soothed Rose’s nerves, and aggravated her to no end; half the time she wondered if the girl considered any of them friends at all, or if she was too far down the well of her own scientific pursuits to think about what good fighting for the last shreds of humanity was for.
And Dave, the poor boy; he seemed the happiest of the most of them. His island, while nearly devoid of food, was beautiful, elegant, and also lacking in any sort of monster at all, a fact that Rose was quietly jealous of. The lack of monsters seemed to balance out the island overwhelming sense of isolation, however, as even with the last of the carapacians, Dave was constantly channeling his loneliness into an unhealthy hero worship of his ancestor. Despite his near-fanatical devotion to his guardian, he had proved to be the least aware of their collective situations and disbelieved nearly every theory that had been thrown at him; as it was, he read his Bro’s books on how to obtain and maintain maximum coolness constantly and concerned himself with practicing their teachings, confident that his ‘training’ would make him the hero of their intended journey. It was naive but admirable, and Rose simply couldn’t let herself destroy the boy’s sense of hope and self-worth, despite her major doubts on Dave’s actual heroing capabilities.
Herself, she supposed, was perhaps the most laughable of them all. She felt as though she had asked for her fate in some bizarrely twisted self-pyrrhic completing philosophy. Surely, it was by her own hands that she continued to bite at her tethers and claw through the mud of her shores with determinable glare and vexation. It had to be, for no matter how her beloathed ancestor had stacked the board, it was her action and inaction that progressed or halted the game. Dave would tell her that it was a gift horse in disguise; these cursed misshapen beasts terrorizing her island, that her mother had left her all of them as a way of pushing her to her full potential. John would tell her that it wasn’t a gift from her mother at all, but a coincidental circumstance, as the island had been Her Betty Crocker’s Wildlife Conservation and Preserve, and that she just happened to be living where the alien fish queen had tossed her proverbial Noah’s Ark. Jade… well. Jade was more than happy to hypothesize what sixteen years of eating alien meat was doing to her body. To her brain. She wondered if the girl’s obsession with her family’s tradition of dissecting things would prove to be something to worry about in future, should there prove to be a future for any of them.
She sighed and ran a hand through her messily chopped hair. She had been in one place for too long, thinking. The only way to survive she had found, was to keep moving.
She hopped off of the carcass she had been harvesting from and scanned the water beyond the shore.
Rose didn’t know why, but looking at it always gave her a pang of what felt like loss. An empty, half remember feeling that was as scribbling static in her brain. Like a word from a dream she no longer remembered.
Pushing the strange, faint feeling away, Rose turned to the trees and took a grating, venom-laced breath.
She had several more fantastical creatures to go, before she’d have slaughtered every pearly white creature on the island. And if her mother, or her mother’s rival had so tenderly flooded the board with pawns to spite her, then she fully intended to wipe the board clean of them all as one final ‘Fuck You’ signed cordially by herself.
She was not a hero like Dave Lalonde, unwavering and true. Nor was she as cold and calculating as Jade Strider, enigmatic and progidaly gifted. And she refused to be as John Crocker, uncollected and afraid.
No, she was Rose English. Her home was a bed of monsters, and she intended to out-claw, out-bite, out-rage that lot of them.
She was Rose English.
She was Leviathan.
And she was hungry.