((Matt Moradi continued from Forget About What I Said))
The announcement came and went. He really, honestly, didn't care. No one he knew, just like last time. Still, he made sure to listen closely - maybe there would be someone he did know. That'd certainly ruin his day. But it hadn't happened yet - and he wasn't sure if it'd ever happen, so he had to question whether or not it was worth it to really listen closely to anything other than the names of the killers. People to avoid.
This whole asylum, he thought, was a place to avoid. He also had to question why he'd come here - Nate dragged him here. Nate also let Henry in, but he couldn't really fault him too much for that. Henry didn't look like a threat, sure, but anyone can be a thief. He wondered what he'd do if he ever ran into him again. Nothing, probably, but he fantasized about kicking his ass if he found him alone. The right thing to do, in his mind.
Walking down the stairs, the first thing he noticed was the smell. The smell and the water. The whole place was waterlogged, he thought - anything worth taking in the past was either rusted to the point of uselessness or too filthy for him to want to touch. The filth, of course, was something he didn't want to think too hard about. The entire place was, in two words, fucking dirty.. not thinking about it was an uphill battle.
"Oh, fuck this." was all he had to say on the matter. Fuck this basement and fuck this entire island, he thought.
The room he had entered was worse than he could imagine. Tubs filled with water that hadn't been drained for what must be years and, somehow, the smell had gotten worse. Worse than anything he'd ever smelt before. Almost on reflex, he covered his nose and choked out the words, "What the FUCK is that smell?"
Then he saw it. The source of the smell.
A corpse - something he was sure he'd see sooner or later, but also something he'd have enjoyed to see under better circumstances. A stupid fantasy of his. It was still somewhat recognizable, so he could likely recognize them if he knew them. He couldn't look long enough to tell. He froze in place and said some choice words, trying his hardest to look away.
"Fuck this. Holy fucking shit, this is fucked."
He didn't care to think about how the others would react.
Coming Out Of The Closet
Yep
Coming Out Of The Closet
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Privyet. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
((Ben Fields continued from Forget About What I Said))
Things were heavy now. Ben had to keep his head shoved slightly down, a falsely advertised interest in the contour of his beat up cleats. He could sort of remember them still, the second set of announcements. Not really in the tone, that had already become ambiance like the creaks of tepid, still air. Of killers maybe shuffling along in the distance. In the names. He'd told himself, what had it been? Yesterday? He'd told himself that he wouldn't be caught passing on eulogies to the nonexistent generation to follow Cochise's damned. He'd told himself that yesterday. And he'd meant it.
He could still hear old Jasmine's voice whispering rumors and grandeur into his ear. Jane, Sabrina, Sanford- it was Sandy, he vaguely recalled- Bradley, Jerry, Mitch, Danny, Samuel. The other names that had come up didn't matter, except for how they set Ben's blood to a slow simmer of a boil.
One other name no longer mattered. All of them had trusted that motherfucker. They'd thought he was harmless. What had that aspie stolen, when it came down to it? Their trust? Maybe their dignity. Ben didn't know what was worse. Maybe a blow to the pride somehow hurt more, like the swing of solid iron against his chest. Fuck that kid. Ben would have run himself straight off the roof of this damned place, shouting his head off bloody suicide, if he hadn't remembered there were bigger problems. Bigger targets. Bigger names, than the freak of nature Ben had once called Henry Spencer.
But so far, they hadn't found shit. The asylum was the biggest, most obvious fucking place on the island. Maybe that was why it was seemingly abandoned. Ben was about ready to call it. He didn't know where it was they needed to go, but anyone hiding themselves away in a basement's worth of rust and decay wasn't the sort who'd let themselves be announced. In body, in name. If this search turned up nothing they had to go... somewhere. Ben needed to think about that somewhere, but it was where they needed to go.
"Fuck this. Holy fucking shit, this is fucked."
Ben dashed around the corner, almost headbutting his way through Matt.
Ben had never expected a casualty of war to go quite like this. People who actually knew how to write liked to call death 'peaceful'. Peaceful as the churning in Ben's gut, sure. This was a scene no words would ever adequately describe. This was what was being done to them. A camera's worth of gore, of indecency. Their last moments of agony coldly taped while they were unceremoniously shoved away into a corner, crumpled into crunchy bits of discarded homework. The last, ugly rites the boys and girls of Cochise would be allowed.
Ben's fist found, slightly pulverized the door frame. He only realized how loud he was when his voice, pitched more than he ever otherwise allowed, bounced right back at him.
"Fuck. This is what we need to be stopping-... Why the hell are we letting this happen!?" Ben was already turning the gears of his body away, as much as his eyes stayed stuck on the red carpet that had been laid out over the floor for them to walk on.
Things were heavy now. Ben had to keep his head shoved slightly down, a falsely advertised interest in the contour of his beat up cleats. He could sort of remember them still, the second set of announcements. Not really in the tone, that had already become ambiance like the creaks of tepid, still air. Of killers maybe shuffling along in the distance. In the names. He'd told himself, what had it been? Yesterday? He'd told himself that he wouldn't be caught passing on eulogies to the nonexistent generation to follow Cochise's damned. He'd told himself that yesterday. And he'd meant it.
He could still hear old Jasmine's voice whispering rumors and grandeur into his ear. Jane, Sabrina, Sanford- it was Sandy, he vaguely recalled- Bradley, Jerry, Mitch, Danny, Samuel. The other names that had come up didn't matter, except for how they set Ben's blood to a slow simmer of a boil.
One other name no longer mattered. All of them had trusted that motherfucker. They'd thought he was harmless. What had that aspie stolen, when it came down to it? Their trust? Maybe their dignity. Ben didn't know what was worse. Maybe a blow to the pride somehow hurt more, like the swing of solid iron against his chest. Fuck that kid. Ben would have run himself straight off the roof of this damned place, shouting his head off bloody suicide, if he hadn't remembered there were bigger problems. Bigger targets. Bigger names, than the freak of nature Ben had once called Henry Spencer.
But so far, they hadn't found shit. The asylum was the biggest, most obvious fucking place on the island. Maybe that was why it was seemingly abandoned. Ben was about ready to call it. He didn't know where it was they needed to go, but anyone hiding themselves away in a basement's worth of rust and decay wasn't the sort who'd let themselves be announced. In body, in name. If this search turned up nothing they had to go... somewhere. Ben needed to think about that somewhere, but it was where they needed to go.
"Fuck this. Holy fucking shit, this is fucked."
Ben dashed around the corner, almost headbutting his way through Matt.
Ben had never expected a casualty of war to go quite like this. People who actually knew how to write liked to call death 'peaceful'. Peaceful as the churning in Ben's gut, sure. This was a scene no words would ever adequately describe. This was what was being done to them. A camera's worth of gore, of indecency. Their last moments of agony coldly taped while they were unceremoniously shoved away into a corner, crumpled into crunchy bits of discarded homework. The last, ugly rites the boys and girls of Cochise would be allowed.
Ben's fist found, slightly pulverized the door frame. He only realized how loud he was when his voice, pitched more than he ever otherwise allowed, bounced right back at him.
"Fuck. This is what we need to be stopping-... Why the hell are we letting this happen!?" Ben was already turning the gears of his body away, as much as his eyes stayed stuck on the red carpet that had been laid out over the floor for them to walk on.
V8 Vibes:
V7 Vibes:
((Nate Turner continued from Forget About What I Said))
It had been a tiring trek around the asylum, but at least Nate had had company. They had made small talk, but their efforts were devoted to scavenging rather than friendly chats. They hadn't found anything particular useful, which was a shame, but Nate was just happy to not be alone for the whole time. By the dawn of the third day, he was glad that they'd helped him stay alive and unharmed as long as he had.
As the day before, the announcements came and were just as grim as they had been yesterday. He didn't recognise quite as many of the names, and maybe that's why it stung just a little bit less, but it was still a reminder that everything was going wrong around him. He didn't cry this time, though.
Yet he was so absorbed with the announcements, trying to decide on just what to do with the information on his rapidly expiring classmates, that he was completely oblivious to Henry's stealing of all his things.
When the three of them had finally realised what had happened, Nate hadn't actually burst into tears. He was upset, absolutely, but anger was the more prominent response. After all, he had trusted Henry, invited him in and offered him some food because he thought he was in just as much pain and suffering as the rest of them, and he didn't want to see anyone going through that. Sure he had no idea what to do with the staff, he didn't know the first thing about martial arts, and he did feel a bit silly carrying it around the whole time, but it was still his. Between that and the food and supplies he needed to stay alive, he couldn't stop himself.
"What a dick!"
They were in the basement now, back to scavenging as Nate's anger turned to bitterness, turning around in his hands the bullwhip that Henry had left behind. He was trying to justify what Henry had done, but not very hard, especially as hunger pangs started to gnaw away at his belly. He didn't want to ask Ben or Matt to lend him some supplies, they probably needed them more than he did, but every cramp in his gut just rekindled his negative disposition towards Henry the thief.
As they neared the water treatment room, the decaying smell of death assaulted Nate as it had done the other two; gagging, he darted to pull his shirt up over his nose. As he rounded into the room, moving past his two companions, he caught sight of the dead body of Sandy Bricks and gagged just a little bit harder. Still though, he didn't cry.
He didn't recognise the winking corpse, definitely not someone he knew, and maybe that helped. Maybe he was just getting used to all this, as horrible as that might sound. He was shaking, and he wanted to freak out, but he was losing the energy for it. He'd never have expected seeing a dead body to be such a low-key experience.
He kept his distance, still looking at Sandy, but not saying a word. He was transfixed, but not a whole lot more.
It had been a tiring trek around the asylum, but at least Nate had had company. They had made small talk, but their efforts were devoted to scavenging rather than friendly chats. They hadn't found anything particular useful, which was a shame, but Nate was just happy to not be alone for the whole time. By the dawn of the third day, he was glad that they'd helped him stay alive and unharmed as long as he had.
As the day before, the announcements came and were just as grim as they had been yesterday. He didn't recognise quite as many of the names, and maybe that's why it stung just a little bit less, but it was still a reminder that everything was going wrong around him. He didn't cry this time, though.
Yet he was so absorbed with the announcements, trying to decide on just what to do with the information on his rapidly expiring classmates, that he was completely oblivious to Henry's stealing of all his things.
When the three of them had finally realised what had happened, Nate hadn't actually burst into tears. He was upset, absolutely, but anger was the more prominent response. After all, he had trusted Henry, invited him in and offered him some food because he thought he was in just as much pain and suffering as the rest of them, and he didn't want to see anyone going through that. Sure he had no idea what to do with the staff, he didn't know the first thing about martial arts, and he did feel a bit silly carrying it around the whole time, but it was still his. Between that and the food and supplies he needed to stay alive, he couldn't stop himself.
"What a dick!"
They were in the basement now, back to scavenging as Nate's anger turned to bitterness, turning around in his hands the bullwhip that Henry had left behind. He was trying to justify what Henry had done, but not very hard, especially as hunger pangs started to gnaw away at his belly. He didn't want to ask Ben or Matt to lend him some supplies, they probably needed them more than he did, but every cramp in his gut just rekindled his negative disposition towards Henry the thief.
As they neared the water treatment room, the decaying smell of death assaulted Nate as it had done the other two; gagging, he darted to pull his shirt up over his nose. As he rounded into the room, moving past his two companions, he caught sight of the dead body of Sandy Bricks and gagged just a little bit harder. Still though, he didn't cry.
He didn't recognise the winking corpse, definitely not someone he knew, and maybe that helped. Maybe he was just getting used to all this, as horrible as that might sound. He was shaking, and he wanted to freak out, but he was losing the energy for it. He'd never have expected seeing a dead body to be such a low-key experience.
He kept his distance, still looking at Sandy, but not saying a word. He was transfixed, but not a whole lot more.
For a few seconds, Matt could find nothing to say - he just stared at the corpse. At what was formerly known as Sandy, currently a rotting corpse in a waterlogged basement in the middle of stark fucking nowhere. The level of decay was a lot worse than he thought it was, initially.. still recognizable, but definitely not a pretty sight. That, combined with the cause of death - it didn't take a genius to figure out that his final moments couldn't exactly be considered enjoyable - was enough to make him feel sick. That, and the smell.. the smell, of course, couldn't really have been helped - he wondered what it was. The corpse, the room, or the combination of both.
He fought back the urge to vomit. Whoever Sandy was, he didn't go peacefully. He didn't go quietly, either. He could only keep staring at the body as he imagined how hard he must have fought in his final moments - at least, he hoped he did.
"Fuck. Fuck, I wasn't ready for this. Fucking hell."
Slowly, he started to back away, towards the door.. stopping just short of exiting the room entirely. Then, Ben spoke, reminding him that there were other people with him. The closest thing he had to friends. Why are we letting this happen, he said. That's a good question, Matt thought. Why is anyone letting this happen - the fact that his esteemed peers from Cochise had seemed to immediately degenerate into wanton, senseless violence boggled the mind. Oh, he was certain there were more than a few justifications.. like the sword hanging above everyone's head - one person has to be killed per day or else everyone dies. He knew that. Everyone else knew that, he was sure, but how many murders can you justify that way?
He didn't care to think too long on what their justifications were. He certainly knew he had one; stopping them. He only considered it for a moment before asking the question.
"Who the fuck did this?"
He fought back the urge to vomit. Whoever Sandy was, he didn't go peacefully. He didn't go quietly, either. He could only keep staring at the body as he imagined how hard he must have fought in his final moments - at least, he hoped he did.
"Fuck. Fuck, I wasn't ready for this. Fucking hell."
Slowly, he started to back away, towards the door.. stopping just short of exiting the room entirely. Then, Ben spoke, reminding him that there were other people with him. The closest thing he had to friends. Why are we letting this happen, he said. That's a good question, Matt thought. Why is anyone letting this happen - the fact that his esteemed peers from Cochise had seemed to immediately degenerate into wanton, senseless violence boggled the mind. Oh, he was certain there were more than a few justifications.. like the sword hanging above everyone's head - one person has to be killed per day or else everyone dies. He knew that. Everyone else knew that, he was sure, but how many murders can you justify that way?
He didn't care to think too long on what their justifications were. He certainly knew he had one; stopping them. He only considered it for a moment before asking the question.
"Who the fuck did this?"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Privyet. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
"Who the fuck did this?"
"..."
'Who' evaded him, sets of syllables encoded in the language of the dead. Names like Sandy Bricks, Ben could remember those. Honest names, straight off the Cochise registration sheets. But some names, they no longer seemed to be names to Ben. The melting scoop of dung that was once a functioning high schooler's brain had slopped straight off the spoon. Down his spine, in one agonizingly long frisson Ben struggled to keep a steady chest against. Matt almost ran into Ben. Some sort of half assed instinct toppled Ben's flat feet, he tried to back up himself. Almost gave Nate a face full in the process.
It was disturbing, how stoic Nate had suddenly become. Glassy eyed, and Ben could almost see the corpse stenciled in technicolor over Nate's corneas.
"Nancy."
"It was Nancy Kyle." Hm. Who was 'Nancy Kyle'? Maybe that question mattered, maybe it didn't. It was the sort of question Ben knew he didn't care about. The sort of question that only became an answer when you chased after it. With whips, and guns.
"We have to get out of here."
The dead liked to rest in peace. One of those old wise sayings sourced from the winds and mother's talk. It definitely wasn't a peaceful scene, but the gaggle of idiots standing around under the terrorist's lenses probably didn't do it any further justice. Justice, rather, existed elsewhere.
"Come on." Ben pivoted on the spot, but found Nate was still in his way. All five whatever feet of him, immovable as the marble curve of Lady Justice's back.
"..."
'Who' evaded him, sets of syllables encoded in the language of the dead. Names like Sandy Bricks, Ben could remember those. Honest names, straight off the Cochise registration sheets. But some names, they no longer seemed to be names to Ben. The melting scoop of dung that was once a functioning high schooler's brain had slopped straight off the spoon. Down his spine, in one agonizingly long frisson Ben struggled to keep a steady chest against. Matt almost ran into Ben. Some sort of half assed instinct toppled Ben's flat feet, he tried to back up himself. Almost gave Nate a face full in the process.
It was disturbing, how stoic Nate had suddenly become. Glassy eyed, and Ben could almost see the corpse stenciled in technicolor over Nate's corneas.
"Nancy."
"It was Nancy Kyle." Hm. Who was 'Nancy Kyle'? Maybe that question mattered, maybe it didn't. It was the sort of question Ben knew he didn't care about. The sort of question that only became an answer when you chased after it. With whips, and guns.
"We have to get out of here."
The dead liked to rest in peace. One of those old wise sayings sourced from the winds and mother's talk. It definitely wasn't a peaceful scene, but the gaggle of idiots standing around under the terrorist's lenses probably didn't do it any further justice. Justice, rather, existed elsewhere.
"Come on." Ben pivoted on the spot, but found Nate was still in his way. All five whatever feet of him, immovable as the marble curve of Lady Justice's back.
V8 Vibes:
V7 Vibes:
Nate didn't really react to Ben and Matt's own horror at the scene. He was too busy thinking about the name that Ben had dropped, the one responsible for who was lying in front of them all.
Nate knew Nancy. He knew her like he did so many people at school, including some of those who had died, but he knew her just a little bit more. They had been in drama club together, worked together on some scenes, had a good time together along with the rest of the group. She had always been so friendly, so energetic, so quirky. Nate liked Nancy.
So why? Why had she done something like this? What had Sandy done to deserve to be killed by her? What had any of them done to deserve any of it?
"I don't believe it..." he whispered. He was still looking at the corpse as he said it, gripping his arms as he shook, but he forced himself to look away, to direct his words at Ben and Matt.
"Nancy was so nice, and we were club buddies. I don't get why she'd do this."
This was the part where the tears might've started, but they still hadn't. There was too much disbelief, too little understanding of why after three days they were spiralling further and further into this Hell on Earth. He wasn't willing to just break down and go with it any more.
There was a moment's pause before he continued. "We need to find her."
"I want to find her and find out why, and then I want to tell her to stop it, because this is all just wrong."
The sight of Sandy's body sucked in his gaze again.
"She doesn't have to do this. None of us have to do this."
But he tore himself away, looking to his two friends, pleading with them to agree.
Nate knew Nancy. He knew her like he did so many people at school, including some of those who had died, but he knew her just a little bit more. They had been in drama club together, worked together on some scenes, had a good time together along with the rest of the group. She had always been so friendly, so energetic, so quirky. Nate liked Nancy.
So why? Why had she done something like this? What had Sandy done to deserve to be killed by her? What had any of them done to deserve any of it?
"I don't believe it..." he whispered. He was still looking at the corpse as he said it, gripping his arms as he shook, but he forced himself to look away, to direct his words at Ben and Matt.
"Nancy was so nice, and we were club buddies. I don't get why she'd do this."
This was the part where the tears might've started, but they still hadn't. There was too much disbelief, too little understanding of why after three days they were spiralling further and further into this Hell on Earth. He wasn't willing to just break down and go with it any more.
There was a moment's pause before he continued. "We need to find her."
"I want to find her and find out why, and then I want to tell her to stop it, because this is all just wrong."
The sight of Sandy's body sucked in his gaze again.
"She doesn't have to do this. None of us have to do this."
But he tore himself away, looking to his two friends, pleading with them to agree.
Matt agreed with Nate. Nancy doesn't have to do this.
Of course, Nancy had already killed a handful of people. He doubted whatever Nate wanted from her - an apology, or something, that he would perhaps graciously accept on the behalf of all those she's violently killed - would be even remotely sincere. Nancy was, as far as he knew, a psychopath who decided to start murdering other people.
Decided. That was the key word for him. She knew what she was doing and she probably thought she could get away with it. He could only guess what drove them to make that decision. Maybe, deep down, some of classmates really wanted to kill someone. Maybe it was the circumstances or maybe it was the fact that there was no guilt in killing someone if you tell yourself that you had to do it. He didn't know. He just didn't know.
Matt tore his eyes off of one of Nancy's many victims and turned towards the door, towards Nate. He didn't know, and to be frank, he didn't fucking care.
"She's fucking crazy. I don't give a rat's ass if she was your fucking girlfriend, dude, we gotta stop her before she kills anyone else. I, shit, I don't know." Sure, he wanted to do something about the ever lovable psychopath called Nancy Kyle. Maybe that something was pushing her off a cliff, or maybe it could be something less lethal. He didn't know.
"I guess you can try talking to her if you want, man. I don't think it's gonna work. I really, really don't."
Of course, Nancy had already killed a handful of people. He doubted whatever Nate wanted from her - an apology, or something, that he would perhaps graciously accept on the behalf of all those she's violently killed - would be even remotely sincere. Nancy was, as far as he knew, a psychopath who decided to start murdering other people.
Decided. That was the key word for him. She knew what she was doing and she probably thought she could get away with it. He could only guess what drove them to make that decision. Maybe, deep down, some of classmates really wanted to kill someone. Maybe it was the circumstances or maybe it was the fact that there was no guilt in killing someone if you tell yourself that you had to do it. He didn't know. He just didn't know.
Matt tore his eyes off of one of Nancy's many victims and turned towards the door, towards Nate. He didn't know, and to be frank, he didn't fucking care.
"She's fucking crazy. I don't give a rat's ass if she was your fucking girlfriend, dude, we gotta stop her before she kills anyone else. I, shit, I don't know." Sure, he wanted to do something about the ever lovable psychopath called Nancy Kyle. Maybe that something was pushing her off a cliff, or maybe it could be something less lethal. He didn't know.
"I guess you can try talking to her if you want, man. I don't think it's gonna work. I really, really don't."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Privyet. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
It was time to go. To march, to hunt. To fight. To win. But Nate was still in the way, and time was running out.
Maybe it was time to speak. Nate's proposal was a reed to chew on. It was an aside glance at the nearest camera as its timestamps quietly ticked on, unseen and unheard. For that camera there was all the time in the world. For them there wasn't enough time. His circadian rhythm itself ticked on sleepless. Inertia was a weight in the spurs of his heels, rubber soles eroded away and stained the ombre reds of wasted, despoiled humanity.
"None of us have to do this."
And yet some of them already had.
"Yeah." Ben's voice was mute, measured in glass bottles half broken onto the floor. "We could talk." He looked Nate in the eyes. Ben had always been told he had eyes that were small, empty, almost walking dead. Maybe once he'd thought of them as badass, the rare windows to the soul that came with drawn blinds.
"We could talk, and I guess we will. But Matt's right. Nancy, all the rest of them..." All the rest of them in name, whatever those names had once been. "They made their decisions. Even if we talk to them what the fuck do you think they're going to say?" Matt had used the word 'girlfriend'. That was very much the case, Ben knew. Those names had once been the names of daughters, sons. Lovers. Learners, teachers. Friends. Brothers... Maybe sisters.
Once.
"I don't think there's anything left to say, Nate." Ben had tried to say things before it had come to this. And here he was now. After the terrorists, the fucking terrorists, had gotten their grubby gore-flecked hands onto the final say.
Maybe it was time to speak. Nate's proposal was a reed to chew on. It was an aside glance at the nearest camera as its timestamps quietly ticked on, unseen and unheard. For that camera there was all the time in the world. For them there wasn't enough time. His circadian rhythm itself ticked on sleepless. Inertia was a weight in the spurs of his heels, rubber soles eroded away and stained the ombre reds of wasted, despoiled humanity.
"None of us have to do this."
And yet some of them already had.
"Yeah." Ben's voice was mute, measured in glass bottles half broken onto the floor. "We could talk." He looked Nate in the eyes. Ben had always been told he had eyes that were small, empty, almost walking dead. Maybe once he'd thought of them as badass, the rare windows to the soul that came with drawn blinds.
"We could talk, and I guess we will. But Matt's right. Nancy, all the rest of them..." All the rest of them in name, whatever those names had once been. "They made their decisions. Even if we talk to them what the fuck do you think they're going to say?" Matt had used the word 'girlfriend'. That was very much the case, Ben knew. Those names had once been the names of daughters, sons. Lovers. Learners, teachers. Friends. Brothers... Maybe sisters.
Once.
"I don't think there's anything left to say, Nate." Ben had tried to say things before it had come to this. And here he was now. After the terrorists, the fucking terrorists, had gotten their grubby gore-flecked hands onto the final say.
V8 Vibes:
V7 Vibes:
Nate looked at the floor as Ben and Matt shot him down, a dismayed frown spreading across his face. He knew that they were probably right, that talking to people and believing in them wasn't going to bring anyone back to life or make it up to the people that they had killed. That was naïve. Just outright stupid.
What else was he supposed to do, though? Just stand around, shrug his shoulders and let it happen as it happened, until it finally got him too? Maybe it was a stupid idea, actually trying to talk to the people killing people, but it was the only one he could come up with. He didn't want to just sit around and cry about people killing each other for the rest of his life.
"And how do you guys know?" He finally said, still looking at the floor, but a new eking determination was growing in his voice.
"None of us know what's going on or why this happened to us, and we can't say that we wouldn't do the same thing in their shoes. I mean, I don't know why Nancy did this, or why she's killed anyone else. I don't know why anyone's killing anyone, and maybe they don't know either."
He was still shifting on the spot as he spoke, his head rolling around on his neck as the words came out. It was awkward, not even knowing if he was making any sense. The words were pretty much just coming out on their own, his feelings constructing their own babbling spiel.
"And you're probably right, I'm probably being stupid, but I don't know what else to do. I don't want to just sit around and wait to die, but this is the only idea I've got."
He hung his head, a sense of shame filling him. It really was a stupid idea, and it probably wouldn't accomplish anything, but it was all he had left.
What else was he supposed to do, though? Just stand around, shrug his shoulders and let it happen as it happened, until it finally got him too? Maybe it was a stupid idea, actually trying to talk to the people killing people, but it was the only one he could come up with. He didn't want to just sit around and cry about people killing each other for the rest of his life.
"And how do you guys know?" He finally said, still looking at the floor, but a new eking determination was growing in his voice.
"None of us know what's going on or why this happened to us, and we can't say that we wouldn't do the same thing in their shoes. I mean, I don't know why Nancy did this, or why she's killed anyone else. I don't know why anyone's killing anyone, and maybe they don't know either."
He was still shifting on the spot as he spoke, his head rolling around on his neck as the words came out. It was awkward, not even knowing if he was making any sense. The words were pretty much just coming out on their own, his feelings constructing their own babbling spiel.
"And you're probably right, I'm probably being stupid, but I don't know what else to do. I don't want to just sit around and wait to die, but this is the only idea I've got."
He hung his head, a sense of shame filling him. It really was a stupid idea, and it probably wouldn't accomplish anything, but it was all he had left.
Matt could philosophize about whether or not any of this bloodshed was necessary all day long if he had to, but he preferred not to do it in a dank basement that smelled of Sandy's rotting corpse and reminded him of his own dwindling lifespan. Nate's proposal to talk down serial murderers having been quietly shot down, Matt felt somewhat relieved. No objections to self-defense, he guessed. He let out a short, quiet sigh - barely audible. Maybe they were going to make it. Maybe they
Oh.
It's him.
And he has a gun.
That's good.
Great. The best thing he's seen all day, really, not counting the mutilated, decaying corpse in a dark, waterlogged basement that was presumably about to become his grave. He woke up this morning, smiled and said "I hope my life is threatened today. I really hope someone points a gun at me in a dark fucking basement." Except he didn't. He didn't hope for any of that. In fact, he had hoped for the opposite, believe it or not. This was, objectively speaking, a turn for the worse.
Slowly, he half-raised his arms towards the ceiling, not wanting to get shot for making any quick movements. He smiled - so fake it could turn your stomach outside of any other situation - and spoke up.
"He has a gun," he said, through gritted teeth. Just loud enough for the other two to hear. Ever since he was dumped onto this rock, he had feared this. Going face to face with someone who had a gun. Going face to face with someone who had the drop on him. He thought that just maybe, he could avoid it. Of course, deep down, he knew that it was going to happen sooner or later.. everyone but him probably had luck on their side when it came to getting a weapon. He got a flimsy metal pole. This evolutionary throwback who he thought probably fantasized about killing in a guilt free environment got a gun, pointed at him.
In the back of his mind, he hoped that the gunman would shoot one of the others. The thought escaping to the front of his mind, he wondered if they would call him selfish if they knew. He didn't care.
Oh.
It's him.
And he has a gun.
That's good.
Great. The best thing he's seen all day, really, not counting the mutilated, decaying corpse in a dark, waterlogged basement that was presumably about to become his grave. He woke up this morning, smiled and said "I hope my life is threatened today. I really hope someone points a gun at me in a dark fucking basement." Except he didn't. He didn't hope for any of that. In fact, he had hoped for the opposite, believe it or not. This was, objectively speaking, a turn for the worse.
Slowly, he half-raised his arms towards the ceiling, not wanting to get shot for making any quick movements. He smiled - so fake it could turn your stomach outside of any other situation - and spoke up.
"He has a gun," he said, through gritted teeth. Just loud enough for the other two to hear. Ever since he was dumped onto this rock, he had feared this. Going face to face with someone who had a gun. Going face to face with someone who had the drop on him. He thought that just maybe, he could avoid it. Of course, deep down, he knew that it was going to happen sooner or later.. everyone but him probably had luck on their side when it came to getting a weapon. He got a flimsy metal pole. This evolutionary throwback who he thought probably fantasized about killing in a guilt free environment got a gun, pointed at him.
In the back of his mind, he hoped that the gunman would shoot one of the others. The thought escaping to the front of his mind, he wondered if they would call him selfish if they knew. He didn't care.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Privyet. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Nate was right. They didn't know why people had killed.
But they knew that people had killed. An infallible truth, that. A truth that Ben understood even when there was so much left to understand. An understanding that furiously hurt, that burned every part of his body to scorched and salted earth.
Something shifted, in a corner of the room.
Ben realized. The corpses, the cameras had eaten up so much of their attention they'd missed a couple of the other details. A door. A backroom.
"He has a gun."
That detail, on the other hand, was not easy to miss.
Ben wasn't going to raise his arms, not like Matt. Now was not the time for that. He felt his fists clench, fingernails digging themselves a grave on his palm. But otherwise, he stood stock still. Matt was almost not taller than him, so he could see past. And be seen. Recognition, perhaps, would be key.
"Alvaro." That was the name. Alvaro. Ben had almost forgotten. Ben's voice had dropped half an octave, onto a note that was flat and dull. His soulless eyes searched, through the murkiness of what light was left in the room. Maybe when he looked into Alvaro's eyes he'd see exactly what he knew, feared he was going to see. Maybe his eyes weren't the only dead ones in here, now. Maybe a reckoning was to come, on the blur of a bullet and the swing of a fist.
"Alvaro, you recognize me, right? Your old pal, Ben Fields?" There had been more innocent days with Alvaro once. 'That cool guy who teaches me how to play chess when I ask'. His sister had said that.
Once.
Ben glanced back over his shoulder, at Nate. For just a microsecond, some dark anxiety keeping his eyes from going all the way.
"I don't know why anyone's killing anyone, and maybe they don't know either."
Maybe they were about to learn.
But they knew that people had killed. An infallible truth, that. A truth that Ben understood even when there was so much left to understand. An understanding that furiously hurt, that burned every part of his body to scorched and salted earth.
Something shifted, in a corner of the room.
Ben realized. The corpses, the cameras had eaten up so much of their attention they'd missed a couple of the other details. A door. A backroom.
"He has a gun."
That detail, on the other hand, was not easy to miss.
Ben wasn't going to raise his arms, not like Matt. Now was not the time for that. He felt his fists clench, fingernails digging themselves a grave on his palm. But otherwise, he stood stock still. Matt was almost not taller than him, so he could see past. And be seen. Recognition, perhaps, would be key.
"Alvaro." That was the name. Alvaro. Ben had almost forgotten. Ben's voice had dropped half an octave, onto a note that was flat and dull. His soulless eyes searched, through the murkiness of what light was left in the room. Maybe when he looked into Alvaro's eyes he'd see exactly what he knew, feared he was going to see. Maybe his eyes weren't the only dead ones in here, now. Maybe a reckoning was to come, on the blur of a bullet and the swing of a fist.
"Alvaro, you recognize me, right? Your old pal, Ben Fields?" There had been more innocent days with Alvaro once. 'That cool guy who teaches me how to play chess when I ask'. His sister had said that.
Once.
Ben glanced back over his shoulder, at Nate. For just a microsecond, some dark anxiety keeping his eyes from going all the way.
"I don't know why anyone's killing anyone, and maybe they don't know either."
Maybe they were about to learn.
V8 Vibes:
V7 Vibes:
There was no time to wallow in uncertainty as Alvaro entered the scene. Blocked from Nate's line of sight by his two companions, he could only freeze on the spot as Matt warned them of the new arrival's gun.
He felt his breathing growing rapid again, just as it had when he'd realised there was a bomb around his neck, as he pictured the unseen assailant holding their huge gun and ready to end all of their lives.
He looked through the corner of his eye at the doorway behind him, too scared to actually turn. He could run, he should've run, but his limbs weren't listening. What about Ben and Matt? They didn't have a clear exit like him, so should he abandon them in the hopes that they somehow got to safety? Should he stay together and die with them?
There was too much to think about in that brief moment, as his thoughts collided in an immobile traffic jam. Thankfully, Ben brought him to his senses when he said the name Alvaro.
Mobility returning, he pushed past Ben to get a clear view, confirming what he'd heard. There Alvaro was, his buddy and captain from the soccer team; there he was, definitely pointing that pistol at them. Between the weapon, the stench of death in the air, and the grim demeanour that could only have come from whatever Alvaro had been through in the past two days, he was barely recognisable.
"Alvaro, it's me!" he called out, stepping a step closer, his face a strange mix of happy relief and growing terror. He was glad to meet someone familiar again, but familiarity was lost on someone who could end your life with the twinge of a finger.
"It's ok, you can put the gun down!"
He felt his breathing growing rapid again, just as it had when he'd realised there was a bomb around his neck, as he pictured the unseen assailant holding their huge gun and ready to end all of their lives.
He looked through the corner of his eye at the doorway behind him, too scared to actually turn. He could run, he should've run, but his limbs weren't listening. What about Ben and Matt? They didn't have a clear exit like him, so should he abandon them in the hopes that they somehow got to safety? Should he stay together and die with them?
There was too much to think about in that brief moment, as his thoughts collided in an immobile traffic jam. Thankfully, Ben brought him to his senses when he said the name Alvaro.
Mobility returning, he pushed past Ben to get a clear view, confirming what he'd heard. There Alvaro was, his buddy and captain from the soccer team; there he was, definitely pointing that pistol at them. Between the weapon, the stench of death in the air, and the grim demeanour that could only have come from whatever Alvaro had been through in the past two days, he was barely recognisable.
"Alvaro, it's me!" he called out, stepping a step closer, his face a strange mix of happy relief and growing terror. He was glad to meet someone familiar again, but familiarity was lost on someone who could end your life with the twinge of a finger.
"It's ok, you can put the gun down!"
-
Yugikun
- Posts: 950
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:48 am
- Location: in a place where this joke is funny
- Contact:
He was hoping that he wouldn’t have to see anybody.
((Alvaro Vacanti, continued from And I Can’t See A Way Out This Time))
He hadn’t, since he had left the gardens. Since he had seen Jane. He wasn’t sure what to do, after that, so he walked. Explored where he was. He wasn’t able to go very far - his collar started beeping as he approached a place and he freaked out and ran - but he knew a little bit about where he was. There was an asylum, a church, and then the place where his collar started beeping. He could work with that. Maybe. Use it for his own purposes, or something. A hiding place. There was nobody he could trust, so he just had to be the best he could be. It had become nightfall, as he had found the asylum again, and he went inside. Found a room. There were corpses outside, but he could pretend they didn’t exist. He fell asleep fairly quickly, and the announcement had woken him up. He stood up, off of where he was, and that was when he saw the group.
And he hadn’t seen anyone else during that time.
And he was happy for that. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t know whether he could.
But he knew he had to.
So that was why he said what he said. That was why he did what he did. They were scared. Of him. As much as he didn’t want them to think that, he knew that it was good for him.
But then they started talking back to him. That was when he realised who they were. Ben. Nate.
Friends.
No. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pull-
But he had to. He knew he had to. There was no other choice. They knew and they didn’t like it and it was going to be like Min-Jae and it was going to be like Scout and he was going to be injured and he just had to do something before they tried to-
But they were his friends. He played soccer with Nate. He talked with Ben, at the cafe. With his sister. No, he-
And then he remembered. The announcements. Min-jae was up there. Oskar was up there. They had killed. He had killed.
…
“Drop your weapons.”
((Alvaro Vacanti, continued from And I Can’t See A Way Out This Time))
He hadn’t, since he had left the gardens. Since he had seen Jane. He wasn’t sure what to do, after that, so he walked. Explored where he was. He wasn’t able to go very far - his collar started beeping as he approached a place and he freaked out and ran - but he knew a little bit about where he was. There was an asylum, a church, and then the place where his collar started beeping. He could work with that. Maybe. Use it for his own purposes, or something. A hiding place. There was nobody he could trust, so he just had to be the best he could be. It had become nightfall, as he had found the asylum again, and he went inside. Found a room. There were corpses outside, but he could pretend they didn’t exist. He fell asleep fairly quickly, and the announcement had woken him up. He stood up, off of where he was, and that was when he saw the group.
And he hadn’t seen anyone else during that time.
And he was happy for that. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t know whether he could.
But he knew he had to.
So that was why he said what he said. That was why he did what he did. They were scared. Of him. As much as he didn’t want them to think that, he knew that it was good for him.
But then they started talking back to him. That was when he realised who they were. Ben. Nate.
Friends.
No. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pull-
But he had to. He knew he had to. There was no other choice. They knew and they didn’t like it and it was going to be like Min-Jae and it was going to be like Scout and he was going to be injured and he just had to do something before they tried to-
But they were his friends. He played soccer with Nate. He talked with Ben, at the cafe. With his sister. No, he-
And then he remembered. The announcements. Min-jae was up there. Oskar was up there. They had killed. He had killed.
…
“Drop your weapons.”
Weapons. What a joke. Between the three of them, there wasn't half of something even approaching a weapon. If it gave the crazed gunman that his companions somehow knew any peace of mind, then sure. He'd drop his 'weapon'. He quietly hoped that his gun jammed if he decided to fire it, before thinking about a more proactive solution.
"Uh, alright.. I'm putting it down, now. Just, uh, keep cool, alright?"
Slowly, he started putting his selfie stick down. He fantasized about knocking Alvaro upside the head with it, but that's all it was - fantasizing. Even if he did hit him, this thing wasn't sturdy enough to do more than annoy him. Maybe he could get out, run away, something like that. It was dark. He might miss. He might hit someone else. He might not even fire at all, he didn't know.
A million different solutions ran through his head, none of them seeming to be worth it. So he stood his ground, hoping that someone braver than him would do something. Or maybe he was waiting to get shot in a dark basement and have thousands, if not millions of people see it - who knew?
That really was the funniest death he could imagine, really. The ultimate game show ending.
"Uh, alright.. I'm putting it down, now. Just, uh, keep cool, alright?"
Slowly, he started putting his selfie stick down. He fantasized about knocking Alvaro upside the head with it, but that's all it was - fantasizing. Even if he did hit him, this thing wasn't sturdy enough to do more than annoy him. Maybe he could get out, run away, something like that. It was dark. He might miss. He might hit someone else. He might not even fire at all, he didn't know.
A million different solutions ran through his head, none of them seeming to be worth it. So he stood his ground, hoping that someone braver than him would do something. Or maybe he was waiting to get shot in a dark basement and have thousands, if not millions of people see it - who knew?
That really was the funniest death he could imagine, really. The ultimate game show ending.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Privyet. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.