Miguel de la Cruz
ǝʇɹǝnW ɐl ǝp lǝnƃᴉW
Location: Château de La Lune: Solarium -> Dining Room -> Rec Room ->>> Dining Room
Skills: N/A
For a brief,
brief moment, Miguel had felt in control.
Jeanne was going to figure out for him who had written that note - figure out for him who knew about Bruno. He would get a good amount of evidence in this place, both for ghost hunting purposes and otherwise, and when he got back to California, he’d make enough ad revenue off of the videos that he could move out of his shitty apartment, and get his life back on track. Things had been easier when it wasn’t just his income paying the bills - when he’d had his partner. But if there was anything Miguel was experienced at, it was making the best of a bad situation. He’d turn this idyllic nightmare into Youtube gold.
But the minute stepped out of the solarium and into the dining room, that confidence faded away as quickly as it had come. He didn’t know what to do with himself. His entire strategy so far pinned on waiting for Jeanne to come back with more information - and his other objectives, they needed to wait until the family had gone to bed for the night. He couldn’t openly film in front of them.
The room seemed to stretch out in front of him, the exit into the hallway becoming impossibly far away, the gleaming dining table distorted, as even the chairs seemed to curve into themselves like a funhouse mirror. There was a loud pounding noise in his ears, an incessant drumming that vibrated throughout his body - one that startled him at first, until he realized it was just the noise of his own blood circulating.
His eyes darted to his side, and he nearly jumped, as a grotesque face met him.
”Jesus fucking Christ!”It was just a painting.
An old man and his family.
Miguel stared at the painting a moment longer. One of the people in it was trying to fuck him over, and he didn’t know why.
But if there was one thing he knew, it was genre conventions. He’d seen
plenty of movies about rich white assholes - he’d written papers on a number of them in college. In an estate this grand, there was one place that immediately came to mind that could have some answers for him - one place that any mustache twirling schemer with a taste for caviar wouldn’t be able to help but utilize.
The basement.
”I’m gonna Scooby Doo this shit,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Eventually, Miguel’s explorations brought him to easily the only room in this entire place worth spending time in - a large gaming room, complete with an
air hockey table. There were some others here, and yet
another set of portraits of the family. Who had the time or money to just constantly get paintings done of themselves? Did none of these people know about cameras? If he showed them one, would they be afraid of it?
The bar, though, he hoped was well stocked. Between that and air hockey, he caught a glimpse of how he would have liked to spend his time here - absolutely
annihilating the rest of these people at his favorite sport. Only Luisa had ever been able to beat him, and he was still fairly certain she’d somehow cheated - magnets, maybe.
Rather than go to the bar, however, he went to one of the doors that he spotted, opening it up and hoping that he’d find a way down - there
had to be a ‘down’ in this place, after all. Miguel wasn’t a wine expert, but he’d played enough video games and watched enough movies to know that for whatever reason, rich folks loved to store their wine in a cellar. And what was a cellar if not just part of a basement?
”Bingo. Alright chat, let’s fucking go,” he murmured, still used to talking to himself - still used to filming most moments in his life.
Lawrence, sitting at the bar near Elise, watched as Miguel opened a door near the bar. He cleared his throat. “Uh, where do you think you're going? That's the basement. You do not need to be going there. If you want the library it is through that door. Or the bathroom is there.”
Miguel blinked for a moment, not thinking at all before he opened his mouth to answer.
”Oh it’s fine, I have a permit.” Lawrence could help but to snort. “No you don't. Come over here. Join us for a drink, son.”
”…Can it be a drink over some hockey?” Miguel asked.
”I promise I’ll kick your ass.”Lawrence grinned. “You do realize I grew up in this house. And that table has been here longer than you've been alive right?” He finished his drink in one big gulp, handed the now empty glass to Leon. Leon without any other prompting passed a new glass with whisky stones and scotch back to Lawrence. Lawrence then walked over to the air hockey table and turned it on. “Lets see what you've got kid.”
”I’ll have what he’s having,” Miguel requested. His ordinary go-to drink would have been fireball, but a little bit of mirroring never hurt. Especially since there was as good a chance as any that this man could be involved - that he could have been the one that left the note.
”Thanks, man,” he then added, before fishing in his pockets and pulling out a bit of cash. He’d worked enough service jobs to know better than to not leave a tip.
Leon made the drink again, and pocketed the cash. “Of course, Monsieur. If you want anything else let me know.”
In the corner of the room Lena kept typing away, never bothering to look up from her computer. Even as Lawrence started some weird chant in French. It seemed to be a well rehearsed chant, reminiscent of something football teams do.
“First to five?” He asked.
Miguel grabbed his drink, and took a quick sip of it as he headed over to the air hockey table.
”Damn, that’s good,” he murmured, before setting it aside. He stretched his wrists out, cracked his knuckles, and bounced lightly from side to side, before glancing up at the ceiling.
”This one’s for you, abuela.”Lawrence flicked the puck onto the table, and without much effort knocked it over to Miguel’s side. “Your abuela won’t save you here,” he mocked.
”You don’t believe in ghosts, then?” Miguel hit the puck back across table.
”You’ve never heard something go bump in the night? Or felt someone’s eyes on you when there was no one there? This place is old as balls, you can’t tell me you don’t believe in the supernatural, dude.”This time with the puck on his side Lawrence snapped it back quickly, it bounced off a wall and behind Miguel’s defenses and into the goal. Lawrence grinned. “Nah, ghosts, and all that stuff is just made up. It is all faked anyway.”
He raised an eyebrow.
”If it’s faked, why did your family invite ghost hunters here? Unless you’re giving out awards in bullshit.”“Performance.” Lawrence shrugged. “Honestly, I didn’t nominate you. Not really supposed to say that. But my mom, er, Elenore, does the final deciding. I don’t know what weird metric she uses to decide who to invite.”
Elenore. That was good to know. If she did the final deciding, then maybe she had spent some time looking into him - vetting Jeanne’s recommendation. The handwriting had been neat and precise too. He didn’t want to play into stereotypes, but he didn’t know very many boys personally with neat penmanship.
”Is she pretty type A, your mom?” Miguel hit the puck back across the table.
Lawrence frowned. “Not sure what that means,” he says, sending the puck back at a middling speed.
”That’s rough, buddy,” Miguel narrowly stopped himself from saying something nastier. He hit the puck across the table once more, leaning forward ever so slightly.
”It means she’s a boss bitch in charge - got all the details locked down, knows all the plans, etc etc.”That was a lot of English slang for Lawrence to parse. He got the gist of it though. “Yeah, she’s type A then. She hates when things don’t go her way,” he says. He hits the puck and it ricochets into the goal again. Grinning Lawrence says, “Told you your abuela wasn’t going to help you here.”
He
definitely needed to look into Elenore then. At Lawrence’s taunt, Miguel rolled his eyes, playing it off as merely annoying - even as his stomach tightened, and his heart sped up. He was losing so far, miserably so - and the insults to his abuela? Disrespectful.
”Careful, she’ll haunt your ass,” Miguel warned, picking up the puck and sending it back across the table once more.
“Doubtful. Again, I have lived here my entire life. Not one single sign of a ghost.” Lawrence rolls his eyes a bit. Sending the puck carening back at Miguel. “If ghosts are real, why has it taken so long for anyone to find irrefutable proof?”
”Why has it taken so long for scientists to cure cancer?” Miguel interjected.
”Paranormal investigations take time - and we are just beginning to get the equipment and tools that we need.”“People have been saying ghosts exist for years. Yet no one has really been hurt by one. And the
proof is fuzzy photos with blobs of light. It’s almost worse than people who say Big Foot is real.”
”Big Foot is real,” Miguel argued. He’d hunted Big Foot before. Unsuccessfully, admittedly. But he believed in cryptids just as much as he believed in ghosts. Some people were just closed minded, they couldn’t accept the possibility of the paranormal - couldn’t accept that there was more to the world than what they knew. Even the ocean was barely explored, entire regions of it unmapped - the supernatural was just another frontier to investigate.
“Ugh,” Lawrence huffed. “You’re one of those weirdos. I’m going to enjoy demolishing you in this game.”
”I’m not just one of those weirdos. I’m fucking Miguel de la Muerte,” he smirked.
”And you’re off to a lucky start, yes, but that’s all it is - luck.”“Nope,” he dragged out the ‘o’ and popped the ‘p’. “I told you. I grew up with this baby.” He tapped the air hockey table with his free hand. “You haven’t even scored yet.”
”Because I’m letting you win, duh.”“Sure you are,” Lawrence said. “I’ll believe that when you actually beat me.”
Miguel snapped his wrist, and the puck flew into Lawrence’s goal.
”Mhmm, mhmm, mhmm.”There was a flash of annoyance in Lawrence’s eyes, but he pulled the puck and put it down. “You finally got a point. Good for you,” he said in what was quite possibly the most condescending voice he could muster. He didn’t give the puck a chance to even fully settle before he flicked his hand out and it slid right into the goal.
”You finally got a point, good for you,” Miguel mocked, his voice high pitched - as the next three fucking points went to Lawrence.
”God fucking damn it. Shit. Wanna go again? I’ll put down $50, make it more interesting?”Lawrence laughed. The flare of annoyance is gone. “Sure, $50 is nothing. I look forward to taking your money from you.”
I look forward to you sucking my dick. ”Sure you will,” Miguel muttered, his left eye twitching slightly as he opened up the new round, the puck sliding across the surface.
Lawrence laughed. He batted the puck back with little effort. He looked over at Elise sitting at the bar and winked. “You know,” he says looking back at Miguel and the game. “The women this time are attractive.”
Elise looked over at the two of them and gave a slight smile. "Thank you for the compliment."
”Jesus, man,” Miguel tried not to gag. Lawrence was fucking
ancient. And even then, he didn’t like the vibe. It felt gross, and a bit objectifying.
”Keep it in your pants. I’m pretty sure you’re almost out of Viagra anyways.” He sent the puck back.
Lawrence grinned, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “You just can’t get any of them to pay attention to you huh?” He flicked the puck back, fast, it ricocheted twice but Miguel would be able to stop it from going into his goal.
Miguel hated that smile. It sent a shiver down his spine. Lawrence would probably hunt him for sport if he could. He’d need to check and see if there were any suspicious hunting rifles around the estate.
”I’m not trying to.” He took a beat, before firing off another shot, sending the puck back into motion.
“What, are you gay?” It was a slight pause that made Lawrence miss the puck as it went into his goal. He didn’t wait long to put it back into play.
Miguel’s eyes widened. He wasn’t out. He had wanted to be. But it hadn’t - but
they hadn’t worked out. And the courage he’d had then was long since gone. He hadn’t felt ready to date anyone again, so what was the point in coming out?
”No!” he protested.
”I… I just got out of a long term relationship, okay? And I’m not a fucking creep.” A little bit of the wind in Lawrence’s sails went out. He seemed to shift a little. He nodded. “Yeah, that’s rough. Also, not a creep. I just know what I want.” He brushed off the last part of what Miguel said.
”Sure, man. As long as you treat them like people.” Miguel was unconvinced though - and more than a little apprehensive, more than a little on edge. Between this and the Bruno thing… he was hoping he’d be able to find some gummies somewhere on this island. His focus was shaken, his mind replaying that question on repeat, and he failed to block the next three shots - another three points for Lawrence.
Lawrence didn’t seem to take any of the criticism. He wasn’t even phased by the implications of it. However, he was whooping and hollering as he got the third shot. In the corner of the room Lena’s music was turned up. Even through the headphones the music could be heard at the air hockey table, it sounded like maybe EDM.
“You came in acting like you were hot shit.” Lawrence snorted. “A couple lucky shots doesn’t make you anything,” he sneered.
Miguel’s eye twitched again. He had one point - Lawrence had three. The game wasn’t over yet, but it wasn’t looking good. And he did
not want to lose to this asshole. Not at all. He needed to win. Miguel always needed to win. But now more than ever before. He took a deep breath, centering himself, before he shot the puck off across the table, praying to god he’d be able to go
Uno Reverse, Bitch and land his shot - that he’d land the next
four shots.
The puck slipped past Lawrence and tumbled into the goal. “Three to two.” He grinned. “I doubt you'll do much better. Pure luck.” He dropped the puck and with lightning speed flicked the puck to Miguel’s side.
”I don’t need luck,” Miguel argued with a smirk.
”I’ve got fucking destiny on my side, man,” he boasted. He shot his hand forward, hitting his paddle against the puck and redirecting it - it raced across the table, and just like before, shot into Lawrence’s goal.
”Oh look, we’re tied! Hmm, now how did that happen? Must have been the wind, right?” Lawrence sneered. “Tied doesn't mean you've won yet.” He placed the puck back on the table and paused for a moment with it trapped under his paddle. Before sliding it and the puck hit the back wall and then bounced off of Miguel’s paddle. “Not so tied anymore. Just one more point and I win.”
”Proud of you, your math skills are really coming along, champ.” Miguel picked up the puck, and placed it back on the table. He could do this.
He could do this. This was the moment in the movie where the underdog triumphed, where against all odds he would score the next four points, locking Lawrence out from a victory, and taking his money as well. Something was going to go right today.
It did not go right. Lawrence hit the puck hard and it slid right past Miguel’s defenses into his goal. “I win.” He laughs and starts to reach for the power button.
”Fuck me!” Miguel groaned, before reaching into his wallet and taking out more of his cash - an even hundred.
”One more match. $100. You in, man?”Lawrence's face told a story of how grossed out he was by the prospect of what Miguel had shouted.
“Double or nothing, interesting. Alright. But first another drink.” Lawrence downed the drink and waved for Leon. Leon came over, taking the dirty glass and handed him a fresh one. He took a quick sip and then stood waiting for Miguel to start the game.
Miguel’s own drink had been practically forgotten. He didn’t let go of the paddle, treating this game with all of the seriousness of a professional athlete. And at the nasty expression that slid across Lawrence’s face like a turd, any possible doubt as to what sort of person this man was faded away. His ass needed to be beaten. People like him were the reason - were the reason that - that….
He shook the thoughts off. Thinking about it right now wouldn’t do him any good. He needed to focus.
”Let’s fucking goooooo!!!” Miguel cheered, as he opened up the game, the puck ricocheting back and forth before sailing smoothly into Lawrence’s goal.
”Told you abuela is looking out for me!”“Fate, luck and ghosts are all stories we tell children to think they might become rich or famous,” Lawrence said. His tone made it clear he hated it all. “It’s a crutch.” He pulled the puck from the deposit. His movements had become a bit more sloppy. The alcohol had started to mess with Lawrence’s hand eye coordination. He flicked the puck and it lazily crossed the table.
”A crutch like your trust fund?” Miguel countered. He didn’t know for sure if Lawrence had one. He seemed the type though - the type that never really had to work a day in his life, subsisting off of his mother’s wealth and influence. The puck drifted towards him, and Miguel shot it back across the table, scoring yet another point. It was two to nil. He grinned.
Lawrence huffed. “I worked for my money. My inheritance has little to do with anything. I am famous here. More than you in your little slice of the world. My own name. Me. Not my family.” He went on the attack again, and in a haphazard manner. The puck bounced around hitting Miguel’s paddle.
”Sure, Jan,” Miguel dismissed with an eye roll. The alcohol was clearly getting to Lawrence, but Miguel didn’t care - a win was going to be a win. He blocked with his paddle, sending the puck flying back over to Lawrence, and sunk in yet
another point. He bounced up and down briefly, almost like the idle animation in a fighting game.
”Ooof! Yikes! Mister Big Name isn’t doing so hot, huh? Three to nothing? That’s fucking embarrassing.”Lawrence tried to grab the puck and sink it while Miguel was celebrating. But he fumbled it. “I already won two other games. This is just for the bet now.” The puck sped across the table.
”I already told you. I was holding back, dude. Getting you to let your guard down so I could hustle your ass,” Miguel lied. The confidence rush was exhilarating, as they were truly in his court now - another strike of his paddle sent the puck ricocheting back and forth, almost going into Miguel’s own goal, before he managed to redirect it across the table, scoring himself yet another point.
”One more and I win it all, baby.”Lawrence was breathing hard, his face was getting red. He didn't say anything. He pulled the puck and quickly sent it flying toward Miguel’s goal.
He blocked it. Narrowly. Migul could barely believe his eyes as he saw the puck bounce off of his paddle at the last possible second, flying back and forth from side to side across the field, before shooting into Lawrence’s goal. He’d done it. He’d fucking won.
”YES! GRACIAS, ABUELA!!!” Miguel ran fucking
laps around the air hockey table.
”I fucking won let’s GOOOOOOOO!!!”Lawrence yanked the plug for the table out so it turned off. Then he pulled out some euros out of his wallet and put it on the table.
“I'm sure your grandmother is so proud of you,” he said sneering. He picked up his glass and walked back to the bar downing the drink. “Another.” He told Leon, who complied.
Miguel paused in his Fortnite victory dance to snatch the money off of the table, putting it in his pockets.
”I wish I could say the same about yours!” he shouted at Lawrence, giving him the middle finger as his back was turned.
“You know shit about my grandparents.” Lawrence snapped. He was already drinking his new glass of scotch.
”I know they had to be pretty ugly to have a grandson like you.”“You don't know shit.” He snapped. He stood, wobbling a little. “You’re an idiot. Believing in things that are obviously fake. Americans.” He then said a slew of stuff in French.
”I’m fucking Mexican, you dumbass piece of shit,” Miguel shot back. He didn’t speak French, but he knew the cadence of a slur when he heard one. He wanted nothing more than to punch him - than to drive his fist as hard as he could into Lawrence’s stupid nose.
Later.
”See you at dinner, Jacques,” Miguel called out. He hadn’t caught his name. Jacques seemed French enough, though. And then with what self control he could muster, he left - left to go get changed for dinner, taking steadying breaths as he did.
Lawrence flipped the bird as Miguel left the room and drank from his glass. Only to be told he should be cut off by the woman he had been flirting with before the idiot had shown up.
Miguel strode into the dining room on time, having taken a moment to go back up to his room and change his clothes. He hadn't really known what to wear, hadn't really known what to pack when preparing for this trip, and he'd spent a lot of time on Pinterest trying to figure it all out.
What he had ended up settling on was a pair of white pants and vans, and a light green button-up shirt, the first four or so buttons undone as to show a tasteful amount of chest hair. It was one of his nicer outfits - and one of the only ones that couldn't be considered some form of Indiana Jones cosplay.
His stomach growled.
"Jesus, I am so fucking ready to eat," he murmured, wondering what the La Lunes would be serving them to eat. He didn't remember any mentions of a dinner menu. He was craving pizza and wings, though.
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