((Katarina Konipaski continued from Get Ganked))
Weary and sore, Katarina strode lazily across the grass of the central park. Not too deep, naturally. Never too deep, too far away from cover and escape. But deep enough. The soft earth was a blessing to her aching feet, the sight and smell of grass and sunlight poultice for her ravaged nerves.
Maybe it wasn't the best place, all told. It was open and exposed, though there still was cover to be found. The attic of a house in the outskirts of the town would be a true hiding spot, if she wanted simply not to be found. Of course, that's what everybody else would think. Only a fool, then, would look for repose in the last patch of blessed grass on death island, and a fool wouldn't be so difficult to kill.
Smiling and she slumped against a tree, nearly falling as her legs folded away beneath her. A leafy canopy stretched out above her. Shrubs and smaller trees adorned the portion of field around her. Eight left at the very most. More probably five, or even four. When did they herd them all together? It didn't matter so much, only that she let the time tick out in safety. She'd done her bit. Let the others tears each other apart.
She yawned long and low, stretching her jaw until tears watered her eyes, and then snapped her teeth together. Lazily she searched through her bag, though calling it a search would be charitable with only a knife, a box, and a couple bottles to rifle through, and snapped open the heavy black container. A fresh belt of ammunition for the monstrosity that roared so loud she wondered if she'd ever hear properly again. It slid home with a much more muted click.
The laborious preparation of preparing a superweapon complete, she huddled in against the hollow of the tree, the gun nestled in the crook of her body, rapier clenched tightly in one hand, until gradually the tightness in her muscles ebbed, her eyelids fell, and sleep overcame her.
Tears in the Rain
Time to die.
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Rattlesnake
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NotAFlyingToy
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((Hansel Williams, Unless you were Maureen O'Hara.))
Sometimes, the world just handed you a gift. Even if that gift was served cold.
Hansel found her - KK - in the park, mere meters away from where he had sat and reminisced - remembered - found a way to go back and discover a time that wasn't about death and violence. It was suiting, then, that he'd discover his biggest threat - the biggest rival he was to have here, bigger than Theo, Joe, or Tyler could ever be - sleeping in the midst of his path.
His grip tightened on the FAMAS as he froze for a few moments, watching her sleep. She seemed less threatening in sleep, cradling a big gun, the rest of her body obscured by the wooden cover she utilized. He found himself somewhat unimpressed with her - this is the girl that had chased him through kill rankings, rivalling his own count? This was her, a whisp of a girl, quiet and smooth-faced in sleep?
He couldn't believe it.
It was impossibly true.
Not wanting to miss, not letting any of this fall to chance, Hansel approached, flicking off the safety of his newly reclaimed gun, a looming shadow.
Extinguishing light.
Sometimes, the world just handed you a gift. Even if that gift was served cold.
Hansel found her - KK - in the park, mere meters away from where he had sat and reminisced - remembered - found a way to go back and discover a time that wasn't about death and violence. It was suiting, then, that he'd discover his biggest threat - the biggest rival he was to have here, bigger than Theo, Joe, or Tyler could ever be - sleeping in the midst of his path.
His grip tightened on the FAMAS as he froze for a few moments, watching her sleep. She seemed less threatening in sleep, cradling a big gun, the rest of her body obscured by the wooden cover she utilized. He found himself somewhat unimpressed with her - this is the girl that had chased him through kill rankings, rivalling his own count? This was her, a whisp of a girl, quiet and smooth-faced in sleep?
He couldn't believe it.
It was impossibly true.
Not wanting to miss, not letting any of this fall to chance, Hansel approached, flicking off the safety of his newly reclaimed gun, a looming shadow.
Extinguishing light.
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Rattlesnake
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For sound or smell or some arcane dangersense or even simple paranoia, she skipped from sleep like a stone off the formless body of a river. From that damnable oblivion of mind, ephemeral as it was, and routine, and cure for the aches of her body and for the dull fire of fatigue.
But he was there, and in the moment it seemed there was no distinction between nightmare and reality.
He loomed above her. Helpless, leaden-limbed, scorching away the fog of drowsiness, she looked up at Hansel, the capital-H He because if He was not the gatekeeper for the formless abyss that waited beyond life, who was? It was the end, her mind could only think, and work to etch every detail into her brain for perfect recollection. But for what purpose? she madly though, and almost laughed and smiled in fear.
In in instant she'd fallen from peaceful repose into alertness. In the space of another, she flung herself aside, rolling on the thickness of drowse and kevlar that encased her, diving into thoughts of cover and flanking and muzzle blasts. The abyss yawned wide behind her, so wide as to be almost inescapable, all in the little peephole on the end of the menacing black metal in His hands. It was gazing, searching, readying itself. But if it was to gaze at her, she was going to gaze right back.
She turned and panted and rolled again, sweeping Ami's massive weapon along behind the old, proud tree. The belt of ammunition was fresh and long and ready. A gift from her past self to her present, that her future self could hope to exist.
Another gift, from the present: she fired.
But he was there, and in the moment it seemed there was no distinction between nightmare and reality.
He loomed above her. Helpless, leaden-limbed, scorching away the fog of drowsiness, she looked up at Hansel, the capital-H He because if He was not the gatekeeper for the formless abyss that waited beyond life, who was? It was the end, her mind could only think, and work to etch every detail into her brain for perfect recollection. But for what purpose? she madly though, and almost laughed and smiled in fear.
In in instant she'd fallen from peaceful repose into alertness. In the space of another, she flung herself aside, rolling on the thickness of drowse and kevlar that encased her, diving into thoughts of cover and flanking and muzzle blasts. The abyss yawned wide behind her, so wide as to be almost inescapable, all in the little peephole on the end of the menacing black metal in His hands. It was gazing, searching, readying itself. But if it was to gaze at her, she was going to gaze right back.
She turned and panted and rolled again, sweeping Ami's massive weapon along behind the old, proud tree. The belt of ammunition was fresh and long and ready. A gift from her past self to her present, that her future self could hope to exist.
Another gift, from the present: she fired.
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NotAFlyingToy
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Bullets piercing flesh was a sound and feeling well-known to him, in the many aches and pains and wounds he'd succumbed to on the island. He knew immediately that she hadn't hit him, and was capable, confident enough, to return fire. The shrubs and trees of the park provided ample enough cover as he immediately fell back, ducking behind an oak as bullets pierced it, splintering into the thick trunk as he dropped to a knee.
The FAMAS in his hands felt familiar, soothing, as it reported back, shredding leaves and grass with tiny explosions, starlight in mid-day. He grit his teeth at his own stupidity, his own foolishness, for not firing when she was motionless and asleep.
It was a lesson that he hadn't yet learned, evidently, but part of him knew that this moment - here, now - would've been wasted without a battle.
KK and Hansel were destined to struggle, and equally destined to die.
He squeezed off another three round burst, face red and sweaty, obscured by his fedora, mixing in a little prayer with the squeezing of the trigger.
The FAMAS in his hands felt familiar, soothing, as it reported back, shredding leaves and grass with tiny explosions, starlight in mid-day. He grit his teeth at his own stupidity, his own foolishness, for not firing when she was motionless and asleep.
It was a lesson that he hadn't yet learned, evidently, but part of him knew that this moment - here, now - would've been wasted without a battle.
KK and Hansel were destined to struggle, and equally destined to die.
He squeezed off another three round burst, face red and sweaty, obscured by his fedora, mixing in a little prayer with the squeezing of the trigger.
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Rattlesnake
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Katarina cursed as Hansel slipped through the arc of her fire, untouched by no great miracle. He reeled back with a vengeance, seizing his shattered element of surprise and kicking it right back at her face. His weapon produced its own movement for the cacophonous symphony, a composition of fire and fury and splashes of dirt and bark against her cheeks.
Terror bucked through her fingers like frothing rage, but there was no place for vengeance now because this was nothing less than war. The penultimate and deciding battle of it. The stakes, existence itself. Winner take the entire universe, because what was anything if you weren't there to behold it? And there was no doubt, not a single iota of it, that whoever walked or limped or even crawled away faced only one last formality before their goal. The back of the competition would be broken, with only bits to slice and scavenge away remaining.
She tried to steady herself, decided it wasn't much good. But she could mitigate the spread a bit, lower her face near the dorsal surface of the firebreathing monstrosity and sight down it as best she could.
But as she skimmed the surface of Hansel's cover with death held beneath her finger, Hansel slid out slick and smooth as a shadow and fired back again. A hornet buzz rippled inches from her face this time. Lead thudded into the ground around her. She felt a great stinging in her back.
With a gasp she flinched and sent a wild burst into the empty sky. She pulled herself in - bleeding? Dying? No, she realized, because the vest had done its job. A point for him, but she had dozens more to make. Still she shrunk from the bite, only barely peeked around and poked the barrel out. She swung it to and fro as she fired, casting a net like a trawler as the belt of ammunition consumed itself with alarming efficiency.
Only when the odor of oil and fire smothered the sour pungency of classmates long departed did she cease her frantic assault, nursing a knot in her chest, listening with her tattered eardrums for a report or a gurgle or a groan in answer. Anything to tell her from behind her wooden bulwark if she'd hit her mark or fallen completely astray.
Terror bucked through her fingers like frothing rage, but there was no place for vengeance now because this was nothing less than war. The penultimate and deciding battle of it. The stakes, existence itself. Winner take the entire universe, because what was anything if you weren't there to behold it? And there was no doubt, not a single iota of it, that whoever walked or limped or even crawled away faced only one last formality before their goal. The back of the competition would be broken, with only bits to slice and scavenge away remaining.
She tried to steady herself, decided it wasn't much good. But she could mitigate the spread a bit, lower her face near the dorsal surface of the firebreathing monstrosity and sight down it as best she could.
But as she skimmed the surface of Hansel's cover with death held beneath her finger, Hansel slid out slick and smooth as a shadow and fired back again. A hornet buzz rippled inches from her face this time. Lead thudded into the ground around her. She felt a great stinging in her back.
With a gasp she flinched and sent a wild burst into the empty sky. She pulled herself in - bleeding? Dying? No, she realized, because the vest had done its job. A point for him, but she had dozens more to make. Still she shrunk from the bite, only barely peeked around and poked the barrel out. She swung it to and fro as she fired, casting a net like a trawler as the belt of ammunition consumed itself with alarming efficiency.
Only when the odor of oil and fire smothered the sour pungency of classmates long departed did she cease her frantic assault, nursing a knot in her chest, listening with her tattered eardrums for a report or a gurgle or a groan in answer. Anything to tell her from behind her wooden bulwark if she'd hit her mark or fallen completely astray.
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NotAFlyingToy
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Normal encounters, average fights, Hansel would find time stretch to accommodate both parties, a combination of adrenaline and instinct mixing to create a cocktail of havoc on time and space. Distances were longer, moments were eons.
Here, he found no such comfort. Here, now, the bullets flew as bullets should - straight, fast, quick. He didn't pause to celebrate triumph as he saw one of his shots hit home - merely continued his assault.
And then she began to lay down an impressive amount of ammunition, chewing through it as it shredded through the foliage. He weathered the storm, withdrawing his limbs into himself and curling his face into his knees, hands finding their way to his ears. Through the sounds - roar of gunfire, splintering of wood, cracking of bark and foliage like human bones - he felt the sweat roll down his cheeks, the shaking of his own fingers as the fever made itself known once again.
He waited, curled, coiled, ready to spring.
The second the cacophony ceased, the string quartet of promises and deliverance of violence, Hansel leaped from cover.
His pace was a brisk walk as he strafed, firing the FAMAS in round bursts at the cover KK was behind, firing until the gun clicked to empty. He released it, smoothly drawing the Winchester from his pack, and continued, advancing, keeping her in cover, counting on the fear to seize her, the threat to keep her down, out of sight.
Hansel knew he had the advantage at close range - he was bigger, stronger.
He had to put her down.
Here, he found no such comfort. Here, now, the bullets flew as bullets should - straight, fast, quick. He didn't pause to celebrate triumph as he saw one of his shots hit home - merely continued his assault.
And then she began to lay down an impressive amount of ammunition, chewing through it as it shredded through the foliage. He weathered the storm, withdrawing his limbs into himself and curling his face into his knees, hands finding their way to his ears. Through the sounds - roar of gunfire, splintering of wood, cracking of bark and foliage like human bones - he felt the sweat roll down his cheeks, the shaking of his own fingers as the fever made itself known once again.
He waited, curled, coiled, ready to spring.
The second the cacophony ceased, the string quartet of promises and deliverance of violence, Hansel leaped from cover.
His pace was a brisk walk as he strafed, firing the FAMAS in round bursts at the cover KK was behind, firing until the gun clicked to empty. He released it, smoothly drawing the Winchester from his pack, and continued, advancing, keeping her in cover, counting on the fear to seize her, the threat to keep her down, out of sight.
Hansel knew he had the advantage at close range - he was bigger, stronger.
He had to put her down.
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Rattlesnake
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She'd missed.
Missed, missed, missed. Or so she thought, and so lay the limits of her hope, because there was nothing worth risking on that gamble. That Hansel was struck and bleeding and dying hours hence. And he closed in, firing, letting off another burst each time she thought she might put a word in edgewise.
She was crying, she realized, and she'd known nothing like the mortal terror of being trapped. The belt was almost spent, the gun barrel smoky hot. But it would still work. You needed one good shot from something like that. One good shot to bring a man down. And she'd do it now.
...Now.
...now?
She'd never been a brave person. She liked her outs. Cherished them all, real or imagined. A window to jump from. A corridor to turn down. A closely-held statistic to turn aside any blow of pathos.
She almost screamed at herself. Hansel was bigger than her, and stronger. Faster? Blood burned her cheeks like coals, throbbed in the wreck of her face. Ami the mortician's daughter. Katarina, the... killer? Runner? Caretaker of the esteemed Mr. Paws? Every inch of her body railed in full response mode, but that was all wrong. It was all so deeply personal. Just like life, just like everything. If you set your path on not losing, you'd never ever win. Finn. Matt. The audacity of her response. Her ammunition lay around the other side of the tree, and her spare knife and the sword. That didn't matter. There was no victory unless she seized it.
The gun rattled against her boot as she kicked it out to the side as her distraction, buying her time to dart around and scoop up the keen-edged blade. Her toes dug divots in the earth, auburn hair streaming behind her like a warbanner as she brought the fight to Hansel.
Missed, missed, missed. Or so she thought, and so lay the limits of her hope, because there was nothing worth risking on that gamble. That Hansel was struck and bleeding and dying hours hence. And he closed in, firing, letting off another burst each time she thought she might put a word in edgewise.
She was crying, she realized, and she'd known nothing like the mortal terror of being trapped. The belt was almost spent, the gun barrel smoky hot. But it would still work. You needed one good shot from something like that. One good shot to bring a man down. And she'd do it now.
...Now.
...now?
She'd never been a brave person. She liked her outs. Cherished them all, real or imagined. A window to jump from. A corridor to turn down. A closely-held statistic to turn aside any blow of pathos.
She almost screamed at herself. Hansel was bigger than her, and stronger. Faster? Blood burned her cheeks like coals, throbbed in the wreck of her face. Ami the mortician's daughter. Katarina, the... killer? Runner? Caretaker of the esteemed Mr. Paws? Every inch of her body railed in full response mode, but that was all wrong. It was all so deeply personal. Just like life, just like everything. If you set your path on not losing, you'd never ever win. Finn. Matt. The audacity of her response. Her ammunition lay around the other side of the tree, and her spare knife and the sword. That didn't matter. There was no victory unless she seized it.
The gun rattled against her boot as she kicked it out to the side as her distraction, buying her time to dart around and scoop up the keen-edged blade. Her toes dug divots in the earth, auburn hair streaming behind her like a warbanner as she brought the fight to Hansel.
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NotAFlyingToy
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He hadn't expected her to advance, but the surprise was one that came momentarily, barely enough to give pause. If KK wanted to speed her death, then Hansel wasn't one to argue with it. The sword in her hand was a threat, but he was confident, sure.
They met on open ground, and then the adrenaline, the time slowing, the distance lengthening - then it kicked in, a headache pulsing behind his right eyebrow, sweat pooling at his throat. He was aware of the taste of burnt wood and shell casings, of dew and bird shit clinging stubbornly over the scents and tastes of war. He smelled his own blood, pooling in his mouth through the hole in his face, dripping freely from the gauze at his left hand.
They met on open ground, and he was the first to strike.
As she moved in with the rapier, Hansel shifted the gun to the side, slamming the stock of the rifle into the sword, the muffled clang and thud of wood and steel meeting a satisfying, inspiring sound. Following through, he slammed the butt of the gun into her arm, pushing the sword well and away as he tried to sight her head with the unwieldy, long stock of the Winchester.
He pulled the trigger, knowing that this wasn't the strike to end it, but a bridge to the ending, the beginning of the end. As the bullet left the barrel, he was acutely aware of his body failing, wounds rebelling, a burning sensation crawling over his skin.
But he needed to finish it.
If anything, he needed to finish this.
They met on open ground, and then the adrenaline, the time slowing, the distance lengthening - then it kicked in, a headache pulsing behind his right eyebrow, sweat pooling at his throat. He was aware of the taste of burnt wood and shell casings, of dew and bird shit clinging stubbornly over the scents and tastes of war. He smelled his own blood, pooling in his mouth through the hole in his face, dripping freely from the gauze at his left hand.
They met on open ground, and he was the first to strike.
As she moved in with the rapier, Hansel shifted the gun to the side, slamming the stock of the rifle into the sword, the muffled clang and thud of wood and steel meeting a satisfying, inspiring sound. Following through, he slammed the butt of the gun into her arm, pushing the sword well and away as he tried to sight her head with the unwieldy, long stock of the Winchester.
He pulled the trigger, knowing that this wasn't the strike to end it, but a bridge to the ending, the beginning of the end. As the bullet left the barrel, he was acutely aware of his body failing, wounds rebelling, a burning sensation crawling over his skin.
But he needed to finish it.
If anything, he needed to finish this.
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Rattlesnake
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He wasn't slow, not for a man who seemed to be falling apart at the seams. Katarina swung the slender blade so hard it beat the air with a razor thrum, but it met the stock of Hansel's weapon and replied with dull report and a great shivering beneath her fingers. She swept it around to carve him from below but he was making his own move, stepping in and slamming the bulky gun against her elbow.
Things weren't meant to bend that way. Broken or strained or otherwise, she let only the smallest of gasps betray the searing fire in her arm before the Winchester spoke its closing statements.
There was no doubt her eardrum tore. The muzzle blast singed her flowing hair, tossed it like the wash of a desk fan. She knew only movement as the barrel passed over her head. A motion practiced so many times in the terrifying boredom, a pocket of her expensive jeans sliced just a little bit for that exact purpose. Rosemary's little knife flitted out and flitted in her fingers, arrayed itself and locked true. She was nearly encapsulated by his limbs already, but she sprang into Hansel, driving with her runner's legs, delivering for final consideration what could only be the closing argument.
Things weren't meant to bend that way. Broken or strained or otherwise, she let only the smallest of gasps betray the searing fire in her arm before the Winchester spoke its closing statements.
There was no doubt her eardrum tore. The muzzle blast singed her flowing hair, tossed it like the wash of a desk fan. She knew only movement as the barrel passed over her head. A motion practiced so many times in the terrifying boredom, a pocket of her expensive jeans sliced just a little bit for that exact purpose. Rosemary's little knife flitted out and flitted in her fingers, arrayed itself and locked true. She was nearly encapsulated by his limbs already, but she sprang into Hansel, driving with her runner's legs, delivering for final consideration what could only be the closing argument.
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NotAFlyingToy
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Bullet wounds he was familiar with, but nothing he'd faced had prepared him for the rending flesh and thunk of bone as a knife sliding between his ribs. It filled him with a sudden, intense pain that had him crying out, his throat ripping with the roar as the Winchester came down on KK's head, slamming her backwards enough to have the little knife popping free of his chest.
Instantly, blood pooled, and that will do it floated around in his brain, scrambled for purchase as he staggered backwards, left hand, covered in gauze, clutching the fresh wound.
His vision swam, the fever burned, everything becoming burning and hot as he staggered backwards, curling into himself, a wounded animal. His fight with Mirabella flashing through his mind as he struggled to breathe beyond the pain.
This was it, he realized, the moment still slow, eons in moments.
He was done.
Instantly, blood pooled, and that will do it floated around in his brain, scrambled for purchase as he staggered backwards, left hand, covered in gauze, clutching the fresh wound.
His vision swam, the fever burned, everything becoming burning and hot as he staggered backwards, curling into himself, a wounded animal. His fight with Mirabella flashing through his mind as he struggled to breathe beyond the pain.
This was it, he realized, the moment still slow, eons in moments.
He was done.
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Rattlesnake
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Hansel roared like a dying monster, but that was an exercise in redundancy. Blood pooled quickly over the surface of his skin. The hallmark of the beginning of the end. But he screamed and lashed instead of folding in shock, and the terror rose in Katarina again because a dying beast had nothing to lose. A mind no longer split between preservation and ruin. The greatest threat there was.
Stars erupted across her vision as blackness flashed through. She staggered back, as did he, but they both had to know it was only for a hairsbreadth in time. She couldn't escape his flailing grasp without breaking his back, and neither could he escape her wrath borne down by himself, by her, by everything they'd ever known and all the events that came together like threads in a blood-soaked yarn.
Katarina swept her arm up in a high arc and plunged it towards Hansel's throat.
Stars erupted across her vision as blackness flashed through. She staggered back, as did he, but they both had to know it was only for a hairsbreadth in time. She couldn't escape his flailing grasp without breaking his back, and neither could he escape her wrath borne down by himself, by her, by everything they'd ever known and all the events that came together like threads in a blood-soaked yarn.
Katarina swept her arm up in a high arc and plunged it towards Hansel's throat.
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NotAFlyingToy
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Fourteen days was a miniscule amount in the long run - a collection of two weeks, an amount of time for a due date, or for two episodes of that show you love to air. Fourteen days was a standard vacation for a full time job, the deadline for a newspaper article, how long it took you to draft your latest proposal for a film. Fourteen days was an important amount of time - not revolutionary, not fantastic, not in any way meaningful or long-term impactful.
But for him, in fourteen days, so much had changed. He'd lived, killed, fought, kissed, feared and raged. He'd been everything and nothing, rode hills and valleys of good intentions and terrible consequence. He'd been born again, steeled himself, survived more than he thought possible, more than he could've ever guessed. He was ready for anything after fourteen days.
Even death.
The knife arced towards him, and his eyes closed as it started its motion, thinking he was ready, this time.
But as its glint filled his peripheral, his eyes snapped back open, focusing on the blade as it moved - still like molasses - through the air.
And he realized, suddenly, that he wasn't ready.
Not yet.
Not here.
His left and right hands moved like lightning, grabbing KK's wrist and hand as he leaned backwards, the knife skimming past his chin as he dodged, and then he was pushing, using her own momentum to drive her hand backwards. She pushed, and met him hard, their hands quaking with the strain, pain singing through his left hand as he grit his teeth, pushed, fought, won as the knife gradually moved towards KK.
No impact. No sudden victory. Just the ever-present strain to win this encounter, and the soft, slow squelch as the knife slipped home.
Directly into KK's throat.
But for him, in fourteen days, so much had changed. He'd lived, killed, fought, kissed, feared and raged. He'd been everything and nothing, rode hills and valleys of good intentions and terrible consequence. He'd been born again, steeled himself, survived more than he thought possible, more than he could've ever guessed. He was ready for anything after fourteen days.
Even death.
The knife arced towards him, and his eyes closed as it started its motion, thinking he was ready, this time.
But as its glint filled his peripheral, his eyes snapped back open, focusing on the blade as it moved - still like molasses - through the air.
And he realized, suddenly, that he wasn't ready.
Not yet.
Not here.
His left and right hands moved like lightning, grabbing KK's wrist and hand as he leaned backwards, the knife skimming past his chin as he dodged, and then he was pushing, using her own momentum to drive her hand backwards. She pushed, and met him hard, their hands quaking with the strain, pain singing through his left hand as he grit his teeth, pushed, fought, won as the knife gradually moved towards KK.
No impact. No sudden victory. Just the ever-present strain to win this encounter, and the soft, slow squelch as the knife slipped home.
Directly into KK's throat.
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Rattlesnake
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No, she cried internally as Hansel caught her wrist, as he ducked and leaned so that the knife passed so close it bit off crumbs of stubble. She jerked and tried to spin, to follow through, to rain another faster rending slice down his face and his throat. And another, and another, and another. But the flex of her arm just yanked her in, brought her to her tiptoes and then back down. She pulled again, less smooth and more desperate, but he wouldn't give her back her hand.
Backwards she stumbled, kicking her heels into the thick wet grass. His grip was stone, and it moved like a mountain range. Slow, deliberate, unyielding. Panting she clawed and scrabbled at his fingers, but she was on the back foot now, quite literally.
No, she cried again, but this time from the depths of terror rather than bemusement. The profile of the knife was almost gone. It pointed towards her like a, like...
Like the last thing she'd ever see.
The vest caught roughly on the flaking bark of her bullet-shorn refuge. Her arms shook more violently in the futility of her resistance. She wanted her wrist back. She wanted to open her fingers. Give it back, she sobbed in silence. Please. Like a childhood game gone wrong. So simple. So unstoppable. Her muscles quaked, tensed, fired every fiber all in unison, but she only paused it for a moment. Waves of cold terror finally submerged her as she lifted her chin, losing sight of the knifepoint tickling her neck. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, her eyebrows arched and pleading, her brow roiled with exertion and final undefeatable compulsion.
Pain lanced suddenly across the back of her head as the week-old goose egg pressed against the tree that rose too closely behind her. Trying to retreat where, finally, there was no more room.
Katarina's eyes went wide as Rosemary's knife pierced the tender flesh of her throat.
And sunk.
Deep.
She clasped her hands to her throat as white-hot pain seared through her. Blood gushed like a fountain outward through her fingers, inward towards her lungs. Spurted through the gaps in her grip like a geyser. A cataract of precious lifeblood cascading over her vest, joining up with the rusty stain where the wounded kevlar gaped open right above her heart.
Katarina coughed, bitter and salty with blood and bile on the back of her tongue. Bubbles oozed profanely over her wrists and down her arms. Already she was growing dizzy. She coughed again and retched. Her throat tore with searing agony, but her chest heaved all the harder. Wet and slippery things seemed to rip apart beneath her clawing nails.
Her vision scattered and resolved again, dimmer this time. Filtered through glass that was growing opaque. She was falling. Sinking. Can't be possible. Seconds ticked by, forcing her deeper into the pit. She couldn't resist it. The world was shrinking away until there was nothing but the hacking and the coughing and the pain and the dizziness. The rich bloody foam. No. She was Katarina Konipaski. And she was going to see it through. Going to stay awake. She could bind her soul to flesh through will, through desperation, through absolute undivided concentration.
She blinked and opened her eyes and she couldn't tell the difference. Katarina. That's who she was. Her memories, her identity. Hot knives. The universe experiencing itself. So rich and thick and warm. The only think there could ever be. If she wasn't there, then there was nothing. That's what she, she hacked and sputtered, what she was going to be. She Kat. She was. She was? She wanted to be - what. What was she?
She was pain.
Backwards she stumbled, kicking her heels into the thick wet grass. His grip was stone, and it moved like a mountain range. Slow, deliberate, unyielding. Panting she clawed and scrabbled at his fingers, but she was on the back foot now, quite literally.
No, she cried again, but this time from the depths of terror rather than bemusement. The profile of the knife was almost gone. It pointed towards her like a, like...
Like the last thing she'd ever see.
The vest caught roughly on the flaking bark of her bullet-shorn refuge. Her arms shook more violently in the futility of her resistance. She wanted her wrist back. She wanted to open her fingers. Give it back, she sobbed in silence. Please. Like a childhood game gone wrong. So simple. So unstoppable. Her muscles quaked, tensed, fired every fiber all in unison, but she only paused it for a moment. Waves of cold terror finally submerged her as she lifted her chin, losing sight of the knifepoint tickling her neck. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, her eyebrows arched and pleading, her brow roiled with exertion and final undefeatable compulsion.
Pain lanced suddenly across the back of her head as the week-old goose egg pressed against the tree that rose too closely behind her. Trying to retreat where, finally, there was no more room.
Katarina's eyes went wide as Rosemary's knife pierced the tender flesh of her throat.
And sunk.
Deep.
She clasped her hands to her throat as white-hot pain seared through her. Blood gushed like a fountain outward through her fingers, inward towards her lungs. Spurted through the gaps in her grip like a geyser. A cataract of precious lifeblood cascading over her vest, joining up with the rusty stain where the wounded kevlar gaped open right above her heart.
Katarina coughed, bitter and salty with blood and bile on the back of her tongue. Bubbles oozed profanely over her wrists and down her arms. Already she was growing dizzy. She coughed again and retched. Her throat tore with searing agony, but her chest heaved all the harder. Wet and slippery things seemed to rip apart beneath her clawing nails.
Her vision scattered and resolved again, dimmer this time. Filtered through glass that was growing opaque. She was falling. Sinking. Can't be possible. Seconds ticked by, forcing her deeper into the pit. She couldn't resist it. The world was shrinking away until there was nothing but the hacking and the coughing and the pain and the dizziness. The rich bloody foam. No. She was Katarina Konipaski. And she was going to see it through. Going to stay awake. She could bind her soul to flesh through will, through desperation, through absolute undivided concentration.
She blinked and opened her eyes and she couldn't tell the difference. Katarina. That's who she was. Her memories, her identity. Hot knives. The universe experiencing itself. So rich and thick and warm. The only think there could ever be. If she wasn't there, then there was nothing. That's what she, she hacked and sputtered, what she was going to be. She Kat. She was. She was? She wanted to be - what. What was she?
She was pain.
G065 Katarina Konipaski: Deceased
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4 Students Remaining
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NotAFlyingToy
- Posts: 323
- Joined: Sat Aug 25, 2018 4:49 am
- Location: Burlington, Canada
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As KK fell, Hansel fell above her, catching himself on his hands, spread on either side of her body as time and distance snapped back to their regular speed, the impact scraping at abused flesh. He was face to face with gory corpse and embedded knife for a moment, before rolling over on his back, facing the sky with the dead girl at his side.
He groaned, cupping his wound with both hands as the blood seeped from it, fever making his limbs shake, sweat pouring from his brow as he struggled to gain distance between him and the last standing obstacle - the very last big threat - between him and the finish line. When he managed to slide further away, he struggled to a seated position, still cradling the stab wound as he reached for his pack, a medkit, anything.
He heard footsteps approaching, and inwardly sighed, reluctantly looking to see the newcomer's face.
And for the first time in a long time, the sight made him smile.
He groaned, cupping his wound with both hands as the blood seeped from it, fever making his limbs shake, sweat pouring from his brow as he struggled to gain distance between him and the last standing obstacle - the very last big threat - between him and the finish line. When he managed to slide further away, he struggled to a seated position, still cradling the stab wound as he reached for his pack, a medkit, anything.
He heard footsteps approaching, and inwardly sighed, reluctantly looking to see the newcomer's face.
And for the first time in a long time, the sight made him smile.
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Ruggahissy
- Posts: 1593
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:13 pm
((Amaranta Montalvo continued from Dominoes ))
Mara stood stock still. She'd ran again, her former most hated thing back when most hated things were inconveniences at worst.
She had heard the sounds of conflict and was drawn here by her insatiable wrath. She arrived just in time to see globs of dark shining blood running down the front of the girl she burned with hatred for. The scene was unmistakably familiar. The second body fell on top of the defeated just like she fell on Summer, but it was obvious there was no affection here. There was no final sweet goodbye or kiss on the cheek.
Overwhelmed by the sight, she walked forward as if bidden by the yank of an invisible chain around her neck. She was keenly aware of only two things: the dead body of Katarina on the ground before her and the weight of the metal collar. Everything else didn't register. She floated, not paying attention to her own footsteps.
There was no control. It had her and had bided its time until now, building. Now was the time to overflow. It cascaded out.
"I hate you," she hissed.
She kicked the unmoving girl.
"FUCK YOU."
Kick.
"FUCK YOU, YOU RAGGEDY ANN-LOOKNG MOTHERFUCKER," she screeched as she kicked her again, watching the body absorb the blow.
"Do you know what YOU PUT ME THROUGH, YOU VACUOUS CUNT? You..." she said as she drove her heel into her hand.
After a few more kicks Mara dropped to her knees and closed her eyes tightly, feeling tears of supreme anger start to rise up.
"You trash! YOU WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE."
She punched and shook the unresponsive girl. Panting, her nails dug into and cut the flesh. Her breathing was loud and labored.
"Every moment of my life is worse than the last," she said flatly. "But you... -- you made me crawl through glass."
Her dark hair hung limply on both sides of her face. Her eyes were half lidded, besotted and her breathing was shallow.
Mara stood stock still. She'd ran again, her former most hated thing back when most hated things were inconveniences at worst.
She had heard the sounds of conflict and was drawn here by her insatiable wrath. She arrived just in time to see globs of dark shining blood running down the front of the girl she burned with hatred for. The scene was unmistakably familiar. The second body fell on top of the defeated just like she fell on Summer, but it was obvious there was no affection here. There was no final sweet goodbye or kiss on the cheek.
Overwhelmed by the sight, she walked forward as if bidden by the yank of an invisible chain around her neck. She was keenly aware of only two things: the dead body of Katarina on the ground before her and the weight of the metal collar. Everything else didn't register. She floated, not paying attention to her own footsteps.
There was no control. It had her and had bided its time until now, building. Now was the time to overflow. It cascaded out.
"I hate you," she hissed.
She kicked the unmoving girl.
"FUCK YOU."
Kick.
"FUCK YOU, YOU RAGGEDY ANN-LOOKNG MOTHERFUCKER," she screeched as she kicked her again, watching the body absorb the blow.
"Do you know what YOU PUT ME THROUGH, YOU VACUOUS CUNT? You..." she said as she drove her heel into her hand.
After a few more kicks Mara dropped to her knees and closed her eyes tightly, feeling tears of supreme anger start to rise up.
"You trash! YOU WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE."
She punched and shook the unresponsive girl. Panting, her nails dug into and cut the flesh. Her breathing was loud and labored.
"Every moment of my life is worse than the last," she said flatly. "But you... -- you made me crawl through glass."
Her dark hair hung limply on both sides of her face. Her eyes were half lidded, besotted and her breathing was shallow.