Chapter Text
September 2020
“I'll never forget when I first heard the plane went missing.”
A man in his late 40’s sat sprawled out on a vanity chair, holding a glass of red wine in his hand.
“I was devastated, of course! That could have been me!” He tossed his obviously dyed platinum blonde hair to the side before sipping on his wine. “I still get chills just thinking about it.”
Across from the man sat another man, David, who paused writing in his notepad to look up.
“So Francis–”
“Santiago.” The man quickly cut him off with a sharp smile.
“Uh huh. So, Santiago, would you say you were close to any of the victims?”
“Naturally. We were all classmates, in a small school,” he took another sip from his glass. “in the middle of nowhere.”
David nodded and wrote in his pad.
“Do you keep in touch with any of the survivors?”
“God no!” He sat up straighter as David wrote something down. “You know, it's rude to write offensive things about someone while they're talking.”
“I'm just writing down what you're saying.” He looked up. “This is an interview, what did you think I was going to do? Stare at you?”
Santiago’s face turned red, his lip tightened before he opened his mouth to say something–
“Moving on.” David interrupted. “What do you think happened out there?”
“How am I supposed to know, I wasn't there.” He snapped.
“You were a Theater Major?”
“Yes.”
“You were in high school. They had majors in high school?”
“It was a creative arts school. Everyone specialized in something, they just called it majors because they wanted to be different.” He glared at David as he wrote. “Are you mocking me, David?”
“Of course not Francis. Just doing my job… You were supposed to be on the plane. Why weren't you?”
“Because that bastard left me behind!” He shouted before taking a deep breath. “This is over. If you want to annoy someone, I'm sure you can interview someone else of lesser importance. Good day.”
***
In a quaint college town deep in the heart of New Jersey, a man in his mid-30s sat on a wooden patio, nursing a cup of black coffee. The house behind him was a modern two-story residence with a willow tree and a large backyard. Even for a small town, the house wasn’t small, especially for just one person.
Louis Du Lac lived alone. Never married, and no children.
He taught literature at one of the nearby colleges, supporting himself well doing what he h– loved, and he would occasionally, when he had faith in a house's potential, participate in the real estate market.
It was an average Saturday morning in September. The weather was not too cold, nor too hot, and so Louis sat, drinking his coffee, thinking of what he had to do on his “day off.”
Setting down his cup with a soft clink, he walked inside the house, the door creaking slightly as it swung open, and then closed. He didn’t bother locking it—
He walked down to the Laundry room, putting the clothes next to the washing machine in, and taking the clothes out of the dryer and into a basket.
Louis was rarely hungry. A monotonous routine that tended to skip over breakfast resulted in his appetite decreasing over the years… although deep down he knew that wasn't the entire reason.
So instead of sitting down to eat, he turned on the familiar hum of morning news, letting it fill the air as he set up the ironing board.
“—As of 6:07 AM this morning, the investigations into Lily Bradley’s death have concluded. Lily—”
Louis sighed under his breath. He had known Lily for a time, had even considered her a friend in high school before–
She was kind to him when others would not have been… so understanding.
“—blood loss, a wild animal attack. Officials will continue to look into the cause of death further in the following weeks. More on that later.”
The news station suddenly cut to a clip of a man performing on stage. His head snapped up, recognizing the voice immediately.
“Famed Rockstar Lestat De Lioncourt has just been cast in ‘The Prince and the Realms of Atlantis.’ The singer is said to portray the titular character, ‘Prince Augustin.’ He is set to star alongside his wife of two years, daughter of actors Maharet and Mael Reeves, Jesse Reeves.”
Louis' eyes were glued to the TV, feeling like every possible emotion had quickly overcame him. He stared, lost in thought, until he smelled something burning.
“Fuck.”
He quickly put down the iron and rubbed his hand over his face, exhaling sharply. He picked up the pants to examine the burn mark that laid right over the crotch area.
The television abruptly cut to a commercial break, advertising the latest Tide Pen with too much enthusiasm to be real. Louis quickly shut it off, clenching his fists until the blood rushed away.
His phone suddenly made a loud beeping noise as a reminder popped up on the screen: ‘Dinner with -A at 5:00.’
Today was really not his day.
Setting down the ruined pants, Louis grabbed his phone and made his way to the door. He picked up his keys and locked the door, facing away from the porch as he did so.
As he stepped backwards onto the stoop, he practically collided into a man standing directly in his way—on his property.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.” The man said plainly, staring directly into Louis's eyes.
Louis tilted his head, gripping his keys tightly. “No problem. Usually, people don’t stand waiting for the door to open without knocking first.”
The man laughed at that, ignoring the sarcasm and annoyance obvious in Louis' voice.
He wore an obnoxiously bright white button-up, a bag that seemed way too big for his body slung across his chest, and a stack of stapled papers tucked under his arm. ‘Mormon recruitment?’ Louis thought, the man looked a bit too old for that but it was possible. ‘Poll worker? Old student, maybe?’
“My name is David Talbot.” He introduced himself, sticking out the hand that wasn’t clutching the stack of papers under his arm.
He raised his eyebrows, but didn't take his hand. “Sorry, David. I was actually just leaving. I’m not interested in—” he gestured vaguely toward the papers, “whatever you’re selling. Sorry.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, no, I’m not selling anything.”
David had an annoyingly large grin on his face, and seemed way too pushy for nine in the morning. Louis was not doing this right now.
“Listen, David. I don’t know who you are, and honestly? I’m not interested in finding out. I’m on a bit of a tight schedule and I’m not gonna stand here for ten or more minutes trying to get off my porch.” Louis pushed past him, and started walking to his car.
“I know you’ve been letting other people tell your story. People who barely knew you. And I know they’re making a lot of money doing it.”
Louis didn't turn around, but he stopped short, hesitating. David took this as a sign to go on.
“One coffee. That’s all I ask. If you don’t like what I have to say, I promise, I’ll leave you alone.”
“...”
“I’ll wait. Right here. Do what you need to do, and we can talk when you get back.” He quickly added.
Louis glanced at his car and rubbed a hand over his face. Letting out a short breath he turned.
***
“I know what you want to hear.”
David sat at Louis’s kitchen island, watching him unload groceries intently. He sorted through the bags, separating the ingredients he would be using for dinner from the others. He looked at the clock on the stove– 10:53– and then back at David.
He had taken his time, picking up more groceries then he needed. He spent more time than he wanted just standing in the cold meat section. As much as he would have loved to stay out until 7, and then enter through the backyard entrance, he wanted to start dinner earlier than later, and he didn't have the key for the back door. He had hoped that maybe David would get bored and move on with his day, but low and behold when he had gotten back he was still on the stoop where he had left him. He supposed it was his fault, but he planned to kick him out at 11:30 if he hadn't left by then.
“What do I want to hear?” David replied, raising his eyebrows like he already knew Louis was wrong. Pretentious prick.
Louis leaned back on the black marble countertop. “You want to hear some fucked up story. Something to make us look like… I don't know, something out of ‘Lord of the Flies’— savages, insanity from lack of civilization and watching death. But that’s not what happened.” He paused, breathing in sharply. “The truth is our plane crashed. A bunch of my classmates—classmates I was responsible for—died. Then the rest of us scavenged, and starved, and prayed for twenty-two months until we got rescued… End of story.”
“I don’t believe that, neither does the rest of the world… But that’s not what I was going to say.” He took out his computer from his bag, not bothering to open it.
Louis gestured for David to go on, deciding to not continue separating the groceries until David had left. The clock on the stove read 11:00.
“I can guarantee you a seven-figure book advance, right here, right now. We’d write it together, but it’s your name on the cover.”
“No.” Louis laughed under his breath as if he had been expecting him to say that.
“What if I told you the others were already interested?”
The smile vanished from Louis's face instantly.
“Daniel Molloy… he was one of the survivors, right?” David said, confidence obvious in his abrupt posture change.
“He wouldn’t.”
“Oh, but he would.” David paused, finally opening the laptop. He changed already opened tabs to an article, as Louis walked over to the chair next to him. “‘Fiction writer Daniel Molloy to release an autobiography in 2021. Daniel Molloy, best known for his novel, ‘Light Found In Shadows,’ has announced an upcoming memoir detailing his harrowing experience as a plane-crash victim. The book, currently titled ‘The Devil's Minion,’ is set to—”
“Stop.” Louis interrupted, closing his eyes for a second before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.
“Nasty habit.” David grimaced, disgust written all over his face, not trying to hide his judgment. “In the house, too?”
Louis didn’t respond. Instead, he stood up and paced around the kitchen, the cigarette dangling from his lips, puffs of smoke escaping his mouth every few steps.
“I take it you haven’t kept in touch with the others.” David pressed, not as harsh as he had just been.
“Not with the ones that matter, it seems.” Louis sighed.
He had been closer to Daniel, almost more than anyone else. They hadn’t known each other well prior to the crash, but even still Daniel had made an effort to introduce himself. It was the bare minimum, but it had made him laugh– it had made her laugh. They had both lost more than they should have out there, and despite the… complicated feelings toward the others, Louis and Daniel had none for each other. Sure, Daniel had made some idiotic choices out there, but Louis had too. They had both been manipulated, scared, and tired. Anyone would crack under that kind of pressure.
When Daniel moved away, Louis was happy for him. Louis couldn't leave physically, but if Daniel found a way to move on, so could he. They exchanged messages occasionally, but Daniel was not… healthy. He knew he had some problems prior to the crash, it was obvious for the first few weeks. But after, he had thought–
Louis couldn't blame him. On bad nights he himself would go to the liquor store to buy something– anything– to help him forget.
The last time Louis had seen Daniel was at their school reunion five years ago. Louis tried to attend every couple of years, but Daniel hadn’t shown up since the fifteenth. After complete silence on his end, no one had really reached out to him. Louis had heard through an article that Daniel had remarried and had sent a brief congratulatory message, but there had been no answer.
Even still. Daniel wouldn't do this to them, would he?
David interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
“Louis, just consider setting up another time to talk with me. Please. I’m no big wig, I work for the local paper. This could be an opportunity for the both of us.” David leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a piercing whisper. “First it’s Daniel Molloy, then it’s Lestat de Lioncourt, and who knows who else? The kind of money I’m talking about could change your life. You were meant to be an artist, a photographer. You were going to be somebody! I find it hard to believe you don’t want that anymore. Is this really how you thought your life would be? A literature professor at a shitty college, occasionally doubling as a real estate investor just to make bank? Sure, you live… comfortably, but don’t you want the life you deserve? I—”
“I like my life.” Louis shot back. “And if I wanted someone to write my story, it sure as hell wouldn’t be you.”
He looked directly into David's eyes before he turned his gaze pointedly toward the door. David sighed, but began putting away his computer and his papers.
He started to leave before turning back quickly. He held out his hand, and in it, a card for Louis to take.
“Just in case you change your mind.” When Louis stood still, not taking the card, David sighed. “Others will come, you know. You can’t stop the other survivors from taking the deals they’re offered.” .
“Get out of my house David.” Louis said sharply. David stubbornly put the card on the table but walked out of the house. Louis slammed the door shut behind him, the noise vibrating through the house.
He stared at the card David had left behind for a moment, before finalizing his decision.
Quickly he walked past the kitchen, his footsteps echoing as he walked down the stairs into a large, dark basement. He swiped to the flashlight app on his phone, not bothering to turn on the light.
He walked over to an incredibly large encyclopedia. With dust all over the cover, the book looked like it hadn't been touched in years. He bent his knees and pulled the book off the shelf to reveal a small vault-like compartment. Louis’s fingers shook slightly as he turned the dial.
The door swung open, revealing a stack of old notebooks, some weird looking jewelry, and a burner phone.
He grabbed the phone and one of the notebooks with a faded cover labeled ‘LDL Edition.’ Taking a deep breath, he flipped the phone open and dialed the third number on the first page of the notebook list.
The phone rang once, then twice, and then–
“Hello?”
“We need to talk.”
***
“Magnificent, is it not?” Two men stood directly in front of a painting of woodland creatures in a forest, littered with bones.
“It is, indeed.” The man on the left, Armand, replied. His gaze lingered on the piece as he stood slightly behind the other man. “What is it called?”
“‘Our world.’” Came the reply, the voice echoing through the empty gallery.
“Fitting title.” Armand mused.
The man nodded, a soft hum escaping his lips.
“We’ll be adding it to the collection this weekend.” He announced, a small smile on his lips as he took a step back. “One of our guests has already expressed interest.”
A moment of silence stretched between them.
“Maître, I’ll be leaving shortly. Is there anything else?”
“Hm. Oh,” He replied. “Yes. Follow me.”
Armand followed as the man led him into the next room over. The atmosphere shifted as they approached a desk, with a nameplate reading ‘Santino’ on it.
The man– Santino– gestured for Armand to take a seat.
“I was talking to Eric yesterday,” Santino began, leaning back and crossing his arms. “and he mentioned something that caught my attention. Do you know what he said?”
“No, Maître.” Armand responded, his pulse quickening, yet his expression remained unchanged.
Santino hummed thoughtfully, running his finger across the desk, collecting dust and scrutinizing it. “He told me that someone had informed him… after the gallery this weekend, you might attempt to resign. Again.” He paused, slowly looking up at Armand’s tense form for any sort of reaction. “I thought we had moved past this. Do you truly wish to return to who you were before I took you under my wing?”
“I saw an opportunity,” Armand said slowly, carefully choosing his words. “a directorial position. I thought I could help… merge their company with yours.”
“Yes, I’m sure… but we don’t need to merge, so I suppose it’s not necessary.” Santino replied, his tone dismissive.
“Not necessary?” Armand echoed.
“Exactly. So you won’t be resigning.”
“I… won’t.” Armand stated, his voice wavering at the end as if he were questioning but thought better of it before he finished.
“Fantastic! I’m glad we settled that!” Santino exclaimed, placing his chin on his hand, a look of mock contemplation settled on his face. “I mean, if I hadn’t found out, and you put the letter on my desk on Sunday… I probably wouldn’t have known until the next day! You might have actually accidentally resigned.”
Armand felt as though he was going to throw up.
Santino glanced at his watch, then back at Armand. “Look at the time! I suppose we’re finished here for now… though, Armand, I would like to see you in my office first thing tomorrow.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Do you not have something you need to attend to now?”
“Yes, Maître.” His voice shook slightly, out of anger, despair, or panic, Santino did not care enough to wonder.
***
“It’s a story, Harold. Who cares if it’s not fictional? Do you know how many more people would want to read this rather than some stupid make-believe story about sword fighters?” Daniel snapped at his publicist over the phone.
Daniel Molloy was not having a good day.
“People have wanted this story for, like, twenty years! It’s going to be a great fucking read, I don’t care what the tabloids are saying.” he continued, his voice rising as he looked at one of the street signs.
After getting his degree in Journalism, he had been put on the back burner of every newspaper company; paper, and digital. It wasn't even like he had been blacklisted or anything, most of his articles were hits! No good stories for the junkie, or whatever.
Maybe it was his fault… it was probably his fault, but still.
He didn't like writing fiction, he was a journalist. The best he could do in this world was look up a whole bunch of facts about 1500 Venice and sword fighting, and then write a stupid YA novel. Hell for one of his releases he'd even basically written a historically accurate ‘Twilight’ novel.
“No one wants that!” He heard his publicist mutter over the phone.
Memoirs were trending, and Daniel was desperate for cash. Yes the crash fucked him up. No, he didn't think he would be doing this. No, he didn't tell any of the other survivors, and he wasn't planning on it… especially not him.
Of course, they’d find out eventually. But he wouldn’t reveal the real, the actual truth, anyway— No, not the memories that made him physically ill if he thought about them too hard. He’d create a story based on what happened. Based on the story they agreed to tell people if they looked a little too hard.
If he told the others, sure, they might be upset at first, but once the metaphorical (or maybe even literal) dust settled, they’d all be free from the ‘fan theories’. Reddit might even stop speculating about their whole ordeal, and they could live their lives free from the press… well minus Lestat, but he'd probably have fans sobbing over his story anyway, inflating his ego.
He could make the story sound believable. He'd been writing fiction for over ten years, he could do it.
He could imagine everything after, too. The headlines, his books on the front table in every book store, money…
His phone buzzed in his hand, jolting him from his spiraling thoughts. He pulled it from his ear, his publisher still droning on. Alice was calling, because of course she was.
“Hey, listen, my wife’s calling. I’ll call you back later.” He said hastily, not waiting for a response as he accepted the other call.
“Alice, just the person I was about to call. How are the kids?” He asked, forcing a smile that she couldn’t see, hoping the fake tone he was putting on sounded more believable to her ears than to his.
“Daniel.” Her voice was strained, not good. “The phone is going off. The fucking. line. The kids keep waking up when it goes off. I'm about to unplug the damn thing. I only have two hands. Where are you?”
Someone was calling the house phone?
“Who’s calling?”
“How the fuck should I know? Are you kidding me right now?”
“Did you pick it up? Is it the same number?”
“Jesus Christ! Just… we need to talk when you get back.”
He felt like he had been slapped, his train of thought abruptly stopped.
“Is this about—” He licked his lips, now standing in front of his car. “What you said? Before?”
He could hear her sigh loudly over the phone. “You know what I mean, and I’m not going to do this over the phone.”
“Alice—”
“No.” She cut him off. “Goodbye, Daniel. I’ll see you when you get home.”
The line went dead. He took the phone away from his ear and stared at it in his hand for a moment.
Thirty-eight years old. Divorced once, about to be twice, three unsuccessful novels, and one short story to his name.
The memoir could be the way to fix everything. Given, it's just a book, but who is J.K. Rowling if not the author of Harry potter? A transphobic bitch, but also literally no one.
No, but first he would go home and try to fix his marriage. Then he would write.
That was when a loud ringing from his other phone went off.
***
“Have you spoken to Daniel recently?”
“Molloy?” Armand and Louis were seated across from one another at the table in Louis’ dimly lit dining room. Louis clasped his hands together before nodding slowly. “No, you know we haven’t talked in… what is it now? Five years? If my memory serves me right.”
Louis hummed and nodded, before taking a breath.
“A reporter came to my house earlier,” he said, sliding a business card across the table towards Armand. “He claimed he worked for the local paper, but I looked him up. He’s not credited in any bylines— anywhere.”
“Every few years, on a random anniversary, these people come out. They try to talk to us, attempt to get a different angle. There’s no reason to think this is any different.” He smiled lightly and gestured to the meal in between them. “No reason to waste our night, and this perfectly good dinner on a… shockingly naïve reporter.”
“Right… but something he said caught my attention.” He pulled out his phone, and walked over to Armand, holding the device out for him to see an article pulled up. “Didn’t you hear? Danny’s writing a new book.”
Armand’s grip tightened around the phone, his eyes narrowing as he read the headline. “‘Devil’s Minion.’” he muttered.
A bitter laugh escaped Louis’s lips. “Gotta hand it to him, that’s clever–” The doorbell went off before he could continue. “And that would be him.”
“You invited him?”
“We need to know if we can count on him.”
“And if we can’t?”
They looked at each other for a moment, before Louis broke the contact.
“‘Cross that bridge when we get to it.” The doorbell rang again. Armand stared at Louis for a second longer, before following him to the door.
___________________
Outside, Daniel stood contemplating if he should ring the doorbell again. He had received an invitation from Louis. Why would Louis have him standing out here for twenty minutes if he didn’t want to see him?
'Or he could have found out about the book.' The thought sent a shiver down Daniel’s spine. He hadn’t spoken to any of them in an incredibly long time. They could have had a group meeting and decided it was too much effort to keep him around; decided to sneak up and try to murder him with an antler. ‘Ha! Wouldn't that be an ironic way to die.'
Maybe he should have tried to connect more with Louis after he moved. Louis was probably the best one out of them all, maybe he wouldn't be secretly plotting to murder him if he had.
But what did Daniel know? Maybe he wasn't planning to kill him. It was unlikely, but a guy could hope.
He rang the doorbell again. If Louis didn't answer the goddamn door in the next 2 minutes, he was leaving.
His hand was shaking. Maybe from anxiety, maybe because he needed something with a kick. Who knew. Not Daniel.
Fuck he really needed some coke.
Suddenly, the door opened inwards. Daniel found himself face-to-face with Louis, and just behind him stood–
“Armand?”
“Daniel,” Louis started, his posture too composed. “Please come in. We were just about to sit down for dinner.”
“Uh, sure. Okay.” Daniel stepped inside, immediately hit by a wave of nausea.
They ambushed him? Or… maybe the others were in the other room. Maybe Louis was still on his side, and he had been coerced. Armand was behind this. That motherfucker was the one who put this whole thing together. He had found out about the book, and played the same game he had played in ‘00. Daniel at least wouldn't be falling for it this time.
Ignoring where his mind was going, he followed Louis and Armand, who hadn't said anything to him yet, into the room where the table was set for two.
None of the others sat waiting with a knife.
Huh.
Sitting down, Louis grabbed another set for Daniel, before sitting down himself.
They sat there for a moment in silence, both Armand and Louis staring intently at him. He tried to pull their attention away from him, grabbing the spoon in the dish and serving himself to match what was on their plates, but their eyes didn't leave him. Realizing that might not have been the right thing to do, he didn't touch his plate and stared back at them, still feeling incredibly awkward.
So, Daniel did what he did in every uncomfortable situation. He tried to talk his way out of it.
“So, fellas…” He leaned back in his chair, trying to look confident. “What's up?”
Louis wordlessly slid over a printed copy of the article from his phone, the title reading, ‘Daniel Molloy to write his own memoir’.
He breathed in sharply, expected but also not.
“When were you gonna tell us about this?” He avoided Louis' stare.
“I–”
“Were you going to tell any of us, at all?”
“It's not like that. I swear, just hear me out, okay?”
“Drugs, alcohol, sex, exploitation—truly an addict of all,” Armand snapped, barely containing the rage beneath his words, as he spoke to Daniel for the first time since he had arrived. “But attempting to capitalize on our story? To try to expose everything we endured, without even the decency of asking for permission?”
“Hey, listen, man, how many times do I have to tell you I’m working on it?” He shot back defensively. “And I wasn't going to say anything but what we agreed on talking about. If I didn't, that would jeopardize me too.”
“What if you didn’t reach your word count? Made an error in one of the recounts?” Louis interjected, frustration seeping into his own words. “People tend to read in-between the lines, Daniel. You know that better than anyone.”
The atmosphere thickened. Daniel felt the heat rise in his cheeks, a mix of shame, desperation, and anger filling his whole being.
“What don't you guys understand? I'm doing this for all of us!” he laughed in desperation.
Louis crossed his arms, his face cold. “You think people will stop digging if you release the ‘real’ truth? No. These people are opinionated Daniel, it would only serve to motivate them further.”
Louis put his hands on the table sitting up straighter in his chair before continuing.
“I want you to take care of it.”
“You're fucking jok–”
“Handle it, Daniel!” His composure shattered as he slammed his hand down.
Daniel paused, clenching his jaw shut as Louis took a deep breath. Armand just stared at the whole thing like a fucking creep.
“I'll handle it.”
“Then we’re fine. As long as nobody else does anything… there's nothing to worry about.”
They sat in silence again, before Louis picked up his fork, Armand and Daniel following in suit.
“Daniel, are you still living in New York?” Armand asked, staring at him.
Anger replaced by resignation, Daniel chewed mechanically, responding to dull attempts at small talk.
He pretended they were just ordinary high school classmates reconnecting after a few years of no contact.
Maybe that's why he was so good at the job he didn't want.
He pretended to forget a lot.