((Aston Bennett, Joe Rios & Alice Boucher continue from So Give Me Something To Believe))
"Okay. We're here now. We won't hang around long, but just get everything we need."
The three stepped through the narrow doorway, and Aston's senses were hit by the most repugnant smells. Toxicity and rot, with the force of a 747 engine. She let it linger for a few moments, then stepped through the threshold with her travelling companions.
Ah, the main office. It didn't seem that far off the animal shelter where she spent many an afternoon weekend, well apart from the bodies. Yeah, three bodies, engulfed in white sheets, laid right next to the doorway. She could have mistaken them for an assembly line. The mass-production of death.
Not to mention the fact the place looked like someone let off a bomb in there. Honestly, not a sense of tidiness in here whatsoever. Whoever died here, whoever wasn't wasting their oxygen under those sheets must have put up one hell of a fight, since there was no doubt in her mind that this was probably the tail-end of something horrific.
Still, worrying about the possibilities wasn't Aston's style. The three of them, the three unlikeliest muskateering troupe one could hope to grab and smash together till the blood came out, were just going to stick around and see if they could scrounge out some useful stuff for the field. Maybe whoever was here before left behind something. A weapon? A scalpel? Something toxic? Explore all those possibilities before moving on, first real goal.
Right behind finding and killing this elusive son-of-a-bitch, Quincy Jones.
Before they split, she pulled Joe aside.
"Okay, Joe. We've been a group for a while, so..." Aston didn't really get why she needed to explain herself here. As little time as they spent together, did she trust Joe? Yes. With her life? Maybe. She reached into her back pocket, and pulled out her sidearm.
"Manual says it's a Bersa. Dunno if that means anything to you, but I reloaded it. Ten rounds, I got another 15 in my bag."
Memories popped up of his mention. 2 kills to his name.
"It's just us three from now on for finding my guy, okay? If you find anyone in here-"
2 kills.
"-don't worry about wasting bullets. Use as many as you need."
Except if he's Quincy Jones. They'd had this conversation before.
Aston adjusted her bag and traversed down one of the abandoned hallways, branching from the main room. She could smell death coming from one of them, so didn't bother checking there. The aroma suggested they'd been there way too long for someone to not notice and come a-looting, so she kept searching.
Cabinets of murky bottles and expiration dates since long passed were contained in the last cabinet in the last room she checked. It was always the last rooms, that's how it always works. Last place you check. She picked up a bottle up the back, on the end. Didn't seem too bad, it only expired a few months ago. Just how out of date was this stock anyway?
She sat down on the nearest bed. It had the springiness of a plank of wood. Aston unbuttoned her shirt, tossed it to the side, then began to unwrap the bandages around her shoulder.
Her wound wasn't feeling that good. Little sore. It was her motivation for coming here, she didn't want to tell Alice and Joe that though. She'd be weak. She'd be vulnerable, around her allies who had 3 kills between them and the ability to do more. Aston felt so inadequate, with nothing but words backing her up - she could say she wanted to kill Quincy, she could put on this persona of a girl out for revenge, but the question still remained at the back of her mind; could she really do it?
Until she was given time to prove herself, she'd never know the answer to that. She'd stick around with her two closest allies, and when the moment came, it would all be clear.
Vitriol
The light switch for the bathroom didn't work. That was really not helpful, especially in Aston's condition. She was forced to use her flashlight to clean out the wound and apply a fresh bandage from her bag. It was quite a stunning silence she endured, really.
But still, she had time to think it over while the wound no longer festered and rotted under the off-colour cloth.
So here she was, on Survival of the Fittest. Day 10. 57 people left. Those were the facts. She was in a group, another fact. Her group consisted of a girl who mercy killed an insane player, a Latino giant who sliced and diced two innocent people, and...well, her. They had 3 guns, pretty substantial firepower. They had a free location, a soon-to-be exclusive location. These were other facts. But one of the things she hadn't thought about was what this was all really leading up to.
Oh, and the rest of the facts. Of every person she met in the first few days, she was the only one left alive. Chase was dead, Marty was dead, Josh was dead (and that hurt for reasons she had yet to accept), Michelle was dead, Ben was dead, the girls she met in the cave were dead, the other girl she met on her return trip was dead, Tiffany was dead (not that she cared or even really met her), RJ was dead, and the rich idiot from the beach was dead. She'd lived over everyone, and there had to be a reason for that. She deserved this, she earned this more than everyone, and it was because she never deviated from her one goal: find this boy, and make him feel the pain of everything he'd done to these people, and to her.
Well, it was never about those people. It was all about her. Always.
It felt so odd to have to reassure herself that she was really doing it for herself...wait, no it didn't, it felt perfectly fine. Because that was a correct assumption.
Aston finished wrapping her shoulder back up after an extensive re-clean, and held her face in her hands over the brown and faintly-lit basin.
She could sleep, couldn't she?
No.
To be honest, staying here until they needed to leave wasn't the best option. All three, as a group, together, staying together, searching the same places together, it just wasn't going to work out. Splitting up seemed like the best option, even if only for a little bit, even if only in Aston's mind. Of course, if it was okay in Aston's mind, it was okay 100%.
Muted footsteps walked their way back to her bag, and slung it across her shoulder. She left behind two things. A box of ammo. A second thing that hadn't left her hand yet. She started out into the hallway, and made her way to the back door.
"Aston?"
A voice. Ignore it.
Aston didn't turn around, and only kept walking. Before she walked right out those doors, she dropped the note on the tiles beneath her feet.
((Aston Bennett continues in Never To Be Found))
I'll be back later.
But still, she had time to think it over while the wound no longer festered and rotted under the off-colour cloth.
So here she was, on Survival of the Fittest. Day 10. 57 people left. Those were the facts. She was in a group, another fact. Her group consisted of a girl who mercy killed an insane player, a Latino giant who sliced and diced two innocent people, and...well, her. They had 3 guns, pretty substantial firepower. They had a free location, a soon-to-be exclusive location. These were other facts. But one of the things she hadn't thought about was what this was all really leading up to.
Oh, and the rest of the facts. Of every person she met in the first few days, she was the only one left alive. Chase was dead, Marty was dead, Josh was dead (and that hurt for reasons she had yet to accept), Michelle was dead, Ben was dead, the girls she met in the cave were dead, the other girl she met on her return trip was dead, Tiffany was dead (not that she cared or even really met her), RJ was dead, and the rich idiot from the beach was dead. She'd lived over everyone, and there had to be a reason for that. She deserved this, she earned this more than everyone, and it was because she never deviated from her one goal: find this boy, and make him feel the pain of everything he'd done to these people, and to her.
Well, it was never about those people. It was all about her. Always.
It felt so odd to have to reassure herself that she was really doing it for herself...wait, no it didn't, it felt perfectly fine. Because that was a correct assumption.
Aston finished wrapping her shoulder back up after an extensive re-clean, and held her face in her hands over the brown and faintly-lit basin.
She could sleep, couldn't she?
No.
To be honest, staying here until they needed to leave wasn't the best option. All three, as a group, together, staying together, searching the same places together, it just wasn't going to work out. Splitting up seemed like the best option, even if only for a little bit, even if only in Aston's mind. Of course, if it was okay in Aston's mind, it was okay 100%.
Muted footsteps walked their way back to her bag, and slung it across her shoulder. She left behind two things. A box of ammo. A second thing that hadn't left her hand yet. She started out into the hallway, and made her way to the back door.
"Aston?"
A voice. Ignore it.
Aston didn't turn around, and only kept walking. Before she walked right out those doors, she dropped the note on the tiles beneath her feet.
((Aston Bennett continues in Never To Be Found))
I'll be back later.
-
storyspoiler†
- Posts: 152
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 6:16 am
It wasn't Aston's style to worry about the possibilities.
Alice did, though.
Dead bodies here, wrapped in sheets. This had been the tail-end of something horrific. She had never buried Sarah, never wrapped her, and she realized, with a dull ache in her psyche, that it bothered her.
Multiple murderers don't deserve burials.
Would someone bury her?
Too much to think about. She wished she could just go insane already.
Searching the rooms, listlessly, she came upon the quarantine room. It was clean, surprisingly spare. A refuge. She opened the door, sat down, and after some thought, took the MP-40 off her neck.
She still had Brock's gun, though.
Quiet.
The quiet was nice.
But short-lived. There was a tap on the door, and a huge silhouette blocked the light.
"Joe?"
He slid the door open, and came in. "Wanted to rest."
She nodded. He sat down. He had Aston's Bersa now, and she fingered her own gun.
There were bodies outside.
"What are we now? Now that we're killers?"
He looked at her. She wasn't surprised. It was a surprising question.
"I mean, what are we supposed to do now? What are our rules? We can't be rescued--we just had that opportunity whisked away. Do we keep killing, and try to be the last man standing? Because I'm not sure I want to do that. When I killed, it was all so fast--I thought it was necessary. It wasn't. But I cared too much about survival then."
"I could suicide, I suppose. But then why didn't I suicide by trying to board the boats, by trying to escape? It seems like the most practical way to kill yourself. As for suiciding to show Danya what for--there have been enough pulled collars on the island to do that. It doesn't work. He doesn't care."
She sighed.
"Or must we hide? It would be practical, I suppose. But I'd so hate to go out hiding. I've committed crimes. It would be an inglorious way to end."
He probably thought she was a lunatic. She didn't particularly care.
"Perhaps you've thought of it. I haven't had time to think about it until now. It's troubling. There is something disgusting about this island--if you're not killing, if you're not dying, you're simply being. Waiting. Hoping it will all be over soon. I don't want to be that purposeless."
She looked at Joe. He looked as though he were about to say something.
So she waited.
Alice did, though.
Dead bodies here, wrapped in sheets. This had been the tail-end of something horrific. She had never buried Sarah, never wrapped her, and she realized, with a dull ache in her psyche, that it bothered her.
Multiple murderers don't deserve burials.
Would someone bury her?
Too much to think about. She wished she could just go insane already.
Searching the rooms, listlessly, she came upon the quarantine room. It was clean, surprisingly spare. A refuge. She opened the door, sat down, and after some thought, took the MP-40 off her neck.
She still had Brock's gun, though.
Quiet.
The quiet was nice.
But short-lived. There was a tap on the door, and a huge silhouette blocked the light.
"Joe?"
He slid the door open, and came in. "Wanted to rest."
She nodded. He sat down. He had Aston's Bersa now, and she fingered her own gun.
There were bodies outside.
"What are we now? Now that we're killers?"
He looked at her. She wasn't surprised. It was a surprising question.
"I mean, what are we supposed to do now? What are our rules? We can't be rescued--we just had that opportunity whisked away. Do we keep killing, and try to be the last man standing? Because I'm not sure I want to do that. When I killed, it was all so fast--I thought it was necessary. It wasn't. But I cared too much about survival then."
"I could suicide, I suppose. But then why didn't I suicide by trying to board the boats, by trying to escape? It seems like the most practical way to kill yourself. As for suiciding to show Danya what for--there have been enough pulled collars on the island to do that. It doesn't work. He doesn't care."
She sighed.
"Or must we hide? It would be practical, I suppose. But I'd so hate to go out hiding. I've committed crimes. It would be an inglorious way to end."
He probably thought she was a lunatic. She didn't particularly care.
"Perhaps you've thought of it. I haven't had time to think about it until now. It's troubling. There is something disgusting about this island--if you're not killing, if you're not dying, you're simply being. Waiting. Hoping it will all be over soon. I don't want to be that purposeless."
She looked at Joe. He looked as though he were about to say something.
So she waited.
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Joe looked at Alice.
"I suppose we just have to create purposes for ourselves, then," he said, grimly. Joe sighed and looked down. "Me, I've got a lotta shit to atone for. Even if I only got named for two deaths, I've got four people's blood on my hands in all... I wasn't able to help Rose or keep Cisco from killing a chick in the woods with his sawblade, and that's just as bad as killing them myself. Sure as shit weighs on my conscience just as much." He cringed subtly as he remembered the serrated disc ripping through the girl's throat, and her look of shock and confusion as she fell to the ground, blood pouring from her neck. Joe looked back at the French girl.
"So I figure if I can take down some of the worse psychos on the island, like Brook Brooks, Reiko Ishida, their type, and keep them from making it off this island alive, I can make up the difference. It's not much of a purpose, but ever since I settled on it it's kept me going."
A pause. Joe fingered the safety on Aston's handgun to make sure it was turned on, then spun the gun around by the trigger using his index finger. He'd picked that up from an old movie about a guy who was turned into hamburger by gangsters and brought back to life as a cyborg, and the image had stuck with him. It wasn't a safe maneuver, but the only things being threatened were Joe himself and the ceiling, so he had a hard time particularly caring. After two or three spins, he unzipped his daypack and dropped it in.
"I've got no illusions about my own chances of survival. It'd be nice, just for the opportunity to deck that fat fuck in the jaw if nothing else, but I'm not expecting much. That, and even if I did survive it wouldn't be too long until Mike or Alan's family hunts me down with torches and pitchforks," he said with a quiet chuckle.
"I suppose we just have to create purposes for ourselves, then," he said, grimly. Joe sighed and looked down. "Me, I've got a lotta shit to atone for. Even if I only got named for two deaths, I've got four people's blood on my hands in all... I wasn't able to help Rose or keep Cisco from killing a chick in the woods with his sawblade, and that's just as bad as killing them myself. Sure as shit weighs on my conscience just as much." He cringed subtly as he remembered the serrated disc ripping through the girl's throat, and her look of shock and confusion as she fell to the ground, blood pouring from her neck. Joe looked back at the French girl.
"So I figure if I can take down some of the worse psychos on the island, like Brook Brooks, Reiko Ishida, their type, and keep them from making it off this island alive, I can make up the difference. It's not much of a purpose, but ever since I settled on it it's kept me going."
A pause. Joe fingered the safety on Aston's handgun to make sure it was turned on, then spun the gun around by the trigger using his index finger. He'd picked that up from an old movie about a guy who was turned into hamburger by gangsters and brought back to life as a cyborg, and the image had stuck with him. It wasn't a safe maneuver, but the only things being threatened were Joe himself and the ceiling, so he had a hard time particularly caring. After two or three spins, he unzipped his daypack and dropped it in.
"I've got no illusions about my own chances of survival. It'd be nice, just for the opportunity to deck that fat fuck in the jaw if nothing else, but I'm not expecting much. That, and even if I did survive it wouldn't be too long until Mike or Alan's family hunts me down with torches and pitchforks," he said with a quiet chuckle.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Sean. 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.
-
storyspoiler†
- Posts: 152
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 6:16 am
Ever since I settled on it, it's kept me going.
That made sense, somehow.
Didn't you always have a purpose here?
No. There was the first three days.
The first three days, you were scared out of your mind. And trying to learn to use your weapon, which you promptly never used again.
The cat o' nine tails. Right.
But after that--Sarah. Trying to survive. Trying to get away with murder. Trying to help her find Maxwell Lombardi. You couldn't get away with murder, could you? Neither of you could. Couldn't take it.
Not enough mental gymnastics. Not crazy enough.
She liked Joe. She liked Joe's explanation. They were all killers here, but they could at least go out making sure some sociopath didn't win. They could have it as their purpose. Because really, last version's winner, John Rizzolo? She had never had an opinion on him before. But now she could wrinkle her nose and say that man is disgusting.
Of course, that meant that she was disgusting, too. But she had already known that.
So a purpose that confirmed that was...better. Or at least more precise.
Accurate.
She still couldn't quite get a hang of these slippery English words.
Joe Rios's purpose was a good purpose. Maybe she'd take it up.
She'd have to think on it.
"Thank you." She said, stiffly. Then she smiled at him. "That helps."
He smiled back. A little, broken smile.
This Joe Rios. She liked him. He knew what he was doing. He was honest about his perverted goals, the perversions of island life. Maybe if things returned to normal, if they went back to classes or college or something, she could date him.
Date an American boy. Wouldn't Mama and Papa be proud?
But things would not go back to normal.
I don't think I'll see home again.
Funny how every time she thought that, it still startled her.
-------------
The announcements could crackle on--was it day? Was it night? Telling them that the escaped had been killed. Unsuccessful escape. But of course they would say that. Aston had left a note--I'll be back--so Alice and Joe were waiting for her to be back.
But she was not back.
Remember when you and Sarah split up?
Yes. She could still hear Sarah's voice.
She didn't need to rescue Aston. Aston was not Sarah. Aston could take care of herself. She had a mission, and the mission was not a desperate quest for redemption, a lunatic drive that tied a killer and a coward together, searching the island for the program's most notorious serial murderer.
Aston was not Sarah. She could leave Aston.
And Joe--Joe said he was okay.
So he was okay.
And Alice could leave.
(She wished him well)
She had two things to do now. Two things before--fantasy of fantasies--the boats came back, or two things before she hid and survived, or two things before she died.
She needed, first, to bury Sarah's body. She hadn't done that before, and it hurt her.
Second, she needed to kill the killers.
Because it's a purpose.
It was something to do.
(Alice Boucher continued in You Already Know How This Ends)
That made sense, somehow.
Didn't you always have a purpose here?
No. There was the first three days.
The first three days, you were scared out of your mind. And trying to learn to use your weapon, which you promptly never used again.
The cat o' nine tails. Right.
But after that--Sarah. Trying to survive. Trying to get away with murder. Trying to help her find Maxwell Lombardi. You couldn't get away with murder, could you? Neither of you could. Couldn't take it.
Not enough mental gymnastics. Not crazy enough.
She liked Joe. She liked Joe's explanation. They were all killers here, but they could at least go out making sure some sociopath didn't win. They could have it as their purpose. Because really, last version's winner, John Rizzolo? She had never had an opinion on him before. But now she could wrinkle her nose and say that man is disgusting.
Of course, that meant that she was disgusting, too. But she had already known that.
So a purpose that confirmed that was...better. Or at least more precise.
Accurate.
She still couldn't quite get a hang of these slippery English words.
Joe Rios's purpose was a good purpose. Maybe she'd take it up.
She'd have to think on it.
"Thank you." She said, stiffly. Then she smiled at him. "That helps."
He smiled back. A little, broken smile.
This Joe Rios. She liked him. He knew what he was doing. He was honest about his perverted goals, the perversions of island life. Maybe if things returned to normal, if they went back to classes or college or something, she could date him.
Date an American boy. Wouldn't Mama and Papa be proud?
But things would not go back to normal.
I don't think I'll see home again.
Funny how every time she thought that, it still startled her.
-------------
The announcements could crackle on--was it day? Was it night? Telling them that the escaped had been killed. Unsuccessful escape. But of course they would say that. Aston had left a note--I'll be back--so Alice and Joe were waiting for her to be back.
But she was not back.
Remember when you and Sarah split up?
Yes. She could still hear Sarah's voice.
She didn't need to rescue Aston. Aston was not Sarah. Aston could take care of herself. She had a mission, and the mission was not a desperate quest for redemption, a lunatic drive that tied a killer and a coward together, searching the island for the program's most notorious serial murderer.
Aston was not Sarah. She could leave Aston.
And Joe--Joe said he was okay.
So he was okay.
And Alice could leave.
(She wished him well)
She had two things to do now. Two things before--fantasy of fantasies--the boats came back, or two things before she hid and survived, or two things before she died.
She needed, first, to bury Sarah's body. She hadn't done that before, and it hurt her.
Second, she needed to kill the killers.
Because it's a purpose.
It was something to do.
(Alice Boucher continued in You Already Know How This Ends)
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((God damn, Betsy. 
))
"Well, fuck," Joe muttered to himself after Alice closed the door behind her.
He immediately regretted coming out about his real purpose to Alice, especially knowing what she thought of herself as. He was essentially signing her death warrant in some way or another, now that she'd not only taken it well but outright adopted it. Alice was a good girl; she reminded Joe of Rose in a lot of ways. They had the same sort of snarky personality, the same frustration with consumerist American culture, and it resonated with him a bit.
The announcement had come on, same as usual. Some other guy than Danya. The new announcer sounded a little nicer, a little less enraptured by the carnage, than everyone's least favorite fatass from Hell. Joe thought back over it in detail; he'd been paying attention, but it wasn't the first thing on his mind due to Alice.
It started out with people he recognized. Maria Graham died of sustained injuries, probably an infection. Greynolds made a similar comment to Danya's usual fare here, but there was less of a mocking tone to it; he sounded almost regretful saying that this was "a marathon, not a sprint."
'Tis a shame. She was alright, Joe thought. The highlights of it were Alex White, Kris Hartmann, Simon Telamon, and Hayley Kelly, and Joe decided he would have to wait and see on Maf Tuigamala and Kitty Gitschall. Greynolds was fairly unclear on the latter two, whereas the first four were definite psychopaths.
Joe noted the hypocrisy of his newfound purpose.
Then, the escapees. Cisco escaped, and Cisco was apparently dead. Fair enough. Joe was really past caring about Cisco, although he did feel a slight pang of guilt that his initial charge was dead.
He calmly picked up his daypack, straightened out the bedsheets he was sitting on, and walked out the same exit Alice had left through.
((Joe Rios continued in Never To Be Found.))
))"Well, fuck," Joe muttered to himself after Alice closed the door behind her.
He immediately regretted coming out about his real purpose to Alice, especially knowing what she thought of herself as. He was essentially signing her death warrant in some way or another, now that she'd not only taken it well but outright adopted it. Alice was a good girl; she reminded Joe of Rose in a lot of ways. They had the same sort of snarky personality, the same frustration with consumerist American culture, and it resonated with him a bit.
The announcement had come on, same as usual. Some other guy than Danya. The new announcer sounded a little nicer, a little less enraptured by the carnage, than everyone's least favorite fatass from Hell. Joe thought back over it in detail; he'd been paying attention, but it wasn't the first thing on his mind due to Alice.
It started out with people he recognized. Maria Graham died of sustained injuries, probably an infection. Greynolds made a similar comment to Danya's usual fare here, but there was less of a mocking tone to it; he sounded almost regretful saying that this was "a marathon, not a sprint."
'Tis a shame. She was alright, Joe thought. The highlights of it were Alex White, Kris Hartmann, Simon Telamon, and Hayley Kelly, and Joe decided he would have to wait and see on Maf Tuigamala and Kitty Gitschall. Greynolds was fairly unclear on the latter two, whereas the first four were definite psychopaths.
Joe noted the hypocrisy of his newfound purpose.
Then, the escapees. Cisco escaped, and Cisco was apparently dead. Fair enough. Joe was really past caring about Cisco, although he did feel a slight pang of guilt that his initial charge was dead.
He calmly picked up his daypack, straightened out the bedsheets he was sitting on, and walked out the same exit Alice had left through.
((Joe Rios continued in Never To Be Found.))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Sean. 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.