[[Ben Powell continued from Wind in the Willow]]
Ben Powell had finally cracked.
Well, not really.
Have we gone off the deep end?
Well, let's face the facts. One, he had left his friends. Why again? He couldn't protect them. Right, like that was part of the problem. It took a while of walking to realise why he really ran. Because everyone was going to die, and he couldn't handle that. He didn't want to get attached to someone who he eventually was going to watch die. Not again. Not after...
Everything?
Everything.
Examining the paintball gun, his paintball gun, he felt something strange. Not fear, or happiness. Just a dull empty pit. He was going to have to use it, wasn't he? Eventually, he'd have to play, be a murderer or be murdered. It was only a matter of time until someone that had the guts to do it came along him.
Continuing to walk down the dirt path, he found himself at a clearing, a small shack in the distance. Taking off his pack and getting out the map, he started to relocate himself. Groundskeepers Hut. Reminded him of his uncle, you know, that one who lives with grandma and grandpa and just does gardening and into animals and stuff like that. Choked on a steak and died. Yeah. Well, at least he was going to go in a slightly cooler fashion than that. Live TV and guns and swords and shit like that.
Sighing, Ben sat down on the grass and put his face in his hands.
I can still do this.
Never give up.
That's a bout. Salute. Shake hands.
Private.
That's a bout. Salute. Shake hands.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Dropbear. 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.
((This brief one-shot post has been approved for postage in this thread))
((Brendan Wallace continues from Gypsy Rap))
Such a simple plan, it had to have something go wrong, there was no way in the world it wasn't going to happen.
Brendan Wallace had the bright idea of trying to find himself on the map. For starters, he didn't know how to work a compass. He was twisting the thing around for almost half an hour in the safety of a tall climbable tree, before accidentally dropping it into a large group of threatening bushes. Could have been something like Poison Oak, for all he knew, so he decided to just leave it and hope that he took one from a recently deceased classmate's bag a few days ago.
Then he had the bright idea of trying to navigate on his own. The Blair Witch Project couldn't have been more accurate in that he subconsciously walked 'round in circles for god knows how long. He tried to mark his place, somewhere near a packed infirmary, then set off wherever the sun seemed to point him. Course, that didn't work either, either because the sun kept moving places or because he kept on missing the sun. So he ended back up at the Infirmary about 4 times before he just decided to give up directing himself and hope he found somewhere, or someone.
He remembered walking this path 4 days ago, when he fled the scene on the beach because he was just so scared. And that just reminded him of the fact he also fled from Ray, Robert and Neil a few days ago as well, just after people had died, no less. And not to mention the fiasco which he caused with his newly formed group, including his boyfriend.
They've got to be safe, I trusted Stacy with that gun...
That gun was his only way of defending himself. Even the look of the giant, hulking motherfucker should have been enough to either attract people to him like blowflies to sugar or scare off anyone who wanted to have a cheap go at him. But now, he was just an average, seventeen-year-old boy walking across the island, lost, aching, and hungry.
So finally, he made his way out of the forest. By then, it was nightfall. Quiet. Dark. The moon shone down on him, illuminating the vast field of grass and hills he gazed upon from his forest exit. It was...haunting. It reminded him of something from a video game, a vast expansive moonlit field in which two experienced fighters could duke it out. These mindless ponderings distracted him so much that he almost fell down a hill to his right, his leg was just about to step on the uneven ground.
Brendan's eyes shot to the empty space where his foot was about to stand, and he instinctively pulled away. He lost his centre of balance pretty easily, and this was his body's perfect excuse to fall backwards and land on his ass in the grass.
Aren't I elegant?
He held his head in his dominant hand, and let off a sound between a sigh and a grunt. A grigh, or sunt, if you will. Though no one would actually call it that.
He stood back up again, dusting off the back of his pants. As Brendan mindlessly gazed across the moonlit landscape, he noticed something down the hill he almost fell down. It looked like a small hut, he remembered passing it on the other way, it looked pretty hectic back then. People were running, he couldn't go near that kind of activity, so the chances were that as the island slept, he could get his chance to snoop around for anything remotely resembling a weapon.
He took the long way around, instead of doing a good old tumble down the hill (he was rather proficient at those kinds of tricks), he approached from the side, and...
...Oh man...
Well, it...looked like two of the eighty-nine or so people would be accounted for.
These classmates of his were sprawled and lain in the garden of this small house. One of them was wearing a suit, head a gory and unpleasant mess splattered over a nearby rock. The other was a girl, lain in the garden of the hut with a dark and infested-looking hole where her heart should be. The guy in the suit, at a distance he couldn't make out, seemed familiar. Brendan braved the contents of his stomach and shifted closer to it, and...
...nothing. His face wasn't recognisable at all. Just a bloody hunk of rotting flesh, infested with growths and unfamiliar matter. As Brendan looked at the mess, his stomach an unforgiving ocean he needed to tame, he...didn't even know what he was supposed to say in a situation like this.
This guy...he died here, and now no one will ever know who he is again.
...if he got off of here somehow, he should probably chase that writing dream down, really, his thoughts were melodramatic enough.
...and here he was, making jokes about his own condolences.
He didn't know how to treat his own thoughts anymore, that wasn't a good sign.
Upon checking the corpse one more time, Brendan turned away, looking over at the girl's body. This one, now, he had a vague recognition of. He...no, scratch that, he knew this girl.
Petrushka Ivanova.
Brendan shared an English class with her, he remembered seeing her sitting alone one day and fighting off an urge to sit near her, just to speak to her. It wouldn't have been anything interesting or important, just a discussion about the play they were studying. Of course. Nothing more than just a tiny little discussion. What he wouldn't have to give to just be back at Bayview, making another discussion. Hamlet seemed so simple and easy to understand compared to everything he was having to go through now. The guilt of not knowing what to say to a dead person, over their body no less. The questioning of his own sanity. The knowledge that he could be responsible for at least 6 deaths, probably way more than that, ever since he abandoned his allies. Let's see any normal teenager willingly go through that, chances are they wouldn't.
He closed his eyes, just trying to clear out his mind.
Just...don't think about them. You could have spoken to them before, but that's the past now. What matters now is finding something to protect people with. Once we get everyone together, everyone who isn't crazy, it'll all be...better...it's gonna be better!
Rather than following that train track of thought for much longer, he flicked his head away from the body and yanked open the door.
The smell launched itself at his nostrils immediately, the smell of a rotting and decaying corpse. Brendan didn't have time to cover his orifices, and almost instantly collapsed to the ground like he'd been hit over the head with a comedically sized mallet. The raging battle in his stomach almost boiled over, but it didn't. He was still unable to stop himself retching, but he was still trying his best to get back up and face the source of that terrible stench. After a few seconds of scrambling, and his hand moved to his nose in a vain attempt, he spotted it.
On the floor, underneath one or two blankets, was another girl's body. A net of dirty-blonde hair was the canvas to an array of browns and reds, the signs of an exploded collar, or so he assumed. There were really endless possibilities, she could have been shot in the head for all he knew. He couldn't see her face, hell he wanted to brave his fears and take a look, but it was just a matter of looking around the place now, ignoring the perfectly noticeable dead body.
As he tried his best to keep it out of his direct line of sight, he spotted a few bags by the edge of the cabin's bed. Brendan walked over to them, anxious. If there were bags, that meant there was the slight possibility of weapons.
The first one he touched he saw the name of the girl outside. There was nothing important in that one.
In the other one he checked, however...lay something that instantly made his heart jump through his chest.
Ammo.
For a gun.
In this bag was ammo, real, no jokes ammo. He'd finally done it. Brendan's mouth, were it not covered by a hand in an attempt to block out the smell of rotting flesh, would have worn a smile.
Only that smile would have lasted as brief as the girl in that bed.
...where's the gun?
He checked the inside of the bag again. Nothing. Brick-a-brack, some disgusting pieces of food, but no gun.
Brendan even picked the bag up and looked underneath it. There wasn't anything there, no gun. He got a look at the underside of the bag however, and stopped in his tracks.
Rose Codreanu.
The name didn't mean anything to him, but...it had to be the girl on the bed.
......god dammit, it's like this island is trying to warp me into a killer ever with no subtlety.
Brendan inched closer to the bed on the floor of the shack, and pulled back the blanket, still trying to block out the dead smell.
Underneath a decomposing mass of tissue that used to be known as Rose, was a gun, sticking out from underneath. It looked like it was aimed right at the hut's bed.
Brendan swallowed.
All the while continuously blocking his nose, he inched his hand towards the barrel of the gun, and pulled. It came out, nothing much happened to what used to be Rose.
...
...and that was it, really. He stood there, holding the gun out like it was a foreign custom, unusual and alien. Sure, he'd held a gun before, but...
...he didn't have time to finish that sentence as he saw someone off in the distance.
The part of Brendan that had long since adapted to the island took over, and he dashed out of sight to hide behind the doorframe. His short, rasping breaths clung to the air like velcro wasps, and stayed around long enough for the whole cabin to hear it.
...only the person he saw never came. He didn't want to look out, and possibly face an armed killer, but he had to. Slowly, really really slowly, he looked outside.
Someone was sitting there. On the grass outside, someone was sitting down with their head in their hands.
'Course, Brendan would have given the situation a better analysis were he not silently sprinting away from that location, gun and ammo in bag, and taking this once-in-the-rest-of-his-life opportunity by the tusks.
After a few minutes of pained sprinting, him almost surprised that his stitches didn't pop out and start the wound flowing again, he stopped, and fell to the knee-length grass in a gasping, out-of-breath heap. He'd made it. Someone with a gun had just missed their opportunity to take him out, and now he'd escaped.
He couldn't stay there, he was still out in the open, moonlit field. Brendan got right back up, and kept on half-running. He still had a leg to take care of, and loosing his stitches would be the absolute worst way to die.
((Brendan Wallace continues in Birdland))
((Brendan Wallace continues from Gypsy Rap))
Such a simple plan, it had to have something go wrong, there was no way in the world it wasn't going to happen.
Brendan Wallace had the bright idea of trying to find himself on the map. For starters, he didn't know how to work a compass. He was twisting the thing around for almost half an hour in the safety of a tall climbable tree, before accidentally dropping it into a large group of threatening bushes. Could have been something like Poison Oak, for all he knew, so he decided to just leave it and hope that he took one from a recently deceased classmate's bag a few days ago.
Then he had the bright idea of trying to navigate on his own. The Blair Witch Project couldn't have been more accurate in that he subconsciously walked 'round in circles for god knows how long. He tried to mark his place, somewhere near a packed infirmary, then set off wherever the sun seemed to point him. Course, that didn't work either, either because the sun kept moving places or because he kept on missing the sun. So he ended back up at the Infirmary about 4 times before he just decided to give up directing himself and hope he found somewhere, or someone.
He remembered walking this path 4 days ago, when he fled the scene on the beach because he was just so scared. And that just reminded him of the fact he also fled from Ray, Robert and Neil a few days ago as well, just after people had died, no less. And not to mention the fiasco which he caused with his newly formed group, including his boyfriend.
They've got to be safe, I trusted Stacy with that gun...
That gun was his only way of defending himself. Even the look of the giant, hulking motherfucker should have been enough to either attract people to him like blowflies to sugar or scare off anyone who wanted to have a cheap go at him. But now, he was just an average, seventeen-year-old boy walking across the island, lost, aching, and hungry.
So finally, he made his way out of the forest. By then, it was nightfall. Quiet. Dark. The moon shone down on him, illuminating the vast field of grass and hills he gazed upon from his forest exit. It was...haunting. It reminded him of something from a video game, a vast expansive moonlit field in which two experienced fighters could duke it out. These mindless ponderings distracted him so much that he almost fell down a hill to his right, his leg was just about to step on the uneven ground.
Brendan's eyes shot to the empty space where his foot was about to stand, and he instinctively pulled away. He lost his centre of balance pretty easily, and this was his body's perfect excuse to fall backwards and land on his ass in the grass.
Aren't I elegant?
He held his head in his dominant hand, and let off a sound between a sigh and a grunt. A grigh, or sunt, if you will. Though no one would actually call it that.
He stood back up again, dusting off the back of his pants. As Brendan mindlessly gazed across the moonlit landscape, he noticed something down the hill he almost fell down. It looked like a small hut, he remembered passing it on the other way, it looked pretty hectic back then. People were running, he couldn't go near that kind of activity, so the chances were that as the island slept, he could get his chance to snoop around for anything remotely resembling a weapon.
He took the long way around, instead of doing a good old tumble down the hill (he was rather proficient at those kinds of tricks), he approached from the side, and...
...Oh man...
Well, it...looked like two of the eighty-nine or so people would be accounted for.
These classmates of his were sprawled and lain in the garden of this small house. One of them was wearing a suit, head a gory and unpleasant mess splattered over a nearby rock. The other was a girl, lain in the garden of the hut with a dark and infested-looking hole where her heart should be. The guy in the suit, at a distance he couldn't make out, seemed familiar. Brendan braved the contents of his stomach and shifted closer to it, and...
...nothing. His face wasn't recognisable at all. Just a bloody hunk of rotting flesh, infested with growths and unfamiliar matter. As Brendan looked at the mess, his stomach an unforgiving ocean he needed to tame, he...didn't even know what he was supposed to say in a situation like this.
This guy...he died here, and now no one will ever know who he is again.
...if he got off of here somehow, he should probably chase that writing dream down, really, his thoughts were melodramatic enough.
...and here he was, making jokes about his own condolences.
He didn't know how to treat his own thoughts anymore, that wasn't a good sign.
Upon checking the corpse one more time, Brendan turned away, looking over at the girl's body. This one, now, he had a vague recognition of. He...no, scratch that, he knew this girl.
Petrushka Ivanova.
Brendan shared an English class with her, he remembered seeing her sitting alone one day and fighting off an urge to sit near her, just to speak to her. It wouldn't have been anything interesting or important, just a discussion about the play they were studying. Of course. Nothing more than just a tiny little discussion. What he wouldn't have to give to just be back at Bayview, making another discussion. Hamlet seemed so simple and easy to understand compared to everything he was having to go through now. The guilt of not knowing what to say to a dead person, over their body no less. The questioning of his own sanity. The knowledge that he could be responsible for at least 6 deaths, probably way more than that, ever since he abandoned his allies. Let's see any normal teenager willingly go through that, chances are they wouldn't.
He closed his eyes, just trying to clear out his mind.
Just...don't think about them. You could have spoken to them before, but that's the past now. What matters now is finding something to protect people with. Once we get everyone together, everyone who isn't crazy, it'll all be...better...it's gonna be better!
Rather than following that train track of thought for much longer, he flicked his head away from the body and yanked open the door.
The smell launched itself at his nostrils immediately, the smell of a rotting and decaying corpse. Brendan didn't have time to cover his orifices, and almost instantly collapsed to the ground like he'd been hit over the head with a comedically sized mallet. The raging battle in his stomach almost boiled over, but it didn't. He was still unable to stop himself retching, but he was still trying his best to get back up and face the source of that terrible stench. After a few seconds of scrambling, and his hand moved to his nose in a vain attempt, he spotted it.
On the floor, underneath one or two blankets, was another girl's body. A net of dirty-blonde hair was the canvas to an array of browns and reds, the signs of an exploded collar, or so he assumed. There were really endless possibilities, she could have been shot in the head for all he knew. He couldn't see her face, hell he wanted to brave his fears and take a look, but it was just a matter of looking around the place now, ignoring the perfectly noticeable dead body.
As he tried his best to keep it out of his direct line of sight, he spotted a few bags by the edge of the cabin's bed. Brendan walked over to them, anxious. If there were bags, that meant there was the slight possibility of weapons.
The first one he touched he saw the name of the girl outside. There was nothing important in that one.
In the other one he checked, however...lay something that instantly made his heart jump through his chest.
Ammo.
For a gun.
In this bag was ammo, real, no jokes ammo. He'd finally done it. Brendan's mouth, were it not covered by a hand in an attempt to block out the smell of rotting flesh, would have worn a smile.
Only that smile would have lasted as brief as the girl in that bed.
...where's the gun?
He checked the inside of the bag again. Nothing. Brick-a-brack, some disgusting pieces of food, but no gun.
Brendan even picked the bag up and looked underneath it. There wasn't anything there, no gun. He got a look at the underside of the bag however, and stopped in his tracks.
Rose Codreanu.
The name didn't mean anything to him, but...it had to be the girl on the bed.
......god dammit, it's like this island is trying to warp me into a killer ever with no subtlety.
Brendan inched closer to the bed on the floor of the shack, and pulled back the blanket, still trying to block out the dead smell.
Underneath a decomposing mass of tissue that used to be known as Rose, was a gun, sticking out from underneath. It looked like it was aimed right at the hut's bed.
Brendan swallowed.
All the while continuously blocking his nose, he inched his hand towards the barrel of the gun, and pulled. It came out, nothing much happened to what used to be Rose.
...
...and that was it, really. He stood there, holding the gun out like it was a foreign custom, unusual and alien. Sure, he'd held a gun before, but...
...he didn't have time to finish that sentence as he saw someone off in the distance.
The part of Brendan that had long since adapted to the island took over, and he dashed out of sight to hide behind the doorframe. His short, rasping breaths clung to the air like velcro wasps, and stayed around long enough for the whole cabin to hear it.
...only the person he saw never came. He didn't want to look out, and possibly face an armed killer, but he had to. Slowly, really really slowly, he looked outside.
Someone was sitting there. On the grass outside, someone was sitting down with their head in their hands.
'Course, Brendan would have given the situation a better analysis were he not silently sprinting away from that location, gun and ammo in bag, and taking this once-in-the-rest-of-his-life opportunity by the tusks.
After a few minutes of pained sprinting, him almost surprised that his stitches didn't pop out and start the wound flowing again, he stopped, and fell to the knee-length grass in a gasping, out-of-breath heap. He'd made it. Someone with a gun had just missed their opportunity to take him out, and now he'd escaped.
He couldn't stay there, he was still out in the open, moonlit field. Brendan got right back up, and kept on half-running. He still had a leg to take care of, and loosing his stitches would be the absolute worst way to die.
((Brendan Wallace continues in Birdland))
((Courtney Bradley, continued from Darken Your Clothes and Strike a Violent Pose.))
Courtney ran. She bailed from the beach as fast as she could. This time though, she had no clear cut reason, no way of justifying it in her head. She stopped as soon as she spotted what looked like a cottage, off in the distance. She took a few deep breaths, before what she'd been trying to ignore for the entire journey came surging up her legs.
Pain.
Courtney grit her teeth and looked down at her feet. Running through a bloody forest barefoot? Damn, was that a poor choice. Up to her ankles were littered with cuts, scrapes, and bites- how the hell did those get there? Ugh, there was an irony there somewhere. Courtney laid her shotgun on the ground, sat down, twisted her legs round and got to scraping the dirt and the grit off of her feet. The last thing she needed was an infection. Pulling her socks and shoes out of her bag, she quickly put them on, taking extra care not to avoid the situation that happened last time she had to run with them on.
Shouldering her bag, Courtney stood up, picked up her shotgun handle-first, pumping it again for some reason- just came natural, she guessed- and picking up the shell that fell to the ground. Stuffed it in her pocket with the other one. How many were in there now? Didn't matter much. She wasn't going to be using it much, if at all.
She walked forwards. Got close to the hut. Didn't look much as she walked through the overgrown grounds. Figured for at least one second that she should have.
Courtney held the shotgun steady as she turned, looked around. Couldn't see anyone. She slowly began her approach towards the cottage. She pushed open the door and took a step inside. No one. At least no one living, anyway. She took a couple of steps backwards before spinning on her heels and looking around. Noticed someone sitting on the grass, head in their hands.
Recognised him instantly.
"...Ben?"
Courtney ran. She bailed from the beach as fast as she could. This time though, she had no clear cut reason, no way of justifying it in her head. She stopped as soon as she spotted what looked like a cottage, off in the distance. She took a few deep breaths, before what she'd been trying to ignore for the entire journey came surging up her legs.
Pain.
Courtney grit her teeth and looked down at her feet. Running through a bloody forest barefoot? Damn, was that a poor choice. Up to her ankles were littered with cuts, scrapes, and bites- how the hell did those get there? Ugh, there was an irony there somewhere. Courtney laid her shotgun on the ground, sat down, twisted her legs round and got to scraping the dirt and the grit off of her feet. The last thing she needed was an infection. Pulling her socks and shoes out of her bag, she quickly put them on, taking extra care not to avoid the situation that happened last time she had to run with them on.
Shouldering her bag, Courtney stood up, picked up her shotgun handle-first, pumping it again for some reason- just came natural, she guessed- and picking up the shell that fell to the ground. Stuffed it in her pocket with the other one. How many were in there now? Didn't matter much. She wasn't going to be using it much, if at all.
She walked forwards. Got close to the hut. Didn't look much as she walked through the overgrown grounds. Figured for at least one second that she should have.
Courtney held the shotgun steady as she turned, looked around. Couldn't see anyone. She slowly began her approach towards the cottage. She pushed open the door and took a step inside. No one. At least no one living, anyway. She took a couple of steps backwards before spinning on her heels and looking around. Noticed someone sitting on the grass, head in their hands.
Recognised him instantly.
"...Ben?"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Badb.
He thought he heard running. That was impossible of course. He was alone, wasn't he? Glancing up, he idly moved his rifle in a quick sweep. Nothing but a few movements in the bushes, probably just the wind. Probably. The back of his neck prickled, heat running through his body. He tightened his grip on the trigger. There was someone here before. Long gone, now. But there was someone running. Ben was sure of it.
Why would he run?
Why did you run?
Gritting his teeth, he slumped again, face in hand. Everyone for themselves now. It wasn't just him, everyone was running. Only one could survive, right? It was better off being alone. But if you weren't alone, you might not need to worry about your friends. Or killing them. Ben's head was pounding with questions, ideas, indecision. He had to decide whether he was really going to go on.
A voice out of his vision, something he thought he'd never hear again. Not like it mattered. The prom date had been an absolute disaster. Like most of the stuff he did. He recognised the voice of Courtney, yet still with frightening speed had brought it up at her, mere millimetres away from pulling the trigger, even though it wouldn't do anything but fire useless balls of paint. He brought up his head. She looked as if she had been through a war, her clothes ripped, dirt on face.
Shotgun in hand.
"Nonono, not you... you're not playing."
Is she?
"Are you a player?"
You can't trust anyone, can you.
He kept the gun up. Pointed at her eyes. You never knew, did you?
"Tell me."
Why would he run?
Why did you run?
Gritting his teeth, he slumped again, face in hand. Everyone for themselves now. It wasn't just him, everyone was running. Only one could survive, right? It was better off being alone. But if you weren't alone, you might not need to worry about your friends. Or killing them. Ben's head was pounding with questions, ideas, indecision. He had to decide whether he was really going to go on.
A voice out of his vision, something he thought he'd never hear again. Not like it mattered. The prom date had been an absolute disaster. Like most of the stuff he did. He recognised the voice of Courtney, yet still with frightening speed had brought it up at her, mere millimetres away from pulling the trigger, even though it wouldn't do anything but fire useless balls of paint. He brought up his head. She looked as if she had been through a war, her clothes ripped, dirt on face.
Shotgun in hand.
"Nonono, not you... you're not playing."
Is she?
"Are you a player?"
You can't trust anyone, can you.
He kept the gun up. Pointed at her eyes. You never knew, did you?
"Tell me."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Dropbear. 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.
Oh God. It really was him.
He raised the gun at her. Was it a real gun? Courtney didn't want to risk it. No. No, it couldn't be, he had to have gotten a toy gun or something like that. Wait, it was a paint ball gun, wasn't it? Looked like one, what with the thing sticking out of the top. Was it loaded? Could that still hurt her? Courtney didn't want to risk it.
She really didn't.
God, how could she be so doubtful, so distrusting of Ben. This wasn't some moral-free 6'6 trench-coat wearing evil genius here. This was Ben Powell, her prom date. Her first actual date. Granted she'd managed to fuck both of those things up and been too scared to find him and apologise to him after, but... It wasn't as if they were strangers. They wouldn't shoot each other. He wouldn't and she wouldn't have to retaliate and they could just talk and think of what to do now all of their friends were dying or dead.
Courtney shook her head. No. No, Ben wouldn't shoot her. And... and she wouldn't shoot him. She couldn't shoot him. So they'd be okay, right? They were both fine, nothing to worry about. Just fine. Courtney breathed deeply. Blinked. Noticed.
The gun was pointed dead at her eyes.
This was all wrong. They weren't playing. Ben wasn't- Ben wouldn't and Courtney had been running the whole time. She'd been looking for him. How could she be trying to kill him? How could he think that? She wasn't a player! She wasn't out there, trying to win!
...Was she?
Tell him. Tell him you aren't playing. Courtney's throat tightened. She couldn't. Why couldn't she? What was going on? Her hands shook as they held onto the shotgun and faintly- just faintly, Courtney felt herself tremble.
"Ben... O-Oh my God, Ben..." The words that finally did form came out half-formed, a mess. Courtney tried to say more, tried to say that she wasn't playing, that she'd stolen the shotgun, that she didn't want to shoot him, that she wouldn't even if he shot her first, but the words just wouldn't come out of her mouth. "Ben, I-I..."
She panicked.
He raised the gun at her. Was it a real gun? Courtney didn't want to risk it. No. No, it couldn't be, he had to have gotten a toy gun or something like that. Wait, it was a paint ball gun, wasn't it? Looked like one, what with the thing sticking out of the top. Was it loaded? Could that still hurt her? Courtney didn't want to risk it.
She really didn't.
God, how could she be so doubtful, so distrusting of Ben. This wasn't some moral-free 6'6 trench-coat wearing evil genius here. This was Ben Powell, her prom date. Her first actual date. Granted she'd managed to fuck both of those things up and been too scared to find him and apologise to him after, but... It wasn't as if they were strangers. They wouldn't shoot each other. He wouldn't and she wouldn't have to retaliate and they could just talk and think of what to do now all of their friends were dying or dead.
Courtney shook her head. No. No, Ben wouldn't shoot her. And... and she wouldn't shoot him. She couldn't shoot him. So they'd be okay, right? They were both fine, nothing to worry about. Just fine. Courtney breathed deeply. Blinked. Noticed.
The gun was pointed dead at her eyes.
This was all wrong. They weren't playing. Ben wasn't- Ben wouldn't and Courtney had been running the whole time. She'd been looking for him. How could she be trying to kill him? How could he think that? She wasn't a player! She wasn't out there, trying to win!
...Was she?
Tell him. Tell him you aren't playing. Courtney's throat tightened. She couldn't. Why couldn't she? What was going on? Her hands shook as they held onto the shotgun and faintly- just faintly, Courtney felt herself tremble.
"Ben... O-Oh my God, Ben..." The words that finally did form came out half-formed, a mess. Courtney tried to say more, tried to say that she wasn't playing, that she'd stolen the shotgun, that she didn't want to shoot him, that she wouldn't even if he shot her first, but the words just wouldn't come out of her mouth. "Ben, I-I..."
She panicked.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Badb.
"You don't deny it. Of course, only in self-defence, only people that were going to kill me, kill my friends, all that shit."
Ben sighed and got up slowly, never leaving the gun off of her. "Eventually, there's going to be only two people, and one is going to kill the other. That's the way the game works. The truth is, we're never getting off this island unless Mr. Douchebag sees the last person standing. The girl who got her collar off is just pulling off cameras and making him blow collars. And I haven't seen anyone else come up with a foolproof plan yet, and this is the fourth time they've done this goddamn show."
Gritting his teeth, all the thoughts he had over the last few days started to flow out like water, making him feel empty at the pit of his stomach. "I thought about finding my friends too, Courtney, you and Reiko and Jacob and Paige and Sarah and Carol and Amber and Alice and everyone else. And guess what? Paige died right in front of me. I couldn't stop it. I wanted to. But I couldn't. Jacob ran, he couldn't stand his girlfriend, his fiancée, dying in front of him, so there went another one of my friends into the jungle. I hear Carol and Amber on the speaker, their deaths just another statistic."
"I can't sit around anymore and wish it would all go away. Because like it or not, everyone is now playing, whether they like it or not. My friend is killing the guy three desks ahead of me because that's the only thing they can do now. And eventually, I'm going to have to join them if I want to continue in the game."
Sliding his thumb on the safety of the paintball gun, he swallowed, Ben's hand oddly calm. It wasn't that he wanted to play. It was that he had to play. There wasn't a choice, in the end. Go with a fight, or go out in silence. The thought was solid. It took him so long to come up with his final decision. But in the end, it had to be done. Everyone was going to die, and he was going to have to either fight or die as well.
He could die.
"And if I die? Well, maybe I'll just be able to see all my friends again."
Without warning, he pulled the trigger twice, aiming for Courtney's eyes. Blind her. Get her on the ground. Take the shotgun. Run. Or fire at her. There wasn't much of a difference anymore.
He only wished that it wasn't someone else that he wanted to win.
Ben sighed and got up slowly, never leaving the gun off of her. "Eventually, there's going to be only two people, and one is going to kill the other. That's the way the game works. The truth is, we're never getting off this island unless Mr. Douchebag sees the last person standing. The girl who got her collar off is just pulling off cameras and making him blow collars. And I haven't seen anyone else come up with a foolproof plan yet, and this is the fourth time they've done this goddamn show."
Gritting his teeth, all the thoughts he had over the last few days started to flow out like water, making him feel empty at the pit of his stomach. "I thought about finding my friends too, Courtney, you and Reiko and Jacob and Paige and Sarah and Carol and Amber and Alice and everyone else. And guess what? Paige died right in front of me. I couldn't stop it. I wanted to. But I couldn't. Jacob ran, he couldn't stand his girlfriend, his fiancée, dying in front of him, so there went another one of my friends into the jungle. I hear Carol and Amber on the speaker, their deaths just another statistic."
"I can't sit around anymore and wish it would all go away. Because like it or not, everyone is now playing, whether they like it or not. My friend is killing the guy three desks ahead of me because that's the only thing they can do now. And eventually, I'm going to have to join them if I want to continue in the game."
Sliding his thumb on the safety of the paintball gun, he swallowed, Ben's hand oddly calm. It wasn't that he wanted to play. It was that he had to play. There wasn't a choice, in the end. Go with a fight, or go out in silence. The thought was solid. It took him so long to come up with his final decision. But in the end, it had to be done. Everyone was going to die, and he was going to have to either fight or die as well.
He could die.
"And if I die? Well, maybe I'll just be able to see all my friends again."
Without warning, he pulled the trigger twice, aiming for Courtney's eyes. Blind her. Get her on the ground. Take the shotgun. Run. Or fire at her. There wasn't much of a difference anymore.
He only wished that it wasn't someone else that he wanted to win.
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"Ben, no, I..." Ben stood up. Asked why she couldn't defend herself. Why she couldn't say that she wasn't a killer, why she wasn't playing. She desperately wanted to say it, say what she knew would get her off the hook, but still the words wouldn't come out. So Courtney raised the shotgun. She was trying to call Ben's bluff. He wouldn't shoot her. He just wouldn't. She knew it. He began lecturing her about how all their friends were dead, how he had watched Paige die and seen Jacob go nuts over it- Paige was dead?- and Carol, and Amber? No, Ben was lying. She hadn't heard those.
She stepped back. Started to hyperventilate. Ben wouldn't shoot her, damn it. He just wouldn-
Then Courtney was, for what had to have been the millionth time, proven oh so very wrong.
She tried to look away, to shield herself from the shots she now knew were coming. Had she turned her head a fraction of a second earlier, she would've been hit in the temple. Maybe knocked out, maybe not. That wouldn't have been that bad. Courtney could have dealt with that. But luck wasn't on Courtney's side. Courtney shrieked as the paint-ball hit her square in the eye. Then again, when the second hit her in the cheek. She screamed and swore and stumbled and clenched her fist and- bang.
Her fingers had curled, a knee-jerk reaction. Without thinking, she'd pulled the trigger of the shotgun. A wave of pain shot up her arm into her shoulder. The shotgun hit the floor and she followed soon after, crumpling to a heap on the soft grass rather than flying back through the air like in an action movie. In any other circumstance, Courtney would have been almost disappointed by that. Not now. Just worried.
The shot rang in her ears as she lay on the ground, trying to wipe the paint out of her eye. Now she was on the ground, her throat loosened, she could talk again. Why? She didn't know, but now she could tell Ben. Tell him she wasn't a killer. They would go, find whoever was left. Reiko was left, right? Courtney had just ran into her. They'd find her and then think of what to do.
"I'm not a killer, Ben!" She could barely hear herself over the ringing in her ears. She missed, right? She was blinded in one eye, she had to have missed. No. She missed. She had to have.
Please, no.
She stepped back. Started to hyperventilate. Ben wouldn't shoot her, damn it. He just wouldn-
Then Courtney was, for what had to have been the millionth time, proven oh so very wrong.
She tried to look away, to shield herself from the shots she now knew were coming. Had she turned her head a fraction of a second earlier, she would've been hit in the temple. Maybe knocked out, maybe not. That wouldn't have been that bad. Courtney could have dealt with that. But luck wasn't on Courtney's side. Courtney shrieked as the paint-ball hit her square in the eye. Then again, when the second hit her in the cheek. She screamed and swore and stumbled and clenched her fist and- bang.
Her fingers had curled, a knee-jerk reaction. Without thinking, she'd pulled the trigger of the shotgun. A wave of pain shot up her arm into her shoulder. The shotgun hit the floor and she followed soon after, crumpling to a heap on the soft grass rather than flying back through the air like in an action movie. In any other circumstance, Courtney would have been almost disappointed by that. Not now. Just worried.
The shot rang in her ears as she lay on the ground, trying to wipe the paint out of her eye. Now she was on the ground, her throat loosened, she could talk again. Why? She didn't know, but now she could tell Ben. Tell him she wasn't a killer. They would go, find whoever was left. Reiko was left, right? Courtney had just ran into her. They'd find her and then think of what to do.
"I'm not a killer, Ben!" She could barely hear herself over the ringing in her ears. She missed, right? She was blinded in one eye, she had to have missed. No. She missed. She had to have.
Please, no.
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Hit to the left.
Why was he lying on his back? He couldn't have been hit. The gun was nowhere near him. Still, there was an intense pain in his left arm, around the shoulder. And bits of his chest was feeling tight. That too. Felt like metal was forced into his heart. Well, there was metal in the shotgun bullets and they had a huge spread. Even clipping a good load of them would be deadly. You wouldn't survive five minutes. No paintball gun to retaliate. Eh, once he got up he could use his fists, right? Punch a girl, you evil bastard. This fighting thing was way too hard on your morals. You probably should have just kissed her at the prom and you would have never had even lifted the gun. That's right, it could have been completely different if only you had done that. Right. Yeah. Fuck, his arm really hurt. Yeah, there was a lot of blood.
Oh shit.
Blood.
That's one love, that's a bout.
That's a bout. That's it. He was out. Finished, game over, time to bring me your torch, all those witty lines. He couldn't even move the thing, hell, he couldn't even have the strength to get up from the ground. Plus his heart was pounding, a few holes in the chest, small, but they probably would just make everything much quicker. Funnily enough, he was almost glad. Didn't have to kill anyone after all. He really didn't have it in him. Hell, even if it was Reiko, you wouldn't have pulled the trigger, probably. And that bitch had killed... uhh... well, people. Nobody relevant? Huh, that part of his brain was blank. Must be the loss of blood.
Salute.
Ben brought his good hand to his forehead, wiping his hair out of the way and looking up at the fading image of his date. Too many strong memories. And it wasn't even a proper thing, for god's sake, it was more of a random 'rather go with someone than alone' kinda thing. Stupid. Childish? Eh, a little. Heh, his brain was all over the place now. Nodding in the general vincity of his backpack, he mumbled, his voice cracking. "It's yours." He probably should have said some words of wisdom on his deathbed, right? Something snappy. Witty. But then again, it was kinda weird only giving it to his murderer. No, she wasn't a murderer. Self defence, bro. You fucking brought this on yourself. "Don't go insane like me. Just-" he spluttered, blood suddenly appearing at the back of his mouth. Must have got a pellet somewhere in there. No, don't think about that. Got to tell her. "Just survive, OK? Get home."
Shake hands.
Hey, am I going to see you up there?
I don't know. This dying thing is new to me.
He chuckled out loud, the pain rippling though his chest, sending his mind into agony. Don't worry. It'll be over in a few seconds.
Count down with me?
Sure. On three.
One.
Two.
[[Boy 069 Benjamin "Ben" Powell: Deceased]]
Three.
Why was he lying on his back? He couldn't have been hit. The gun was nowhere near him. Still, there was an intense pain in his left arm, around the shoulder. And bits of his chest was feeling tight. That too. Felt like metal was forced into his heart. Well, there was metal in the shotgun bullets and they had a huge spread. Even clipping a good load of them would be deadly. You wouldn't survive five minutes. No paintball gun to retaliate. Eh, once he got up he could use his fists, right? Punch a girl, you evil bastard. This fighting thing was way too hard on your morals. You probably should have just kissed her at the prom and you would have never had even lifted the gun. That's right, it could have been completely different if only you had done that. Right. Yeah. Fuck, his arm really hurt. Yeah, there was a lot of blood.
Oh shit.
Blood.
That's one love, that's a bout.
That's a bout. That's it. He was out. Finished, game over, time to bring me your torch, all those witty lines. He couldn't even move the thing, hell, he couldn't even have the strength to get up from the ground. Plus his heart was pounding, a few holes in the chest, small, but they probably would just make everything much quicker. Funnily enough, he was almost glad. Didn't have to kill anyone after all. He really didn't have it in him. Hell, even if it was Reiko, you wouldn't have pulled the trigger, probably. And that bitch had killed... uhh... well, people. Nobody relevant? Huh, that part of his brain was blank. Must be the loss of blood.
Salute.
Ben brought his good hand to his forehead, wiping his hair out of the way and looking up at the fading image of his date. Too many strong memories. And it wasn't even a proper thing, for god's sake, it was more of a random 'rather go with someone than alone' kinda thing. Stupid. Childish? Eh, a little. Heh, his brain was all over the place now. Nodding in the general vincity of his backpack, he mumbled, his voice cracking. "It's yours." He probably should have said some words of wisdom on his deathbed, right? Something snappy. Witty. But then again, it was kinda weird only giving it to his murderer. No, she wasn't a murderer. Self defence, bro. You fucking brought this on yourself. "Don't go insane like me. Just-" he spluttered, blood suddenly appearing at the back of his mouth. Must have got a pellet somewhere in there. No, don't think about that. Got to tell her. "Just survive, OK? Get home."
Shake hands.
Hey, am I going to see you up there?
I don't know. This dying thing is new to me.
He chuckled out loud, the pain rippling though his chest, sending his mind into agony. Don't worry. It'll be over in a few seconds.
Count down with me?
Sure. On three.
One.
Two.
[[Boy 069 Benjamin "Ben" Powell: Deceased]]
Three.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Dropbear. 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.
Alright, listen to me. Blink. Close your eyes, then open them. No, no, no. That's winking. You're doing it wrong. Don't wink at him, he doesn't need that right now. Okay, just close both your eyes, then open them. Wait, you did?
Oh no.
Courtney wasn't sure how much time passed as she sat there, staring out of her one working eye at what had to have been her doing. The announcement had come and gone, her own name now adding to countless on the innumerable lists out there made by paranoid loners of who'd killed and who hadn't.
This alone wasn't the problem. The problem was that she was marked now, listed as a killer. She'd known it would be only a matter of time after she'd ran into Chadd that her name would appear on them in some way or another, but she'd thought...
She'd thought that she wouldn't be around to hear it.
She looked over to Ben. She did this. I did this. This didn't happen. The justifications to herself were piling in, but none really made sense to Courtney. She knew what she had done. He'd scarred her and... She'd scarred him. Just gone a little too far. An Eye for an Eye, right? In this case, it was more literal than Courtney would have hoped for, but... she could deal with this. It didn't kill her, she could learn from it. Just move on, and try not to think about it. She could deal with this, and everything would be okay. She just knew it.
The pain was there, dull but ever present, as was her eye. Covered in paint, useless. No, she'd wiped the paint before she fired the gun. Had he really done that much damage to her? Had Ben done that?
She looked at him again, lying there, almost peaceful if not for the hand covering his eyes and the small marks littered around his chest and arm from the shotgun- where had that gone? She scrambled to her feet, stood over the fresh corpse of Ben Powell. She dropped to her knees. Felt his hand, his arm.
Lukewarm.
This was all her. No justifications, no "I did what I had to do", no crazy killer threatening her. She caused this. Courtney had caused this. The death of her- what were they? Who were they to each other, in the end? A backup prom date and a boy who just happened to be willing to spend money on her? Was that all they were in the end?
Courtney's head was just a jumbled mess. The shock was subtle, weaving its way into her mind. This would be bearable, in time. Maybe start to fade as she moved.
The guilt? Yeah, that hit Courtney like a freight train.
Oh no.
Courtney wasn't sure how much time passed as she sat there, staring out of her one working eye at what had to have been her doing. The announcement had come and gone, her own name now adding to countless on the innumerable lists out there made by paranoid loners of who'd killed and who hadn't.
This alone wasn't the problem. The problem was that she was marked now, listed as a killer. She'd known it would be only a matter of time after she'd ran into Chadd that her name would appear on them in some way or another, but she'd thought...
She'd thought that she wouldn't be around to hear it.
She looked over to Ben. She did this. I did this. This didn't happen. The justifications to herself were piling in, but none really made sense to Courtney. She knew what she had done. He'd scarred her and... She'd scarred him. Just gone a little too far. An Eye for an Eye, right? In this case, it was more literal than Courtney would have hoped for, but... she could deal with this. It didn't kill her, she could learn from it. Just move on, and try not to think about it. She could deal with this, and everything would be okay. She just knew it.
The pain was there, dull but ever present, as was her eye. Covered in paint, useless. No, she'd wiped the paint before she fired the gun. Had he really done that much damage to her? Had Ben done that?
She looked at him again, lying there, almost peaceful if not for the hand covering his eyes and the small marks littered around his chest and arm from the shotgun- where had that gone? She scrambled to her feet, stood over the fresh corpse of Ben Powell. She dropped to her knees. Felt his hand, his arm.
Lukewarm.
This was all her. No justifications, no "I did what I had to do", no crazy killer threatening her. She caused this. Courtney had caused this. The death of her- what were they? Who were they to each other, in the end? A backup prom date and a boy who just happened to be willing to spend money on her? Was that all they were in the end?
Courtney's head was just a jumbled mess. The shock was subtle, weaving its way into her mind. This would be bearable, in time. Maybe start to fade as she moved.
The guilt? Yeah, that hit Courtney like a freight train.
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Deep breaths. Deep breaths and then maybe the guilt would stop.
It didn't. Alright, time to reconsider, then. Get as far away from the body as possible. Courtney's head was still pounding, even as she tried to focus on anything and everything she could that wasn't it or the body lying on the ground underneath her. She pulled her bag over with her fingertips, pulled the last of what was useful from it- a mould-covered slice of bread, and without thinking shoved it in her mouth.
She didn't care if she got sick. She just didn't care any more.
Slowly, carefully, she pushed herself back up to her feet. She left her bag on the floor, somehow reasoning that she'd move faster without it. Someone would steal it at some point, she figured. They'd get more use out of it than her.
Courtney knelt down and grabbed the shotgun again, hands shaking as she stumbled, half-blind, away from the hut.
((Courtney Bradley, continued in Sometimes to Free a Mind, You've Got to Crack a Skull.))
It didn't. Alright, time to reconsider, then. Get as far away from the body as possible. Courtney's head was still pounding, even as she tried to focus on anything and everything she could that wasn't it or the body lying on the ground underneath her. She pulled her bag over with her fingertips, pulled the last of what was useful from it- a mould-covered slice of bread, and without thinking shoved it in her mouth.
She didn't care if she got sick. She just didn't care any more.
Slowly, carefully, she pushed herself back up to her feet. She left her bag on the floor, somehow reasoning that she'd move faster without it. Someone would steal it at some point, she figured. They'd get more use out of it than her.
Courtney knelt down and grabbed the shotgun again, hands shaking as she stumbled, half-blind, away from the hut.
((Courtney Bradley, continued in Sometimes to Free a Mind, You've Got to Crack a Skull.))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Badb.