((Rhory Anne Broderick continued from from the tit to the bone. Posted with staff permission.))
She kept her eyes fixed on the ferris wheel. Each step astern was slow, laborious. She realized as she lumbered backwardly along that this terrain was not meant for the blind. Still, she did not let her vision sway from the point where the gilded spokes met in the center. She kept her sight firmly at sky-level even as she half-stumbled over what she told herself was a rock, of course it was just a rock, and even as the top of the heavy thing she was dragging along banged painfully and repeatedly against her groin. It was unsettlingly stiff and surprisingly unwieldy. It felt unnatural in her arms. She could almost pretend it wasn't a person as long as she didn't look down. Just as she had identified the various debris that she flung from the scattered bags as Things, not Possessions, she acknowledged these forms as Meat (and while People had Possessions, Meat only had Things). But the various Meat-Things had amounted to nothing useful. Whether it had been a butcher here or just a vulture, they'd picked the bones clean. Rhory would have to search more thoroughly for her desperate re-supply.
Grave robbing (no not people, Meat) had turned out to be something difficult to do in the increasingly revealing early-morning light. It was wrong and made her feel vulnerable. She needed dark. And so there she was, shuffling sickly along with a surreal sense of paranoid guilt and a pretty blonde little slab of Meat dashing against her thighs, scaring the flies off it each time it hit and she tripped over rocks and Meat-rocks until finally, mercifully, painfully, her ankles smashed into the low steel ledge that marked the entrance to the hall. She took a breath.
She closed her eyes fully as she dragged It over the small step. There was a tearing sound as fabric (just fabric please just fabric) caught itself on the lip and ripped away. It began to resist more strongly. She felt her way around It blindly until finally there were rubbery thuds and they were moving back again. She kept her eyelids closed as she shuffled into what the thin pane jamming into her left shoulder on the way in told her was the first of the mirrors. She continued until her back hit sharply against some flimsy surface and took that as a sign to continue rightwards, inch by inch, switching directions each time she hit an obstacle and mentally recording her path, until finally she assessed the light pressing into her eyeballs as bearably minimal. She stopped and spread her legs wide, sliding the sack of Meat between them slowly until its neck lay contorted at the base of a mirror that contorted it further into a phantasmic parody Francis Bacon would admire. She noticed it had more freckles than she remembered, and that its eyes looked softer without make-up and she saw a trio of black flies conventing in her right nostril and before she registered what she was doing she had thrown her denim jacket over its face.
Fuck.
Her hand hovered trembling first over the sickly sticky-brown torso. She searched for a wound, but the whole thing was a mess of long dead vitality too thick to see through. Her eyes darted around nervously for a cleaner cavity. She noticed the right pocket of its jeans, with a ragged ring of lumpy brown-red edging just into the opening and a visible silhouette pressing its way through the soiled fabric.
She bit her lip.
She reached.
Her fingertips brushed against a viscous glob and she groaned as she pressed determinedly past it. She pushed vigorously, harder than she intended and her nails dug into hard skin and tensed muscle and her fingers ran down it over the thin cotton innards for a full eternal second before the nauseous electricity hit and she flew ungracefully back into the mirror opposite Head VII and choked back gags for several minutes as she laid pitifully against the steel floor.
This, she thought, wasn't going to work so great after all.
Laisse tomber les filles
non je ne pleurerai pas
Laisse tomber les filles
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((Continued from Castles in the Sand))
Bill made his way across the island over the course of the morning, his black hoodie slipped on for warmth somewhere in the middle of his monologue and never taken off. His gun was slung over his shoulder as well, both because he didn't know when he'd need it and because it had never fit well in his bag. Bill was hungry and exhausted from talking the camera to death for somewhere in the ballpark of fifteen hours. He had at least managed to get some (presumably vaguely clean) water from the stream he crossed on his way south, and eventually he found himself passing through the "Fun Fair" (which looked about as fun as a hole in the head right now) and approaching the Hall of Mirrors from the south
It was as he approached the Hall of Mirrors that Bill noticed a large splotch of blood on the ground. Looking further up, he noticed a trail of blood leading away into the Hall, and an empty, raided bag by the door, with another bag by it. Oh, and a body or two thrown in for atmosphere, as if he needed to be further convinced of the situation or had somehow missed the other hints.
The math was not hard for him to do. Pulling his gun off his shoulder, Bill checked to make sure that it was loaded. Confirming that it was fully loaded, and that the rest of the shells were in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. Cocking the gun and flipping the safety off, Bill grumbled a bit under his breath.
Great. A player. Who knows who it is...ok, you want to play? I'll play.
Bill put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it up, and walked through the door of the Hall of Mirrors. Glancing around, he shouted at anyone inside. "Whoever's in here, come out with your hands up!"
And why did I just decide to handle this like some TV cop?
Bill made his way across the island over the course of the morning, his black hoodie slipped on for warmth somewhere in the middle of his monologue and never taken off. His gun was slung over his shoulder as well, both because he didn't know when he'd need it and because it had never fit well in his bag. Bill was hungry and exhausted from talking the camera to death for somewhere in the ballpark of fifteen hours. He had at least managed to get some (presumably vaguely clean) water from the stream he crossed on his way south, and eventually he found himself passing through the "Fun Fair" (which looked about as fun as a hole in the head right now) and approaching the Hall of Mirrors from the south
It was as he approached the Hall of Mirrors that Bill noticed a large splotch of blood on the ground. Looking further up, he noticed a trail of blood leading away into the Hall, and an empty, raided bag by the door, with another bag by it. Oh, and a body or two thrown in for atmosphere, as if he needed to be further convinced of the situation or had somehow missed the other hints.
The math was not hard for him to do. Pulling his gun off his shoulder, Bill checked to make sure that it was loaded. Confirming that it was fully loaded, and that the rest of the shells were in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. Cocking the gun and flipping the safety off, Bill grumbled a bit under his breath.
Great. A player. Who knows who it is...ok, you want to play? I'll play.
Bill put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it up, and walked through the door of the Hall of Mirrors. Glancing around, he shouted at anyone inside. "Whoever's in here, come out with your hands up!"
And why did I just decide to handle this like some TV cop?
Rhory could feel a globule of blood-gum spread between her fingers as they squirmed their way back into the pocket's maw. She let in a weak gasp when she met the gruesome resistance again. It was a wooden feeling, hard and hollow, but unmistakably flesh. She could feel the stony contours of the muscle as her fingers delicately struggled downward. She remembered seeing the girl (no, it, meat) in those ridiculous cheer uniforms, flashing these very thighs, flexing and writhing under now unmalleable skin, now just this little blonde hunk of rot, and her hand was in to her knuckles now, and she noticed the smell for the first time and to her horror it wasn't so revolting, just familiar now, putrescine and cadaverine soaked into her nails and hair and skin as a stench that would follow her even if (when) she gets out of this and her fingertips finally touched something, something solid, smooth, something-
She ripped her hand out from the girl's jeans as the voice boomed from outside, tearing the pocket and sliding more putty blood onto her right hand. Her left was clutching at her hair, elbow covering her face in some half-assed defense. Her breath came back shaky and shallow. She grabbed on to the edge of a mirror pane with a slippery hand and stumbled upwards. As she managed to finally ease her trembling legs (don't try to tell yourself it's lack of food, honey, it's lack of balls) she carefully stretched over the corpse and treaded lightly down the hall, twisted her way out of her blind mental path towards the brighter halls, trying to find a mirror that reflected her new menace. She inched silently, her chest constricting at the slightest misstep or sound. She peered intently at every mirror, hoping for an opportune angle. Most only granted her deformed self-portraits. Even the disfiguring funhouse glass could show her how pathetic she looked, flat against the opposite walls, spraying foggy breath all over the mirrors her right cheek was pressed towards. Finally, one close to the entrance offered a view. Though seriously warped she could make out a blonde-mopped wall of a figure just outside the entrance, holding something long and gray out towards the hall.
It was a very, very large gun.
Rhory threw herself back against the mirror-wall, breath absent again. She was paralyzed for several taffy-stretched moments. Terrified that he might have heard or seen or otherwise sensed her presence. How did he know she was here? Her bag was out there, that she knew, but the entrance was littered with the pilfered possessions of three Meats anyway. There was no way he could be able to tell if the trail her little tryst with Evelyn Reed left was fresh, right? Of course not. There was no way he knew for sure she was in here. He was bluffing, being overcautious or overzealous or overeager. Maybe spouting cop-drama clichés at air made him feel better about his tiny prick.
But he had a gun. A big, big fucking gun. She hadn't stayed alive for the past week by dicking around with people that had big guns. She needed out, and fast, before he decided to come find her himself or before her legs collapsed under their fear-weight. There had to be a back door. At the very least, there had a corner to hide in until He-Man became bored of the hunt. She'd become accustomed to dark corners, anyway. They were turning out to be her field of expertise.
She gulped air as quietly as she could manage. Carefully, deliberately, she began to retrace her steps to the darker reach of the hall.
She ripped her hand out from the girl's jeans as the voice boomed from outside, tearing the pocket and sliding more putty blood onto her right hand. Her left was clutching at her hair, elbow covering her face in some half-assed defense. Her breath came back shaky and shallow. She grabbed on to the edge of a mirror pane with a slippery hand and stumbled upwards. As she managed to finally ease her trembling legs (don't try to tell yourself it's lack of food, honey, it's lack of balls) she carefully stretched over the corpse and treaded lightly down the hall, twisted her way out of her blind mental path towards the brighter halls, trying to find a mirror that reflected her new menace. She inched silently, her chest constricting at the slightest misstep or sound. She peered intently at every mirror, hoping for an opportune angle. Most only granted her deformed self-portraits. Even the disfiguring funhouse glass could show her how pathetic she looked, flat against the opposite walls, spraying foggy breath all over the mirrors her right cheek was pressed towards. Finally, one close to the entrance offered a view. Though seriously warped she could make out a blonde-mopped wall of a figure just outside the entrance, holding something long and gray out towards the hall.
It was a very, very large gun.
Rhory threw herself back against the mirror-wall, breath absent again. She was paralyzed for several taffy-stretched moments. Terrified that he might have heard or seen or otherwise sensed her presence. How did he know she was here? Her bag was out there, that she knew, but the entrance was littered with the pilfered possessions of three Meats anyway. There was no way he could be able to tell if the trail her little tryst with Evelyn Reed left was fresh, right? Of course not. There was no way he knew for sure she was in here. He was bluffing, being overcautious or overzealous or overeager. Maybe spouting cop-drama clichés at air made him feel better about his tiny prick.
But he had a gun. A big, big fucking gun. She hadn't stayed alive for the past week by dicking around with people that had big guns. She needed out, and fast, before he decided to come find her himself or before her legs collapsed under their fear-weight. There had to be a back door. At the very least, there had a corner to hide in until He-Man became bored of the hunt. She'd become accustomed to dark corners, anyway. They were turning out to be her field of expertise.
She gulped air as quietly as she could manage. Carefully, deliberately, she began to retrace her steps to the darker reach of the hall.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler nope. 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.
[A Day at the Beach --> Logan Reynolds]
While he'd been moving plenty fast on his retreat from the beach, it didn't take long for the fight-or-flight adrenaline to subside, and for Logan to slow from a brisk march to a slow stroll. After all, he had no idea where he was going. Same as ever, he wanted to keep moving, but lacked any real destination. "So why hurry?" he reasoned, "I'm not going anywhere important."
Besides, it was probably best to conserve his energy, for the various worst-case-scenarios that could present themselves at a moment's notice. For exactly that reasoning, Logan stuck to the spare woodland between the beaches and cliffs of the coast, and the island proper. Even a slight treeline, he figured, would be a good defense against gunfire. The fact that it made his progress even slower, and decelerating the darker the day got, didn't much matter to him.
Daylight had well and truly faded by the time the lanky young man caught sight of the Mansion in the distance, but he didn't want to sleep, not yet. Remembering from his map that there were plenty of small buildings scattered around the Fun Fair, few of which were likely to be investigated overnight, Logan turned his attention fully to the west, and set out for that landmark Ferris Wheel. For some reason, the prospect of sleeping in one of the seats, suspended high in the air, appealed to Logan on a things-I-always-wanted-to-get-away-with-as-a-kid level.
He soon found, though, in the twilight of the small hours of the morning, that his childish mission was doomed to failure. He could barely see what he was doing, and didn't like the idea of an embarrassing death from a stupid fall. Or worse, being immobilised, and being found by someone else who'd finish the job. No, instead he made the short journey north to the house of mirrors. Two floors, dark, full of confusing reflections, the perfect place not to be found, or so logic asserted.
Somebody else was already at the door. They went into the darkness, and issued their demand to whoever might be inside.
"Whoever's in here, come out with your hands up!"
Logan hung back, waiting in the shadow of a stall, and let the other - boy? The voice sounded male - continue inside. With a bitter mutter of "Nothing's easy..." to himself, he waited a few seconds, then, making sure his weapon was gripped firmly in his right hand, made his own way forward. Making a note of the blood on the floor, and lowering his left hand onto the handle of his hakapik in preparation, he stepped slowly, quietly, through the door.
Instantly, the sight of Bill's shotgun told Logan he'd made a huge mistake in getting this close. Luckily, he still seemed focused on whoever he thought was inside. Logan backpedalled as quietly as he could.
Snap.
Instinctively, his eyes shot down. A small shard of glass, shattered under his foot. Fuck.
Standing behind a boy with a shotgun, holding a seal-clubbing weapon in both hands as if ready to strike, and the source of a very obvious noise. This was not a place Logan wanted to be.
While he'd been moving plenty fast on his retreat from the beach, it didn't take long for the fight-or-flight adrenaline to subside, and for Logan to slow from a brisk march to a slow stroll. After all, he had no idea where he was going. Same as ever, he wanted to keep moving, but lacked any real destination. "So why hurry?" he reasoned, "I'm not going anywhere important."
Besides, it was probably best to conserve his energy, for the various worst-case-scenarios that could present themselves at a moment's notice. For exactly that reasoning, Logan stuck to the spare woodland between the beaches and cliffs of the coast, and the island proper. Even a slight treeline, he figured, would be a good defense against gunfire. The fact that it made his progress even slower, and decelerating the darker the day got, didn't much matter to him.
Daylight had well and truly faded by the time the lanky young man caught sight of the Mansion in the distance, but he didn't want to sleep, not yet. Remembering from his map that there were plenty of small buildings scattered around the Fun Fair, few of which were likely to be investigated overnight, Logan turned his attention fully to the west, and set out for that landmark Ferris Wheel. For some reason, the prospect of sleeping in one of the seats, suspended high in the air, appealed to Logan on a things-I-always-wanted-to-get-away-with-as-a-kid level.
He soon found, though, in the twilight of the small hours of the morning, that his childish mission was doomed to failure. He could barely see what he was doing, and didn't like the idea of an embarrassing death from a stupid fall. Or worse, being immobilised, and being found by someone else who'd finish the job. No, instead he made the short journey north to the house of mirrors. Two floors, dark, full of confusing reflections, the perfect place not to be found, or so logic asserted.
Somebody else was already at the door. They went into the darkness, and issued their demand to whoever might be inside.
"Whoever's in here, come out with your hands up!"
Logan hung back, waiting in the shadow of a stall, and let the other - boy? The voice sounded male - continue inside. With a bitter mutter of "Nothing's easy..." to himself, he waited a few seconds, then, making sure his weapon was gripped firmly in his right hand, made his own way forward. Making a note of the blood on the floor, and lowering his left hand onto the handle of his hakapik in preparation, he stepped slowly, quietly, through the door.
Instantly, the sight of Bill's shotgun told Logan he'd made a huge mistake in getting this close. Luckily, he still seemed focused on whoever he thought was inside. Logan backpedalled as quietly as he could.
Snap.
Instinctively, his eyes shot down. A small shard of glass, shattered under his foot. Fuck.
Standing behind a boy with a shotgun, holding a seal-clubbing weapon in both hands as if ready to strike, and the source of a very obvious noise. This was not a place Logan wanted to be.
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((Marion Summers continued from Walk On Water Or Drown))
Marion bit back a yawn as she made her way towards the Hall of Mirrors. She wasn't sure why exactly she was heading that way, but it was a goal, a place to focus on when coming down from the mountain. Now that she stood in the shadow of the building she took a moment to wonder just what in the world it was doing here. What was this island for? Why build an amusement park right smack in the middle of it? Marion frowned realizing that it looked like no fun house she'd ever seen before and it took her a moment to figure out that somehow she'd ended up at the back of the building.
She bit her lip absently as she decided what to do. Maybe going in the back would give her a chance to hide, get some shut eye. Something she still hadn't managed to do. Decision made she made her way to the door and pulled it open. She stuck her head in and seeing no one in the immediate vicinity stepped in. She squinted trying to figure out the best way to navigate the maze she found herself in. Picking a direction, she followed it, finally discovering a set of stairs. She climbed the stairs cautiously and had just managed to get comfortable when she heard voices downstairs.
"Whoever's in here, come out with your hands up!"
Marion made a quick decision to stay put. As far as she knew, no one knew she was here. Whoever it was could just be taking a shot in the dark. Instead she opened her bag and pulled out a bottle of water. If she stayed quiet maybe he'd just go away and leave her in peace.
Marion bit back a yawn as she made her way towards the Hall of Mirrors. She wasn't sure why exactly she was heading that way, but it was a goal, a place to focus on when coming down from the mountain. Now that she stood in the shadow of the building she took a moment to wonder just what in the world it was doing here. What was this island for? Why build an amusement park right smack in the middle of it? Marion frowned realizing that it looked like no fun house she'd ever seen before and it took her a moment to figure out that somehow she'd ended up at the back of the building.
She bit her lip absently as she decided what to do. Maybe going in the back would give her a chance to hide, get some shut eye. Something she still hadn't managed to do. Decision made she made her way to the door and pulled it open. She stuck her head in and seeing no one in the immediate vicinity stepped in. She squinted trying to figure out the best way to navigate the maze she found herself in. Picking a direction, she followed it, finally discovering a set of stairs. She climbed the stairs cautiously and had just managed to get comfortable when she heard voices downstairs.
"Whoever's in here, come out with your hands up!"
Marion made a quick decision to stay put. As far as she knew, no one knew she was here. Whoever it was could just be taking a shot in the dark. Instead she opened her bag and pulled out a bottle of water. If she stayed quiet maybe he'd just go away and leave her in peace.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Arscapi. 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.
Bill waited for a moment, looking down the halls for the murder of...whomever the dead body happened to belong to, or at least for someone to emerge without (literal) blood on their hands.
Unsurprisingly, the person was not forthcoming, when he caught movement in one of the mirrors at almost the same time as he heard glass crunching behind him. Spinning around, Bill found his loaded gun in Logan Reynolds' face, while Logan was holding some sort of club in his hand. An irritated frown appeared on Bill's face, and he shook his head, coming to a slightly less dramatic conclusion than Logan might have expected.
"Don't worry, I didn't kill anybody, but someone in here did."
The same someone he assumed that Logan was skulking around, looking for.
"If you want to help me, go the other way and we can corner them. I've got no problem with you."
And from the look on Bill's face and the tone of his voice, that is not a request, and a refusal will not be met with anything resembling approval.
Though Bill is going to turn once Logan is well underway to try and chase down the mystery killer, he keeps an eye on her until she does turn.
"By the way, what's your name?"
Unsurprisingly, the person was not forthcoming, when he caught movement in one of the mirrors at almost the same time as he heard glass crunching behind him. Spinning around, Bill found his loaded gun in Logan Reynolds' face, while Logan was holding some sort of club in his hand. An irritated frown appeared on Bill's face, and he shook his head, coming to a slightly less dramatic conclusion than Logan might have expected.
"Don't worry, I didn't kill anybody, but someone in here did."
The same someone he assumed that Logan was skulking around, looking for.
"If you want to help me, go the other way and we can corner them. I've got no problem with you."
And from the look on Bill's face and the tone of his voice, that is not a request, and a refusal will not be met with anything resembling approval.
Though Bill is going to turn once Logan is well underway to try and chase down the mystery killer, he keeps an eye on her until she does turn.
"By the way, what's your name?"
"Don't worry, I didn't kill anybody, but someone in here did."
Logan opened his eyes. The second he'd noticed how loud the shattering glass was, he'd screwed them up, a moment of cowardice overtaking him, not wanting to see his imminent death approaching, not wanting to see the shotgun-wielding psychopath turn to face him.
But apparently, luckily, against all odds and by the grace of God, Allah, or whoever the bloody hell else was watching over the damned students, Bill was no psychopath. He was definitely shotgun-wielding, though, that hadn't changed, and remained something for Logan to bear in mind. Crossing him took pride of place at the very bottom of his list of priorities. Funny how one rethinks their to-do list when there's a lot of buckshot involved.
"If you want to help me, go the other way and we can corner them. I've got no problem with you."
But Logan didn't want to help him though. He wanted to get as far away of this bad choice of destination as was humanly possible. He wanted to curl up in a pile of leaves and sleep until the sixth morning's announcements. That wasn't an option though, and it didn't take someone with a hobby-level interest in body-language to realise that Bill wasn't asking for help. He was politely demanding it. And hell, who was Logan to argue? He was the one without the shotgun, that's who.
"By the way, what's your name?"
Looked like the other boy had realised where they both stood as well. Well, it wouldn't be too hard for Logan to let Bill turn around, then bury the faintly-gleaming head of his hakapik in his skull, but that wasn't about to happen. As he'd worked out towards the end of his partnership with Daisuke, and in a situation not unlike the present one, Logan was no killer. The other boy was, or at least still believed he could be. What choice did the poor lanky young man have? He decided to answer, as concisely and honestly as was possible.
"Logan Reynolds, I... uh... yeah. I'm not going to help you kill someone, if that's what you mean... err, I mean, not actively at least, but if you're going to do it anyway, and they deserve it, I can help, I suppose?"
He realised he'd put his foot in his mouth. Uncharacteristic, but pretty easily traced to the mortality-based panic he'd just come out of. At least he'd said it quietly, whoever they were after probably couldn't hear. Probably. He took a deep breath, told himself to calm down, to think clearly, to stop going off on tangents and focus. Scatterbrained-ness didn't become him, and it wasn't a good habit to fall into when there were shotguns involved and murderers to hunt.
"I'll just..."
The just trailed off, he didn't want to talk much at all, didn't want to embarrass himself further, and didn't want to even appear the slightest bit blasé about any of this. Everyday death wasn't something he was planning on getting used to. Following that rather timid addition, Logan lowered his weapon, and started to creep off in the direction Bill had pointed him towards, using the long-handled tool to brush away any more glass that might be in his path.
Logan opened his eyes. The second he'd noticed how loud the shattering glass was, he'd screwed them up, a moment of cowardice overtaking him, not wanting to see his imminent death approaching, not wanting to see the shotgun-wielding psychopath turn to face him.
But apparently, luckily, against all odds and by the grace of God, Allah, or whoever the bloody hell else was watching over the damned students, Bill was no psychopath. He was definitely shotgun-wielding, though, that hadn't changed, and remained something for Logan to bear in mind. Crossing him took pride of place at the very bottom of his list of priorities. Funny how one rethinks their to-do list when there's a lot of buckshot involved.
"If you want to help me, go the other way and we can corner them. I've got no problem with you."
But Logan didn't want to help him though. He wanted to get as far away of this bad choice of destination as was humanly possible. He wanted to curl up in a pile of leaves and sleep until the sixth morning's announcements. That wasn't an option though, and it didn't take someone with a hobby-level interest in body-language to realise that Bill wasn't asking for help. He was politely demanding it. And hell, who was Logan to argue? He was the one without the shotgun, that's who.
"By the way, what's your name?"
Looked like the other boy had realised where they both stood as well. Well, it wouldn't be too hard for Logan to let Bill turn around, then bury the faintly-gleaming head of his hakapik in his skull, but that wasn't about to happen. As he'd worked out towards the end of his partnership with Daisuke, and in a situation not unlike the present one, Logan was no killer. The other boy was, or at least still believed he could be. What choice did the poor lanky young man have? He decided to answer, as concisely and honestly as was possible.
"Logan Reynolds, I... uh... yeah. I'm not going to help you kill someone, if that's what you mean... err, I mean, not actively at least, but if you're going to do it anyway, and they deserve it, I can help, I suppose?"
He realised he'd put his foot in his mouth. Uncharacteristic, but pretty easily traced to the mortality-based panic he'd just come out of. At least he'd said it quietly, whoever they were after probably couldn't hear. Probably. He took a deep breath, told himself to calm down, to think clearly, to stop going off on tangents and focus. Scatterbrained-ness didn't become him, and it wasn't a good habit to fall into when there were shotguns involved and murderers to hunt.
"I'll just..."
The just trailed off, he didn't want to talk much at all, didn't want to embarrass himself further, and didn't want to even appear the slightest bit blasé about any of this. Everyday death wasn't something he was planning on getting used to. Following that rather timid addition, Logan lowered his weapon, and started to creep off in the direction Bill had pointed him towards, using the long-handled tool to brush away any more glass that might be in his path.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Chib. 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.
"Logan Reynolds, I... uh... yeah. I'm not going to help you kill someone, if that's what you mean... err, I mean, not actively at least, but if you're going to do it anyway, and they deserve it, I can help, I suppose?"
"I'll just..."
"Go that way." Bill pointed down the hall in one direction. "It'll cut her off. Don't worry...I'm the one with the gun, so I'll deal with her."
And please don't turn on me. I'd hate to have to kill someone who isn't playing.
With that, as soon as Logan starts on his way, Bill begins making his way down the hall in the direction he last saw the mystery woman go.
"I'll just..."
"Go that way." Bill pointed down the hall in one direction. "It'll cut her off. Don't worry...I'm the one with the gun, so I'll deal with her."
And please don't turn on me. I'd hate to have to kill someone who isn't playing.
With that, as soon as Logan starts on his way, Bill begins making his way down the hall in the direction he last saw the mystery woman go.
Marion heard the voices below and decided to retreat a little further onto the second floor. She'd taken about two steps when she realized maybe this wasn't the best plan. There was large chunks of...well she really didn't want to think about what was lying among the broken pieces of wood and nails. She bit her lip as she tried to decide what to do. It sounded like the people below were hunting for her, although how they knew where she was, was a mystery. She hadn't seen anyone as she'd come in, maybe it was a different girl. Deciding she couldn't get away without being seen, she figured she might as well stay put and roll with the punches. Resuming her seat on the top step, she leaned forward, straining with her ears to try and figure out what was happening below.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Arscapi. 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.
Rhory held herself tightly to the pane of a concave mirror as she listened to the two blurred reflections. She was the killer, they said. The killer? How fucking stupid could they be? Why would she, the big bad goddamn killer, stay with the bodies for what the decomposing Meat-mounds clearly showed was for at least a day, and then just start dragging them about? How did they come to that shitty conclusion? How did that make sense? But the last week had taught her sense was useless here. Would she have been graverobbing if things made sense, and doing an awful job of it at that? Would she have dragged a dead body through a funhouse just because she hadn't wanted to see what she was doing? As she thought on that, she realized her own actions truly did not make any sense to her. None whatsoever. What had she been thinking? Maybe she was just a psycho, finally broken and twisted by the game. At least she wasn't the kind of psycho who went on witch-hunts on a whim like Rocky Horror and his new sidekick out there. She briefly considered that this was karma for her pathetic attempt at desecration. She made a brief mental prayer to God and the Baby Jesus and Saint Jude (the only saint she could remember). She promised to stop groping dead cheerleaders, for good. She realized with a flash of frantic dismay as the figures in the reflection grew larger that her prayers would not be answered.
She made a less-than-graceful dash into a new section of the hall and clumsily threaded her way around the disorienting maze from there. There had to be another exit somewhere, a fire exit, or maybe she could out-maneuver her pursuers and loop back towards the entrance. Both seemed useless, especially with how slow she needed to go to keep her footsteps silent. Even then, her sneakers made the occasional awful squeak that caused her to wince and her breath to catch. She felt her heart volleying the inside of her chest and thought it a miracle that they couldn't hear that. She nearly brained herself on a mirror she hadn't quite noticed. She fought back tears of desperation and frustration as she turned another corner. Adrenaline had her every muscle panic-light and her whole body trembled whenever she stopped. She needed out. She needed out. Out. Out. Out. Where the fuck was the way ou-
She emptied out of the latest stretch of mirror and turned into the next and caught a brief glimpse of an indistinct figure scurrying past the closest junction. She stopped dead. Even her frantic thoughts withered instantly, as if she were afraid they would leak out into the tense silence and give her away. She slowly backed herself away from the direction the shadow had flown in. Step. Step. Toe to heel, being sure to keep the noisy rubber soles as quiet as possible. Step. Step. How much farther did she have to go to find an escape? She glanced over her shoulder. Step. Step. StCRRRRRACK.
Her heel met resistance and a fleshy pop erupted into the air. She fell sideways towards the obstacle and her left side met it with a sickly squelch. She brought up her right arm to claw herself up, but instead clenched at denim fabric that pulled away under her grasp. She turned and her eyes met a second pair of duller ones. She was elbow-deep in the pile of gore that was once pretty little Bayview cheerleader Evelyn Reed. She couldn't quite suppress a scream.
She made a less-than-graceful dash into a new section of the hall and clumsily threaded her way around the disorienting maze from there. There had to be another exit somewhere, a fire exit, or maybe she could out-maneuver her pursuers and loop back towards the entrance. Both seemed useless, especially with how slow she needed to go to keep her footsteps silent. Even then, her sneakers made the occasional awful squeak that caused her to wince and her breath to catch. She felt her heart volleying the inside of her chest and thought it a miracle that they couldn't hear that. She nearly brained herself on a mirror she hadn't quite noticed. She fought back tears of desperation and frustration as she turned another corner. Adrenaline had her every muscle panic-light and her whole body trembled whenever she stopped. She needed out. She needed out. Out. Out. Out. Where the fuck was the way ou-
She emptied out of the latest stretch of mirror and turned into the next and caught a brief glimpse of an indistinct figure scurrying past the closest junction. She stopped dead. Even her frantic thoughts withered instantly, as if she were afraid they would leak out into the tense silence and give her away. She slowly backed herself away from the direction the shadow had flown in. Step. Step. Toe to heel, being sure to keep the noisy rubber soles as quiet as possible. Step. Step. How much farther did she have to go to find an escape? She glanced over her shoulder. Step. Step. StCRRRRRACK.
Her heel met resistance and a fleshy pop erupted into the air. She fell sideways towards the obstacle and her left side met it with a sickly squelch. She brought up her right arm to claw herself up, but instead clenched at denim fabric that pulled away under her grasp. She turned and her eyes met a second pair of duller ones. She was elbow-deep in the pile of gore that was once pretty little Bayview cheerleader Evelyn Reed. She couldn't quite suppress a scream.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler nope. 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.
(Hopefully bringing this back to a more consistent order is a go!)
To say progress was slow would be a massive understatement. The further Logan crept forwards, the more he had time to think about what he was doing, and find it loathesome. Here he was, a boy who had previously been planning to become some kind of heroic slayer of evil killers, instantly fleeing from some girl with a gun, and now instantly going along with whatever some guy told him, because he had a shotgun. For all he knew, Bill was the real murderer in the mirror hall, and he'd been playing Logan for a fool the whole time. After all, he had a pretty damn sweet weapon, it would be hard not to take advantage of it.
Not much he could do about it for the moment, though. Logan had no idea where Bill had gotten to, the path the other boy had taken probably wouldn't be easy to get back to, let alone follow. So he carried on the way he was going, shoving the occasional shard of glass out of his way with either his shoes or his stick. At that moment, labelling it a weapon felt somehow wrong.
Progress continued to be slow, unsurprisingly. The terrain wasn't getting any easier, and the suspicions of Bill's motives weren't getting any quieter inside his head.
And then a scream pierced the midnight silence. Female, more shock than fear, and nearby. Logan sped up, the advantage of a little extra focus, and navigated towards where the sound had come from. Just shy of a minute later, the boy reached his destination.
He was sure that he was in the right place, but to begin with, Logan couldn't see anything. Not anything alive, at any rate. Eventually, his eyes fell upon the unusual spectacle of a girl - alive and well, at least physically - laying in what was apparently once another girl - dead and very not well.
Doubt flared up again; what kind of horrible murderer trips over a corpse and screams? Surely the actual killer would've known the body was there to begin with, and wouldn't have given themself away so easily. So either Bill was playing him, or at the very least, this wasn't the person they were looking for.
So with that in mind, Logan switched his hakapik to his left hand, approached Rhory, and extended his right hand in an offer to help her up. Partly because of seeing the Evelyn's remains close up, partly because of the residual panic from minutes before, his voice was still shaky, however he did his best to sound un-threatening at the very least, maybe kind, and, at the unlikely best, moderately confident.
"Er, are you okay?"
So much for the confidence.
To say progress was slow would be a massive understatement. The further Logan crept forwards, the more he had time to think about what he was doing, and find it loathesome. Here he was, a boy who had previously been planning to become some kind of heroic slayer of evil killers, instantly fleeing from some girl with a gun, and now instantly going along with whatever some guy told him, because he had a shotgun. For all he knew, Bill was the real murderer in the mirror hall, and he'd been playing Logan for a fool the whole time. After all, he had a pretty damn sweet weapon, it would be hard not to take advantage of it.
Not much he could do about it for the moment, though. Logan had no idea where Bill had gotten to, the path the other boy had taken probably wouldn't be easy to get back to, let alone follow. So he carried on the way he was going, shoving the occasional shard of glass out of his way with either his shoes or his stick. At that moment, labelling it a weapon felt somehow wrong.
Progress continued to be slow, unsurprisingly. The terrain wasn't getting any easier, and the suspicions of Bill's motives weren't getting any quieter inside his head.
And then a scream pierced the midnight silence. Female, more shock than fear, and nearby. Logan sped up, the advantage of a little extra focus, and navigated towards where the sound had come from. Just shy of a minute later, the boy reached his destination.
He was sure that he was in the right place, but to begin with, Logan couldn't see anything. Not anything alive, at any rate. Eventually, his eyes fell upon the unusual spectacle of a girl - alive and well, at least physically - laying in what was apparently once another girl - dead and very not well.
Doubt flared up again; what kind of horrible murderer trips over a corpse and screams? Surely the actual killer would've known the body was there to begin with, and wouldn't have given themself away so easily. So either Bill was playing him, or at the very least, this wasn't the person they were looking for.
So with that in mind, Logan switched his hakapik to his left hand, approached Rhory, and extended his right hand in an offer to help her up. Partly because of seeing the Evelyn's remains close up, partly because of the residual panic from minutes before, his voice was still shaky, however he did his best to sound un-threatening at the very least, maybe kind, and, at the unlikely best, moderately confident.
"Er, are you okay?"
So much for the confidence.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Chib. 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.
Rhory shrank from the boy as he extended his hand, at first trying frantically to crawl back by her elbows. A loud and defiant squelch from the ex-cheerleader's abdomen stopped her short. She let out something between a sob and a gag.
Her eyes darted to the stick in the boy's other hand. Not Pygar with the gun. Just the sidekick. Was it a trap? Why not just start going at her now? It's not like she could go anywhere. She was stuck in this narrow hall, arm tangled in a stew of sickly flesh and oh god her arm sank deeper as she shifted making godawful noises and the stench attacked her and she felt hot vomit and hysteria rising in her throat and she grabbed desperately at the boy's forearm, flecking both of them with rancid blood and gore and nearly pulling him down into the bloody swamp with her and her legs slid across the floor, panic-flailing across streaks of red-brown
and when the noise started behind her she felt her limbs lurch into motion before she even had the chance to think.
Her eyes darted to the stick in the boy's other hand. Not Pygar with the gun. Just the sidekick. Was it a trap? Why not just start going at her now? It's not like she could go anywhere. She was stuck in this narrow hall, arm tangled in a stew of sickly flesh and oh god her arm sank deeper as she shifted making godawful noises and the stench attacked her and she felt hot vomit and hysteria rising in her throat and she grabbed desperately at the boy's forearm, flecking both of them with rancid blood and gore and nearly pulling him down into the bloody swamp with her and her legs slid across the floor, panic-flailing across streaks of red-brown
and when the noise started behind her she felt her limbs lurch into motion before she even had the chance to think.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler nope. 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.
One of the problems with SOTF is that good reason doesn't always take over, and it is instead exchanged with rash judgments and incompetent actions. More than a few students had died as a result of these sorts of incidents in each round, and V4 was not likely to be a bit different...
Bill caught sight of Rhory's form in the hall, and fixed his gaze on her. "Stop or I'll sho...ah, hell..."
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
The three volleys of shot aren't aimed at anyone in particular; a lack of invocation is the only thing separating Bill's approach from being called "spray and pray": The body Rhory was hiding behind gets positively littered with hot pellets, and a few tear into Rhory's jacket on the floor, turning said jacket into a see-through model with stunning speed.
BLAM!
BLAM!
Two more volleys are aimed higher once Bill realizes that his aim was too low, and the shots go down the hall, shattering the few intact mirrors on the hall into numerous pieces and sending a number of flying pieces of glass into whomever happens to be in their way before Bill realizes that Logan Reynolds was already in the hall when he'd unleashed his waves of destruction down the already ruined hall.
Sh...
"Damnit!"
And before he recognizes any of what he sees down the hall, Bill Davis is tearing off towards his erstwhile ally.
I did not mean to shoot at you...
Bill caught sight of Rhory's form in the hall, and fixed his gaze on her. "Stop or I'll sho...ah, hell..."
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
The three volleys of shot aren't aimed at anyone in particular; a lack of invocation is the only thing separating Bill's approach from being called "spray and pray": The body Rhory was hiding behind gets positively littered with hot pellets, and a few tear into Rhory's jacket on the floor, turning said jacket into a see-through model with stunning speed.
BLAM!
BLAM!
Two more volleys are aimed higher once Bill realizes that his aim was too low, and the shots go down the hall, shattering the few intact mirrors on the hall into numerous pieces and sending a number of flying pieces of glass into whomever happens to be in their way before Bill realizes that Logan Reynolds was already in the hall when he'd unleashed his waves of destruction down the already ruined hall.
Sh...
"Damnit!"
And before he recognizes any of what he sees down the hall, Bill Davis is tearing off towards his erstwhile ally.
I did not mean to shoot at you...
Either Logan had underestimated how slippery what Rhory was laying in was, or he'd underestimated Rhory herself. He never did figure out which, in the few minutes that were left to him. The girl reached out, grabbing for his hand, but slipped back down as soon as she had a grip. He didn't know if she was trying to pull him down with her intentionally, or legitimately couldn't get up, but either way, the only move to make was to grind his feet into the floor as best he could and pull the girl up.
After several seconds of scrambling, which would perhaps be utterly hilarious in other circumstances and with anything other than corpse providing the slippery surface, the boy succeeded, pulling Rhory up to her feet.
"Stop or I'll sho...ah, hell..."
Oh shit. The voice came from behind Logan. He was still slightly hunched over from leaning down to help Rhory up. In the darkness, he probably appeared about her height, within reasonable doubt. And if not, he'd been helping her regardless. In the split second before the first explosive gunshot rang through the air, Logan could've sworn the girl was pulling him fully in front of her...
BLAM!
...and then any thoughts that may have inhabited his brain at that moment disappeared in an instant.
BLAM!
A second shot rang out almost exactly as the first cartridge's load of buckshot impacted against Logan's back.
BLAM!
A second shell, then a third, both emptied burning hot lead into the boy's flesh.
Burning hot, or was that just the pain? He couldn't quite tell. Faint from the first two shots, his legs barely holding him up, Logan put up little resistance when the third hit him, and was thrown to the floor by its force. His foot slid on a patch of human remains, twisting his body 180 degrees before his head impacted with a mirrored wall, cracking but not shattering the glass.
Logan hit the floor. He hadn't even the strength to tilt his neck and look down at the damage to his torso. It had happened too quickly. It wasn't supposed to go that quickly.
He caught a glimpse of something shining, not a mirror. His hakapik, laying on the floor, he must've dropped it in shock when the first shell hit. It lay, perfectly intact, inches from where he himself had just been standing. The sight of it seemed almost ironic, such a helpful weapon it had turned out to be.
And then a further two shots were fired. The mirror that Logan's skull had already damaged - as well as several to each side - shattered entirely, raining razor sharp shards down on his perforated form. A few stuck, but by comparison to what he was already feeling, the pain of a few lacerations was dull, hard to even notice.
"Damnit!"
Well, at least Bill hadn't meant it. Or he hadn't hit Rhory at all. Logan preferred to think it was the former.
Adrenaline was kicking in now. Strength was returning, entirely uselessly, to his limbs. So to was pain, returning to the myriad holes in his back and chest.
It was hard to think, Logan could barely muster more than a phrase at a time, even in his head. Speech, for now, was entirely beyond him.
Then again, his lungs probably wouldn't be holding on to air for long anyway.
It wasn't supposed to be this quick.
The pain was more than he ever imagined it would be. His mouth produced only silence, but his mind demanded to scream.
It wasn't supposed to be this slow, either.
"I have no mouth and I must scream."? Where had he heard that before? It didn't matter. Logan craned his neck, looked down.
What a mess...
Odd thing to think, looking at the red ruin of blood and flesh that greeted his gaze, that used to be his upper body. Blood had already formed a mostly-circular pool around him.
And I failed, too.
He failed. Never stopped any killers.
I failed.
Never saved anybody.
Failed.
Not even himself.
But something in his head told him to keep his head high, so to speak.
I never killed anyone...
Never stopped believing...
Never told a lie.
Never did any wrong.
It was true enough, and it gave birth to a comforting lie. Logan had sworn never to tell a lie, he knew that, in the end, they only ended up causing harm. But who could be hurt by this, now? Only he would hear it, and if he believed it, it became true by default. It wouldn't hurt him, only put a smile on his bloodied face in his last moments.
"I don't regret a thing."
A harmless lie.
He didn't regret not having the heart to kill. He didn't regret leaving Daisuke behind. He didn't regret fleeing. He didn't regret coming to this Hall of Mirrors. He didn't regret helping Rhory up.
"I don't regret a thing."
Just one harmless lie.
Logan chose to believe it.
And whilst his vision faded.
Whilst he lost sight of Bill, running somewhere or other.
Whilst his blood spilled out across the floor.
He believed it.
And he smiled.
I don't regret a thing.
After several seconds of scrambling, which would perhaps be utterly hilarious in other circumstances and with anything other than corpse providing the slippery surface, the boy succeeded, pulling Rhory up to her feet.
"Stop or I'll sho...ah, hell..."
Oh shit. The voice came from behind Logan. He was still slightly hunched over from leaning down to help Rhory up. In the darkness, he probably appeared about her height, within reasonable doubt. And if not, he'd been helping her regardless. In the split second before the first explosive gunshot rang through the air, Logan could've sworn the girl was pulling him fully in front of her...
BLAM!
...and then any thoughts that may have inhabited his brain at that moment disappeared in an instant.
BLAM!
A second shot rang out almost exactly as the first cartridge's load of buckshot impacted against Logan's back.
BLAM!
A second shell, then a third, both emptied burning hot lead into the boy's flesh.
Burning hot, or was that just the pain? He couldn't quite tell. Faint from the first two shots, his legs barely holding him up, Logan put up little resistance when the third hit him, and was thrown to the floor by its force. His foot slid on a patch of human remains, twisting his body 180 degrees before his head impacted with a mirrored wall, cracking but not shattering the glass.
Logan hit the floor. He hadn't even the strength to tilt his neck and look down at the damage to his torso. It had happened too quickly. It wasn't supposed to go that quickly.
He caught a glimpse of something shining, not a mirror. His hakapik, laying on the floor, he must've dropped it in shock when the first shell hit. It lay, perfectly intact, inches from where he himself had just been standing. The sight of it seemed almost ironic, such a helpful weapon it had turned out to be.
And then a further two shots were fired. The mirror that Logan's skull had already damaged - as well as several to each side - shattered entirely, raining razor sharp shards down on his perforated form. A few stuck, but by comparison to what he was already feeling, the pain of a few lacerations was dull, hard to even notice.
"Damnit!"
Well, at least Bill hadn't meant it. Or he hadn't hit Rhory at all. Logan preferred to think it was the former.
Adrenaline was kicking in now. Strength was returning, entirely uselessly, to his limbs. So to was pain, returning to the myriad holes in his back and chest.
It was hard to think, Logan could barely muster more than a phrase at a time, even in his head. Speech, for now, was entirely beyond him.
Then again, his lungs probably wouldn't be holding on to air for long anyway.
It wasn't supposed to be this quick.
The pain was more than he ever imagined it would be. His mouth produced only silence, but his mind demanded to scream.
It wasn't supposed to be this slow, either.
"I have no mouth and I must scream."? Where had he heard that before? It didn't matter. Logan craned his neck, looked down.
What a mess...
Odd thing to think, looking at the red ruin of blood and flesh that greeted his gaze, that used to be his upper body. Blood had already formed a mostly-circular pool around him.
And I failed, too.
He failed. Never stopped any killers.
I failed.
Never saved anybody.
Failed.
Not even himself.
But something in his head told him to keep his head high, so to speak.
I never killed anyone...
Never stopped believing...
Never told a lie.
Never did any wrong.
It was true enough, and it gave birth to a comforting lie. Logan had sworn never to tell a lie, he knew that, in the end, they only ended up causing harm. But who could be hurt by this, now? Only he would hear it, and if he believed it, it became true by default. It wouldn't hurt him, only put a smile on his bloodied face in his last moments.
"I don't regret a thing."
A harmless lie.
He didn't regret not having the heart to kill. He didn't regret leaving Daisuke behind. He didn't regret fleeing. He didn't regret coming to this Hall of Mirrors. He didn't regret helping Rhory up.
"I don't regret a thing."
Just one harmless lie.
Logan chose to believe it.
And whilst his vision faded.
Whilst he lost sight of Bill, running somewhere or other.
Whilst his blood spilled out across the floor.
He believed it.
And he smiled.
I don't regret a thing.
Boy 114 - Logan Reynolds - DECEASED
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Chib. 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.
Marion shrunk back as the five shots rang out. She stiffled a scream and stepped back into the destroyed upstairs. She didn't want to, but it was better than going down where the shooting was. She hoped that no one had been hurt, but given their situation she doubted it. Marion chastized herself for not going towards the shots. What kind of reporter did that make her? She couldn't gather all the facts from up here. Of course, hopefully no one would be able to find her up here. Which meant that she was an alive reporter. She started to replay what she had heard in an attempt to calm herself down.
"Oh please, don't let them come up here," she whispered softly.
"Oh please, don't let them come up here," she whispered softly.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Arscapi. 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.