((Franco continued from A Hunting We Will Go, A Hunting We Will Go))
(Jotun and Nealosi co-wrote this? Win?)
Nathan led the two young men over rusted cans and ruddy sidewalks into the industrial district of the island. The morning fog and the clouds of dust seemed to linger in the district far longer than anywhere else; it left a dry stagnant taste in the back of Franco's throat. They stalked through the rusted alleyways with chilling silence. Even the noise failed to escape the groaning grey walls of the district.
The sulphuric air stung Franco's eyes as he looked up at one large building next to the island's token factory. It was smaller by comparison, but it seemed to be fairly sturdy and looked like it may have been holding a few remaining supplies. It cast a large shadow under the afternoon sun; Franco was willing to put money on the idea that most people had probably avoided this building. It was a perfect set-up.
They two walked through the door without realizing they had just entered the island slaughterhouse. The meat had been pulled off all the racks and the worktables were no longer drenched in blood, but the smell was the same. It would probably take a good decade and a lot of industrial cleaner to work that smell away. It was the coppery-wet smell of blood, saliva and gnashing teeth. It was the smell of cannibalism, gluttonous humanity and dark corners.
With Franco's urging, Nathan continued to lead the way.
"This place smells like shit," Nathan covered his face with a bit of his sleeve. "Come on, Franco. There's nothing here. Let's get the fuck out of here.."
"Let's keep looking," Franco's face was twisted in disgust; he kept his grip on his shotgun. "I'm sure there's got to be something left in here. I bet the terrorists didn't exactly take there time here."
Franco prodded and kicked at troughs and pushed at the hanging meat hooks with his gun, looking for something, anything that could justify them hiding in this godforsaken place. The slaughterhouse was dark and abandoned and the last thing Franco wanted to do right now was face the light of day. He could barely see in here, but at least it would be a good place to hold out for a day, collect himself and head back out again. He could stomach the smell; his stomach was getting a lot stronger. It was something else inside him he feared was withering away.
Just as he walked past one of the larger waste bins, where they would throw bits of refuse and the internal organs and pinkish bits that had no use, a burning pain flared up in his chest. Franco doubled over; one-hand still clutched his shotgun on the ground as the other pulled at his chest. Six days on the island and his weak heart had acted up three times. That was more than usual. Franco groaned and fell to his knees. It wasn't the frequency of the attacks that scared him the most; it was the place in which they were happening.
He was already wary of exerting himself, but life on the island had called for a great deal of mobility. The pain shot through his body again, making it hard to breath. He took slow, greedy gulps of air and tried his best to ride the pain out, but it wasn't getting any easier.
Nathan had distanced himself a ways as the two of them were searching, but he still heard Franco fall, and he could still hear the strained gasps for air. What if this was his chance, he could take Franco's weapons and put the boots to the other players. It would be a piece of cake, if Franco had done something stupid and hurt himself. He wondered for a minute about what was happening to Franco, and realized it didn't really matter. This was his chance, maybe the only one he would get to take the win here. He was gonna take it.
He swatted through the dark slaughterhouse and squinted to try and find his prissy-dressed ally.. His heart was pounding, he was ready for this, and people would probably thank him for what he was going to do to Franco, who ahd done ntohing but paint a bloody mess all over the island.
A black mass sat hunched at a far end of the slaughterhouse. It was dark, but the form looked vaguely humanoid. The gasps echoed for the same direction. He stalked forward held out his arms, ready to strangle the prone figure. As he drew closer he could make out a head, he positioned himself behind it, and he could choke him out before he ever knew what was happening. He wouldn't even see it coming.
Nathan hesitated for a fraction of a second he could still hear the gasps. When faced with the actual action, Nathan hesitated. He hadn't prepared himself to do this, he was fille dwith doubt when faced with the actual task. What he needed was a bowl, something to help him relax. Nathan steeled himself, he was going to do it. He locked his arms around his neck and readied himself to wrestle Franco to his death, but there was no struggle. Instead of the pasty white flesh and clammy skin of Franco Sebberts, Nathan wrapped his arms around the maggot eaten flesh of half a dead horse. He dried and dead skin made a sucking noise as it clung to Nathan's flesh. He threw his arms back and tried not to loose his breakfast.
"GAH! What the fuck!?" Nathan dropped the horse head, swatting wildy to get an imaginary gross stigma off his arms and chest, his heard nearly blasting a hole in his chest.
"Looks like they did leave something behind," his words were laboured, they came between sharp breaths. He was still clutching his chest with one hand and his weapon in the other. The barrel of the shotgun pressed up against Nathan's shoulder blades.
Franco's eyes had adjusted more easily to the dark, and he was a quick judge of character. He squeezed the trigger.
Nathan barely had time to register what had just happened, but instantly knew what that feeling was on his back, a slight itch he couldn't scratch. His hand moved towards it anyway, but he didn't find the object before the sound of the gunshot accompanied the explosion in his chest.
Nathan wondered what was going to happen. The answer was instant.
You're going to fucking die!
Tears welled up in his eyes. Nathan was confused, scared... he wondered what to do. He always knew what he had to do, he was never stumped by anything.
But he never followed through with it.
Maybe that was why he was dying. He knew, from the start of his time on the island, that he needed to find food, shelter, weapons, allies. Instead he'd wandered around like a retard, took the first cahnce that was given to him to pass the work on to someone else, someone he knew he didn't like.
Because he didn't bother to stand up for himself, he was dying on a shitty floor in a shitsmelling house of death.
Nathan started to lose his focus, he wasn't able to keep his thoghts straight. He started to repeat the same two words in his head, losing track of what he was recalling.
Should have... should have.... should have...
Boy#59: GODWIN, Nathan. STATUS: DECEASED.
(A little side note from me: Nealosi. Franco is going to be staying here for as long as possible, so if anyone wants to stop by, feel free.)
Maison d'abattage
The new residence of B02
Maison d'abattage
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
(Yeah, I double posted. I'm magical like that.)
He didn't plan on going anywhere for a while. Sweat still dribbled down his chin and people outside could no longer be trusted. The sunlight hurt his eyes and the cool damp air and dimly-lit atmosphere of the abattoir soothed him. The only thing that got to him was the smell, which was worsening. His eyes had adapted to the low-light and he could clearly see the corpse of Nathan Godwin laying on the cold steel walkway. His blood dripped down the metal grating and into God knows what below. The top half of a horse corpse was still their too, he really should have done something about the bodies, but he didn't really want to touch them and get all covered in blood again.
Nevertheless, it was a good place to hide. It didn't attract a lot of attention and a slaughterhouse was not exactly somewhere any of the island patrons would want to go. Franco applauded his own wisdom. His health was getting worse, and he had more gear now than ever. At least in here he could lay things out carefully and get himself organized. Despite the smell he was getting increasingly comfortable in here, after he'd take a few he'd take care of the bodies and maybe find a place to rest. Like a rat in a hole, bloated and safe in his ignorance.
~
Chaiki Takao had heard the noise of gunshots from the far end of the industrial district. The shotgun blast had echoed through the slaughterhouse and out into the open air of the island leaving only a quiet little burst, unidentified to most, but Chiaki had been listening to the sound all her life. She could track it down from miles away.
That's exactly what she intended to do. It wouldn't be too hard given the number of buildings in the district.
She searched what must have been an old packing facility. With regimented precision she stalked through the facility with her gun in one hand and her flashlight in the other. She swept through the building quickly, stepping over old refuse and rusted machinery to make her way out the back entrance.
The industrial district was poorly organized. There were large gaps of disused land, occupied only by dust, wreckage and silence only to be interrupted by another huge grey box of a building. Chiaki darted across the open un-defensible lots from building to building. The wind echoed through the desolate corridors, probably the same reason the sound of the gun shot carried as far as it did.
Another empty building. Who ever fired the gun could have been long gone by now, that would have been the wise thing to do, but Chiaki had a hunch, that and the fact that she had not found a body yet. Just as she was about to give up hope and abandon the district she noticed that some had gotten sloppy.
The front door to the island slaughterhouse was still open. The large grey building sat ominously at the edge of the district, it cast a long shadow under the dawning sun just as a long dark shadow reached out from the open slaughterhouse door. She stalked around the corner and into the dark building right after turning off her flashlight. She didn't want to give herself away; she could just get in, kill whoever had just fired that shot and get out of her. The dimly lit abattoir was far less then welcoming, and the smell was horrendous, but someone was hiding in here, and she would find them. Chiaki was going to be the only one left. It was her destiny, her right, to win and to live.
~
Franco had another opinion of who deserved to live and die. As far as he was concerned, the universe revolved around him and everyone else was just a footnote; a stepping stone. He hadn't heard Chiaki enter, but he had already got up to dispose of the bodies. The remains of the horse body were heavy and it had taken Franco the better part of his time moving it into one of the slaughterhouse industrial bins. Nathan, on the other hand, was surprisingly light given that Franco had blow out a good chunk of his back. Still, he huffed and wheezed as he dragged the body to the bin, even though he was using a trolley that he'd found in another room.
Groaning, he pulled Nathan's body onto the trolley, will still managing to remain relatively clean. His white button up business shirt and black 'church-going' pants only held traces of someone else's blood. There was a dab of it here and a dab there, nothing that couldn't be washed off with a bit of water.
Chiaki could hear him on the other side of the room, puffing and panting from obvious strain. Somehow she doubted that this kid was a killer, he seemed to be having a pretty hard time doing whatever the hell he was doing. Chiaki didn't even want to know...
She stalked closer and closer, the dark became thicker and thicker, making it even more difficult to see. She could only make out silhouettes. A silhouette was enough. Chiaki levelled her handgun and fired.
BLAM!
The bullet pinged of the trolley and ricocheted into the air. Giving Franco just enough time to scream in surprise as the bullet bounced through the palm of his right hand.
"Gaaahhhh! Fucking fucker!" Tears streamed down Franco's face as he fell to the ground behind the trolley. He screamed in anger and torment and reached into his back pocket for his own handgun. He hissed and screamed as he struck out, leaning out from behind the trolley and firing at the opposing silhouette.
Three bullets flew through the darkness just as Chiaki ran for cover, she had shot at the other body, thinking it was still alive, but apparently this particular murderer was keeping souvenirs or something.
"You fucking creep," Chiaki fired off a few more shots as she dove behind a large steel trough. "Only one of us is walking out of here alive and it's not going to be you!"
Franco whimpered as he crawled out from his cover and scampered into a holding pen.
"You bitch! You fucking bitch!"
Chiaki stood up, firing off two more shots before she noticed her target had moved. She ducked back behind the trough.
Franco squirmed through the dirty holding pen, tears still streamed down his face and blood covered his right hand. At least she had hit his right and not his left, being one of those few people who used his left. He wiped the tears off his face as he crawling around to where he had stashed his other weapons. He'd spent most of the day getting acquainted with the slaughterhouse, he just had to keep his head on straight and ignore the pain while he manoeuvred around this new combatant. He might not be as good a shot, but he knew how to lead someone on.
"Over here you stupid whore!" Franco managed to call out between muffled sobs. He dragged his pack behind him with his injured right hand and gripped his left around the pistol. He pulled himself across the floor on his elbows.
Chiaki stood up. She could hear the fear in his voice, he was injured, and he wasn't moving very fast, but it was so hard to see in the dark slaughterhouse. She made her way across the building, following the noise of her wounded prey, but his cries echoed through the large building making it sound like he was coming from everywhere at once.
She followed him slowly and carefully into a winding pathway that was guarded by to low gates. She turned on her flashlight and shone it around the area. A small trail of blood was leading her forward, along the winding queue. She rushed forward her gun pointed forward, her light shining down on the ground. Suddenly the trail of blood stopped, just as the pathway opened into a large fenced room. Chiaki looked around; he didn't seem to be anywhere, worst of all the sound of his whimpering had stopped, replaced with maniacally laughter that seemed to echo through the entire building. She darted around, trying desperately to find him.
"You know, this is where they lead the cows to be tranquilized," his sobbing had stopped but his eyes were still red and his face pale white with dark sunken rings around his eyes. Blood still drained down his hand, but he had wrapped it around the handle of his bag to stem the flow. "If they needed it of course. Which you will."
Chiaki felt a sharp pain in the back of her neck, then nothing at all.
What seemed like mere moments later Chiaki was laying on her back over a cold steel grate. Her clothes were stripped off and heavy chains dug into her naked flesh. She squirmed and tried to scream but discovered that her mouth was filled with her own sock.
"You must understand that I don't normally do this, but you've wounded me so, and I figured I'd return the favour," Franco continued tending to his wound as he sat on the floor next to Chiaki. "It's just business, baby, and don't worry, I never mix business with pleasure. Your sanctity is safe with me, even though we are safely away from most of the cameras..."
Franco gave Chiaki a moment to comprehend the situation. She squirmed and writhed trying to tug herself free, but the chains were heavy and awkwardly tangled by an amateur knot making. She managed to spit the sock out of her mouth.
"Let me free you sick bastard! I'll-"
"You'll what?! Hurt me more with your big scary words?! Please, don't tempt me."
"You're going to burn in hell for this!"
"Well, keep a seat warm for me," Franco drove a wing-tipped shoe into her side. He sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow and the hair from his eyes. He pulled the taser from out of his front pocket and pressed the button, testing it in front of his newest victim.
"Open up and say 'awww.'"
Chiaki scream as Franco forced the taser into her mouth. Franco took particular pleasure in watching her writhe. He pulled the taser out of her mouth and listened to her sob for a while. This was getting easier. He hadn't intended to do what he did to Cathalie and Mitch back in the forest, but he was so mad then that he couldn't help himself. Now he was just doing this because he figured she deserved it. Everyone who crossed him did. Why couldn't they just lay down and die, he was Franco Sebberts, and he had already proved that he was worthy of victory on the damned island.
The pain was excruciating, but all Chiaki could think about was hurting this little punk even more. The chains were tied poorly and she began to inch her hand out from under her. Compared to the taser in the mouth the chaffing from the chains and the steel grate didn't even register. Bloodied and bruised, she pulled her hand out from the metal chains and brought it out to her side. Franco was still too far away, she waited, glaring at him with hardened eyes. She wasn't going to cry for this asshole. That's exactly what he wanted. He wanted to feel like a big man, like he was the most important person in the word; she could smell it on him.
"You're quite the feisty one aren't you? Maybe, just this once, I could break the golden rule and mix business with pleasure, what do you say baby?" Franco leaned in and locked eyes with Chiaki; it was a fine line between a feeling of fear and a feeling of superiority for Franco. He'd Chiaki not been restrained, her glare would have scared the hell out of him, but now he just say it as a final cheap trick, a desperate leap for one final moment of dominance. Franco grinned from ear to ear.
Chiaki reached up and grabbed Franco by his clean white collar. With furious strength she pulled him downward. He gasped desperately as Chiaki drove her forehead into his teeth.
Franco reached for his mouth, blood dribbled through his gums, he grasped it in pain, unaware that Chiaki was still moving.
She pulled down with all her body weight, Franco barely had time to put his right hand down to brace himself. His bloody palm impacted with the ground as he screamed in pain once again. He was barely holding himself up when Chiaki reached up.
She would have to work with what she had. Chiaki bit down, driving her teeth into the fleshy white neck of Franco Sebberts. She felt his coppery blood run across her teeth and bite down harder.
"Waaaahhhhgggg!" Franco wailed in pain and fear. "You crazy slut!"
Franco moved his arm, bracing his short fail to the ground and began groping for his taser. As he fell on to Chiaki she let go with her teeth, leaving a bloody red mess on the side of Franco's neck. Unfortunately she hadn't hit anything vital, but she would with her next blow. Chiaki drove both her knees upward as Franco fell. Her knees crashed into his groin as Franco gasped.
"Ahhhhahahahaaaa!"
Franco managed to roll off to the side and into his own pack. His hand moved from his mouth to his groin as he reached through the bag with his bloody right hand. He found it hard to move his fingers given his injury, but he managed to get a grip on something that felt vaguely like a gun.
Meanwhile, Chiaki wrestled with the chains. She managed to wiggle her other hand free and began to pull the loose mess of heavy metal off her naked body. She struggled and pulled, finally working the rusted metal down past her hips. She was almost there; once she had these off she could break this little punk's spine with her bare hands.
Blood and spittle flew from his mouth as Franco hissed in rage. He was laying on the floor with his shotgun in hand. She climbed to her feet as Franco wiped the sweat and tears from his eyes. He could hardly see where she was, he pulled the trigger.
Time stood still for a moment as Chiaki reached her full height. She heard the blast from the gun and figured the little bastard had missed; she looked down at the weeping little coward and then felt a pain in her stomach. She reached down and touched her gut, she brought her hand back up to her eye level; it was covered with blood.
"Well, I didn't see that one coming," Chiaki sighed as she fell back down to the floor. She looked down, discovering a gapping hole where her stomach once was.
She scoffed in disbelief as her head drooped down to the floor, resting on the steel grate. Blood leaked out her nose, mouth and body down into the grate as the room gave way to complete darkness. Whole and absolute darkness. Forever and ever.
She was already dead but somehow the words escaped her lips.
"I'm sorry Dad, I failed."
~
Franco crawled back up to his feet after nursing his wounds on the floor. His gums were still bleeding and his groin was still soar and his hand was completely numb. He'd bandaged up his wounds with what was left of Chiaki's clothes. He wrapped his neck and his hand a little more properly, tightening the bandages and sterilizing his wounds as much as he could. He had no formal training and no way of telling how bad his wounds were, but he felt like shit. After dragging both Chiaki and Nathan's body into an industrial waste bin, he skulked back into a dark corner and slept like a baby.
Girl#32: TAKAO, Chiaki. STATUS: DECEASED.
He didn't plan on going anywhere for a while. Sweat still dribbled down his chin and people outside could no longer be trusted. The sunlight hurt his eyes and the cool damp air and dimly-lit atmosphere of the abattoir soothed him. The only thing that got to him was the smell, which was worsening. His eyes had adapted to the low-light and he could clearly see the corpse of Nathan Godwin laying on the cold steel walkway. His blood dripped down the metal grating and into God knows what below. The top half of a horse corpse was still their too, he really should have done something about the bodies, but he didn't really want to touch them and get all covered in blood again.
Nevertheless, it was a good place to hide. It didn't attract a lot of attention and a slaughterhouse was not exactly somewhere any of the island patrons would want to go. Franco applauded his own wisdom. His health was getting worse, and he had more gear now than ever. At least in here he could lay things out carefully and get himself organized. Despite the smell he was getting increasingly comfortable in here, after he'd take a few he'd take care of the bodies and maybe find a place to rest. Like a rat in a hole, bloated and safe in his ignorance.
~
Chaiki Takao had heard the noise of gunshots from the far end of the industrial district. The shotgun blast had echoed through the slaughterhouse and out into the open air of the island leaving only a quiet little burst, unidentified to most, but Chiaki had been listening to the sound all her life. She could track it down from miles away.
That's exactly what she intended to do. It wouldn't be too hard given the number of buildings in the district.
She searched what must have been an old packing facility. With regimented precision she stalked through the facility with her gun in one hand and her flashlight in the other. She swept through the building quickly, stepping over old refuse and rusted machinery to make her way out the back entrance.
The industrial district was poorly organized. There were large gaps of disused land, occupied only by dust, wreckage and silence only to be interrupted by another huge grey box of a building. Chiaki darted across the open un-defensible lots from building to building. The wind echoed through the desolate corridors, probably the same reason the sound of the gun shot carried as far as it did.
Another empty building. Who ever fired the gun could have been long gone by now, that would have been the wise thing to do, but Chiaki had a hunch, that and the fact that she had not found a body yet. Just as she was about to give up hope and abandon the district she noticed that some had gotten sloppy.
The front door to the island slaughterhouse was still open. The large grey building sat ominously at the edge of the district, it cast a long shadow under the dawning sun just as a long dark shadow reached out from the open slaughterhouse door. She stalked around the corner and into the dark building right after turning off her flashlight. She didn't want to give herself away; she could just get in, kill whoever had just fired that shot and get out of her. The dimly lit abattoir was far less then welcoming, and the smell was horrendous, but someone was hiding in here, and she would find them. Chiaki was going to be the only one left. It was her destiny, her right, to win and to live.
~
Franco had another opinion of who deserved to live and die. As far as he was concerned, the universe revolved around him and everyone else was just a footnote; a stepping stone. He hadn't heard Chiaki enter, but he had already got up to dispose of the bodies. The remains of the horse body were heavy and it had taken Franco the better part of his time moving it into one of the slaughterhouse industrial bins. Nathan, on the other hand, was surprisingly light given that Franco had blow out a good chunk of his back. Still, he huffed and wheezed as he dragged the body to the bin, even though he was using a trolley that he'd found in another room.
Groaning, he pulled Nathan's body onto the trolley, will still managing to remain relatively clean. His white button up business shirt and black 'church-going' pants only held traces of someone else's blood. There was a dab of it here and a dab there, nothing that couldn't be washed off with a bit of water.
Chiaki could hear him on the other side of the room, puffing and panting from obvious strain. Somehow she doubted that this kid was a killer, he seemed to be having a pretty hard time doing whatever the hell he was doing. Chiaki didn't even want to know...
She stalked closer and closer, the dark became thicker and thicker, making it even more difficult to see. She could only make out silhouettes. A silhouette was enough. Chiaki levelled her handgun and fired.
BLAM!
The bullet pinged of the trolley and ricocheted into the air. Giving Franco just enough time to scream in surprise as the bullet bounced through the palm of his right hand.
"Gaaahhhh! Fucking fucker!" Tears streamed down Franco's face as he fell to the ground behind the trolley. He screamed in anger and torment and reached into his back pocket for his own handgun. He hissed and screamed as he struck out, leaning out from behind the trolley and firing at the opposing silhouette.
Three bullets flew through the darkness just as Chiaki ran for cover, she had shot at the other body, thinking it was still alive, but apparently this particular murderer was keeping souvenirs or something.
"You fucking creep," Chiaki fired off a few more shots as she dove behind a large steel trough. "Only one of us is walking out of here alive and it's not going to be you!"
Franco whimpered as he crawled out from his cover and scampered into a holding pen.
"You bitch! You fucking bitch!"
Chiaki stood up, firing off two more shots before she noticed her target had moved. She ducked back behind the trough.
Franco squirmed through the dirty holding pen, tears still streamed down his face and blood covered his right hand. At least she had hit his right and not his left, being one of those few people who used his left. He wiped the tears off his face as he crawling around to where he had stashed his other weapons. He'd spent most of the day getting acquainted with the slaughterhouse, he just had to keep his head on straight and ignore the pain while he manoeuvred around this new combatant. He might not be as good a shot, but he knew how to lead someone on.
"Over here you stupid whore!" Franco managed to call out between muffled sobs. He dragged his pack behind him with his injured right hand and gripped his left around the pistol. He pulled himself across the floor on his elbows.
Chiaki stood up. She could hear the fear in his voice, he was injured, and he wasn't moving very fast, but it was so hard to see in the dark slaughterhouse. She made her way across the building, following the noise of her wounded prey, but his cries echoed through the large building making it sound like he was coming from everywhere at once.
She followed him slowly and carefully into a winding pathway that was guarded by to low gates. She turned on her flashlight and shone it around the area. A small trail of blood was leading her forward, along the winding queue. She rushed forward her gun pointed forward, her light shining down on the ground. Suddenly the trail of blood stopped, just as the pathway opened into a large fenced room. Chiaki looked around; he didn't seem to be anywhere, worst of all the sound of his whimpering had stopped, replaced with maniacally laughter that seemed to echo through the entire building. She darted around, trying desperately to find him.
"You know, this is where they lead the cows to be tranquilized," his sobbing had stopped but his eyes were still red and his face pale white with dark sunken rings around his eyes. Blood still drained down his hand, but he had wrapped it around the handle of his bag to stem the flow. "If they needed it of course. Which you will."
Chiaki felt a sharp pain in the back of her neck, then nothing at all.
What seemed like mere moments later Chiaki was laying on her back over a cold steel grate. Her clothes were stripped off and heavy chains dug into her naked flesh. She squirmed and tried to scream but discovered that her mouth was filled with her own sock.
"You must understand that I don't normally do this, but you've wounded me so, and I figured I'd return the favour," Franco continued tending to his wound as he sat on the floor next to Chiaki. "It's just business, baby, and don't worry, I never mix business with pleasure. Your sanctity is safe with me, even though we are safely away from most of the cameras..."
Franco gave Chiaki a moment to comprehend the situation. She squirmed and writhed trying to tug herself free, but the chains were heavy and awkwardly tangled by an amateur knot making. She managed to spit the sock out of her mouth.
"Let me free you sick bastard! I'll-"
"You'll what?! Hurt me more with your big scary words?! Please, don't tempt me."
"You're going to burn in hell for this!"
"Well, keep a seat warm for me," Franco drove a wing-tipped shoe into her side. He sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow and the hair from his eyes. He pulled the taser from out of his front pocket and pressed the button, testing it in front of his newest victim.
"Open up and say 'awww.'"
Chiaki scream as Franco forced the taser into her mouth. Franco took particular pleasure in watching her writhe. He pulled the taser out of her mouth and listened to her sob for a while. This was getting easier. He hadn't intended to do what he did to Cathalie and Mitch back in the forest, but he was so mad then that he couldn't help himself. Now he was just doing this because he figured she deserved it. Everyone who crossed him did. Why couldn't they just lay down and die, he was Franco Sebberts, and he had already proved that he was worthy of victory on the damned island.
The pain was excruciating, but all Chiaki could think about was hurting this little punk even more. The chains were tied poorly and she began to inch her hand out from under her. Compared to the taser in the mouth the chaffing from the chains and the steel grate didn't even register. Bloodied and bruised, she pulled her hand out from the metal chains and brought it out to her side. Franco was still too far away, she waited, glaring at him with hardened eyes. She wasn't going to cry for this asshole. That's exactly what he wanted. He wanted to feel like a big man, like he was the most important person in the word; she could smell it on him.
"You're quite the feisty one aren't you? Maybe, just this once, I could break the golden rule and mix business with pleasure, what do you say baby?" Franco leaned in and locked eyes with Chiaki; it was a fine line between a feeling of fear and a feeling of superiority for Franco. He'd Chiaki not been restrained, her glare would have scared the hell out of him, but now he just say it as a final cheap trick, a desperate leap for one final moment of dominance. Franco grinned from ear to ear.
Chiaki reached up and grabbed Franco by his clean white collar. With furious strength she pulled him downward. He gasped desperately as Chiaki drove her forehead into his teeth.
Franco reached for his mouth, blood dribbled through his gums, he grasped it in pain, unaware that Chiaki was still moving.
She pulled down with all her body weight, Franco barely had time to put his right hand down to brace himself. His bloody palm impacted with the ground as he screamed in pain once again. He was barely holding himself up when Chiaki reached up.
She would have to work with what she had. Chiaki bit down, driving her teeth into the fleshy white neck of Franco Sebberts. She felt his coppery blood run across her teeth and bite down harder.
"Waaaahhhhgggg!" Franco wailed in pain and fear. "You crazy slut!"
Franco moved his arm, bracing his short fail to the ground and began groping for his taser. As he fell on to Chiaki she let go with her teeth, leaving a bloody red mess on the side of Franco's neck. Unfortunately she hadn't hit anything vital, but she would with her next blow. Chiaki drove both her knees upward as Franco fell. Her knees crashed into his groin as Franco gasped.
"Ahhhhahahahaaaa!"
Franco managed to roll off to the side and into his own pack. His hand moved from his mouth to his groin as he reached through the bag with his bloody right hand. He found it hard to move his fingers given his injury, but he managed to get a grip on something that felt vaguely like a gun.
Meanwhile, Chiaki wrestled with the chains. She managed to wiggle her other hand free and began to pull the loose mess of heavy metal off her naked body. She struggled and pulled, finally working the rusted metal down past her hips. She was almost there; once she had these off she could break this little punk's spine with her bare hands.
Blood and spittle flew from his mouth as Franco hissed in rage. He was laying on the floor with his shotgun in hand. She climbed to her feet as Franco wiped the sweat and tears from his eyes. He could hardly see where she was, he pulled the trigger.
Time stood still for a moment as Chiaki reached her full height. She heard the blast from the gun and figured the little bastard had missed; she looked down at the weeping little coward and then felt a pain in her stomach. She reached down and touched her gut, she brought her hand back up to her eye level; it was covered with blood.
"Well, I didn't see that one coming," Chiaki sighed as she fell back down to the floor. She looked down, discovering a gapping hole where her stomach once was.
She scoffed in disbelief as her head drooped down to the floor, resting on the steel grate. Blood leaked out her nose, mouth and body down into the grate as the room gave way to complete darkness. Whole and absolute darkness. Forever and ever.
She was already dead but somehow the words escaped her lips.
"I'm sorry Dad, I failed."
~
Franco crawled back up to his feet after nursing his wounds on the floor. His gums were still bleeding and his groin was still soar and his hand was completely numb. He'd bandaged up his wounds with what was left of Chiaki's clothes. He wrapped his neck and his hand a little more properly, tightening the bandages and sterilizing his wounds as much as he could. He had no formal training and no way of telling how bad his wounds were, but he felt like shit. After dragging both Chiaki and Nathan's body into an industrial waste bin, he skulked back into a dark corner and slept like a baby.
Girl#32: TAKAO, Chiaki. STATUS: DECEASED.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
((Continued from Forever Falling: Part I))
((Combo breaker! I don't think I mentioned what kind of shoes Damien put on back at the Residential District so I'll just say they're sneakers.))
A brand new day was dawning, but there were no birds to be found in this desolate section of this desolate island in this part of the world. That didn't mean there weren't any songbirds nearby, as someone could be heard humming in a very childlike voice entering the district. The tune being hummed was cheery yet somewhat tainted with desperation, as if the happiness concealed quite a bit of pain underneath.
From a distance it would be impossible to tell the gender of the person walking into the district, though chances were that the first assumption would have to be female. The denim jacket, the long black hair, the camo jeans and sneakers as well as the vaguely purse-like prize bag he was holding had an 80s-casual feel to them that was distinctly feminine and upwardly mobile. That was - of course - not counting the rather large revolver he wielded in one hand, the pot lid that made up his "shield" in the other, as well as the baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire slung around his back. There was also the matter of the bandages wrapped around his shield arm, where a large knife had pierced it but was now residing firmly in the androgynous boy's pocket.
And speaking of upwardly mobile, Damien Carter-Madison was coming into what appeared to be the final stages of the game with equal amounts of hope and disappointment. Right now, four names remained uncrossed on his current list...the fat boy named Peter who accompanied Kristey, Roland Kelly, Franco Sebberts, and Reneé Valenti, the latter of whom he had not actually heard a single word about this entire time. It was giving him hope that he'd finally managed to knock off as many people as he did, but disappointed him that he didn't knock off more by now and that Roland Kelly had an equivalent number of kills. It gave him hope that he was now armed, but the last encounter with a person he barely met (and killed anyway) disappointed him because as Garry Dodd bit it, he was able to psyche Damien out somewhat with the same sort of thing Kristey said as she bit it.
Still, Damien was hoping that he left that giant and his nasty words behind...and hoped that the following days would not disappoint. It was still a bitch to move his arm too much though.
Damien had no idea who else was here...but for some reason, he was actually starting to feel right at home in the cold gray depravity that was the island's industrial section. In fact it seemed the only color in the entire area was his blue and green clothing, the bright red number 6 on his current supply bag, and for some odd reason an orange frisbee on the ground near the place where he'd entered. But these were minor accents...minor distractions. Minor compared to the stench that seemed to emanate from a nearby building.
It was a stench that started to draw him in.
((And plz to not forget the Gala. X.=.x))
((Combo breaker! I don't think I mentioned what kind of shoes Damien put on back at the Residential District so I'll just say they're sneakers.))
A brand new day was dawning, but there were no birds to be found in this desolate section of this desolate island in this part of the world. That didn't mean there weren't any songbirds nearby, as someone could be heard humming in a very childlike voice entering the district. The tune being hummed was cheery yet somewhat tainted with desperation, as if the happiness concealed quite a bit of pain underneath.
From a distance it would be impossible to tell the gender of the person walking into the district, though chances were that the first assumption would have to be female. The denim jacket, the long black hair, the camo jeans and sneakers as well as the vaguely purse-like prize bag he was holding had an 80s-casual feel to them that was distinctly feminine and upwardly mobile. That was - of course - not counting the rather large revolver he wielded in one hand, the pot lid that made up his "shield" in the other, as well as the baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire slung around his back. There was also the matter of the bandages wrapped around his shield arm, where a large knife had pierced it but was now residing firmly in the androgynous boy's pocket.
And speaking of upwardly mobile, Damien Carter-Madison was coming into what appeared to be the final stages of the game with equal amounts of hope and disappointment. Right now, four names remained uncrossed on his current list...the fat boy named Peter who accompanied Kristey, Roland Kelly, Franco Sebberts, and Reneé Valenti, the latter of whom he had not actually heard a single word about this entire time. It was giving him hope that he'd finally managed to knock off as many people as he did, but disappointed him that he didn't knock off more by now and that Roland Kelly had an equivalent number of kills. It gave him hope that he was now armed, but the last encounter with a person he barely met (and killed anyway) disappointed him because as Garry Dodd bit it, he was able to psyche Damien out somewhat with the same sort of thing Kristey said as she bit it.
Still, Damien was hoping that he left that giant and his nasty words behind...and hoped that the following days would not disappoint. It was still a bitch to move his arm too much though.
Damien had no idea who else was here...but for some reason, he was actually starting to feel right at home in the cold gray depravity that was the island's industrial section. In fact it seemed the only color in the entire area was his blue and green clothing, the bright red number 6 on his current supply bag, and for some odd reason an orange frisbee on the ground near the place where he'd entered. But these were minor accents...minor distractions. Minor compared to the stench that seemed to emanate from a nearby building.
It was a stench that started to draw him in.
((And plz to not forget the Gala. X.=.x))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler laZardo. 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.
((I can't get to the Gala for some reason, everytime I try to take a link to "The Past" I get this cryptic board error message. If you could post a link it would be much appreciated.))
Franco had not been enjoying himself the last little while. He whimpered and pouted over his wounds and cursed his dishevelled appearance. Once prim and proper, the young affluent adept had more in common now with the weasel rodent like creatures he emulated in his daily life. His eyes had adjusted to the dark of the slaughterhouse and he'd managed to get a fairly good lay of the land and its surrounding area, and his normally cleanly 'car-salesman-ish' appearance had become sharp, cunning and fierce.
His battle with Chiaki had hones his temper, he had a lot to be angry about now that things were looking a little more grim, but he revelled in the fact that he had made it this fart, and that he still had will and cunning enough to go further, maybe even to the end. The smell of the slaughter was commonplace to him now, he no longer feared to kill, or the dead for that matter. He'd always been a self-centered boy, but his conscience no was guiltless, he was completely immersed in the game. The cruelty dwelling within him had reached its epoch.
Franco had disposed of the bodies of Nathan Godwin and Chiaki Takao after a reasonable amount of struggle. Luckily the slaughterhouse contained tools which he utilized to transport the corpses of his fallen foes, otherwise; with his poor health and weak body he would have never had a chance. Still, the smell still lingered, adding to the stagnating sent of the old and forgotten dead, and the unforgiving industrial air.
It had taken some doing, ad his injuries hindered his progress, but Franco was not about to fall just yet, he was determined, and his senses and caution reflected his determination. He'd found a hiding place on top of the slaughterhouse from were he could easily survey the surrounding terrain, it wasn't hard to reach either after pilling up a few crates with a trolley and the use of a small step ladder from an ominous looking office. Yet it wasn't here that Franco lurked.
He had other hiding places, many, from which he could see approaching enemies, and it was from one inside the slaughterhouse that he observed the approach of a short dark hair young person. Though his eyes were sharp and the dark un-bothering, he still couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. Franco grinned as he watched them skip through the district, clearly driven somewhat mad by their stay thus far. Why else would they be skipping like that?
Pawing his shotgun, Franco licked his lips with a vicious smile, 'it' was coming right towards the building, and he would be ready.
"Playtime... Come closer my friend... just a little closer," Franco darted away into the deeper regions of the slaughterhouse, waiting for his new playmate to enter his domain. "Yes... come inside..."
Franco let his voice carry, raising to that eerie point, just above a whisper and just below a hiss. Hoping the sound would draw them in, or scare them off, either would satisfy the once princely teen. He was no longer that, but he was king here, master of the dark place, ruler of the stagnant land.
Franco had not been enjoying himself the last little while. He whimpered and pouted over his wounds and cursed his dishevelled appearance. Once prim and proper, the young affluent adept had more in common now with the weasel rodent like creatures he emulated in his daily life. His eyes had adjusted to the dark of the slaughterhouse and he'd managed to get a fairly good lay of the land and its surrounding area, and his normally cleanly 'car-salesman-ish' appearance had become sharp, cunning and fierce.
His battle with Chiaki had hones his temper, he had a lot to be angry about now that things were looking a little more grim, but he revelled in the fact that he had made it this fart, and that he still had will and cunning enough to go further, maybe even to the end. The smell of the slaughter was commonplace to him now, he no longer feared to kill, or the dead for that matter. He'd always been a self-centered boy, but his conscience no was guiltless, he was completely immersed in the game. The cruelty dwelling within him had reached its epoch.
Franco had disposed of the bodies of Nathan Godwin and Chiaki Takao after a reasonable amount of struggle. Luckily the slaughterhouse contained tools which he utilized to transport the corpses of his fallen foes, otherwise; with his poor health and weak body he would have never had a chance. Still, the smell still lingered, adding to the stagnating sent of the old and forgotten dead, and the unforgiving industrial air.
It had taken some doing, ad his injuries hindered his progress, but Franco was not about to fall just yet, he was determined, and his senses and caution reflected his determination. He'd found a hiding place on top of the slaughterhouse from were he could easily survey the surrounding terrain, it wasn't hard to reach either after pilling up a few crates with a trolley and the use of a small step ladder from an ominous looking office. Yet it wasn't here that Franco lurked.
He had other hiding places, many, from which he could see approaching enemies, and it was from one inside the slaughterhouse that he observed the approach of a short dark hair young person. Though his eyes were sharp and the dark un-bothering, he still couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. Franco grinned as he watched them skip through the district, clearly driven somewhat mad by their stay thus far. Why else would they be skipping like that?
Pawing his shotgun, Franco licked his lips with a vicious smile, 'it' was coming right towards the building, and he would be ready.
"Playtime... Come closer my friend... just a little closer," Franco darted away into the deeper regions of the slaughterhouse, waiting for his new playmate to enter his domain. "Yes... come inside..."
Franco let his voice carry, raising to that eerie point, just above a whisper and just below a hiss. Hoping the sound would draw them in, or scare them off, either would satisfy the once princely teen. He was no longer that, but he was king here, master of the dark place, ruler of the stagnant land.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
((Highlight everything in the current URL past the "=" in "showtopic=" and replace it with "719". Every thread has its own number.))
The only thing that really disturbed Damien about the room that he entered was the smell, which was leaning toward overpowering. And that did include the dried blood spattered across the walls, and the corpse that lay on the floor, already being consumed by maggots and other vermin. He slowly moved his right arm up - clenching his jaw due to the healing wound on his arm - and clasped his nose as he made his way through the room toward the door in the back. He was just about to pass the corpse, when he noticed something else on the floor nearby.
Next to the mangled corpse was a daypack, which Damien assumed was left by the late contestant, given that it looked like it was thrown onto the ground. The same swarm of vermin devouring the corpse had already started to do the same with the daypack, but Damien was able to make out a number and some letters, still very legible under the cheap, flickering light.
57
KELLY, R
Damien smiled a crooked grin, though the only indication one could find if they looked at him was this contracting cheek muscles. He moved toward the door in the back, and when he reached it, he opened it slowly, poking his gun through the crack as it widened. There was some light in the room behind it...but he wasn't about to take the chance that nobody was there, given that the door opened with a creak. His index finger stroked the trigger, while his thumb cocked the gun. He thought he could just make out someone's voice, but he couldn't tell who it was or where it was coming from.
Either way, if it meant someone was there that he could take care of...he definitley hoped he could enjoy it.
Somebody's knockin,
Should I let him in,
Lawd, it's the devil, would you look at him?
The only thing that really disturbed Damien about the room that he entered was the smell, which was leaning toward overpowering. And that did include the dried blood spattered across the walls, and the corpse that lay on the floor, already being consumed by maggots and other vermin. He slowly moved his right arm up - clenching his jaw due to the healing wound on his arm - and clasped his nose as he made his way through the room toward the door in the back. He was just about to pass the corpse, when he noticed something else on the floor nearby.
Next to the mangled corpse was a daypack, which Damien assumed was left by the late contestant, given that it looked like it was thrown onto the ground. The same swarm of vermin devouring the corpse had already started to do the same with the daypack, but Damien was able to make out a number and some letters, still very legible under the cheap, flickering light.
57
KELLY, R
Damien smiled a crooked grin, though the only indication one could find if they looked at him was this contracting cheek muscles. He moved toward the door in the back, and when he reached it, he opened it slowly, poking his gun through the crack as it widened. There was some light in the room behind it...but he wasn't about to take the chance that nobody was there, given that the door opened with a creak. His index finger stroked the trigger, while his thumb cocked the gun. He thought he could just make out someone's voice, but he couldn't tell who it was or where it was coming from.
Either way, if it meant someone was there that he could take care of...he definitley hoped he could enjoy it.
Somebody's knockin,
Should I let him in,
Lawd, it's the devil, would you look at him?
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler laZardo. 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.
((Sorry 'bout the rush, but I've gotta get to work again. Peace.))
Behind that thin creak in the door, eyes narrowed and glared from the far dark corner. He began to make out the features of the person on the other side, and it did not please him.
"So, there you are my little Damien," Franco hissed as he groped for his shotgun. The high octaves of his voice echoed and bellowed like that of an angry king. "You've been making quite a name for yourself out her haven't you?"
His temper flared as he fired off a shot into the doorway. Shots bucked and bounded off the heavy door as it swung wide open. Gloomy light filtered into the room as the door rocked on its hinges, lighting Franco and his surroundings in dusky tones. Blood seeped out the wrapping around Franco's right hand as his grip tensed around the shotgun. The blast was not aimed to kill, merely to shake him up a little; the real fight had just only begun. This would merely give Franco a minute to listen to himself talk, and how he loved to do so.
"Hi there Damien," Franco's smirk hid his rage, his eyes gleamed with opportunity. "I never had you peg as a killer, but I guess I was wrong, wasn't I?"
He scanned his PJ Gilroy counterpart up and down, taking special note of his weapons and his filled supply bag. Never listening to specific names, Franco had merely listened for the numbers killed, never caring, but when he heard Damien's name last time, his ears perked up.
Damien. The schoolyard runt, the bottom rung of the social ladder, he was the lowest of the low, but it seemed he'd taken it upon himself to take revenge. Under the circumstances, Franco couldn't really damn him, but he wasn't going to let him go any further.
"You know, Damien the only reason I ever hurt you was to get a further in life, understand?" Franco chuckled a little. All the while he slinked towards a more defensible position behind a small barricade. "You were merely a stepping stone in the ascension of Franco Sebberts. You're just a peon, a worthless grunt and just like before I'm going to step right over you to get what I want."
Franco fired off another shot haphazardly as he dove for cover. Knowing he wouldn't hit he yelled out to his enemy combatant.
"This is the end for you, my little friend. I've done a lot to get to this place, and I'm not letting you stop me now!"
Behind that thin creak in the door, eyes narrowed and glared from the far dark corner. He began to make out the features of the person on the other side, and it did not please him.
"So, there you are my little Damien," Franco hissed as he groped for his shotgun. The high octaves of his voice echoed and bellowed like that of an angry king. "You've been making quite a name for yourself out her haven't you?"
His temper flared as he fired off a shot into the doorway. Shots bucked and bounded off the heavy door as it swung wide open. Gloomy light filtered into the room as the door rocked on its hinges, lighting Franco and his surroundings in dusky tones. Blood seeped out the wrapping around Franco's right hand as his grip tensed around the shotgun. The blast was not aimed to kill, merely to shake him up a little; the real fight had just only begun. This would merely give Franco a minute to listen to himself talk, and how he loved to do so.
"Hi there Damien," Franco's smirk hid his rage, his eyes gleamed with opportunity. "I never had you peg as a killer, but I guess I was wrong, wasn't I?"
He scanned his PJ Gilroy counterpart up and down, taking special note of his weapons and his filled supply bag. Never listening to specific names, Franco had merely listened for the numbers killed, never caring, but when he heard Damien's name last time, his ears perked up.
Damien. The schoolyard runt, the bottom rung of the social ladder, he was the lowest of the low, but it seemed he'd taken it upon himself to take revenge. Under the circumstances, Franco couldn't really damn him, but he wasn't going to let him go any further.
"You know, Damien the only reason I ever hurt you was to get a further in life, understand?" Franco chuckled a little. All the while he slinked towards a more defensible position behind a small barricade. "You were merely a stepping stone in the ascension of Franco Sebberts. You're just a peon, a worthless grunt and just like before I'm going to step right over you to get what I want."
Franco fired off another shot haphazardly as he dove for cover. Knowing he wouldn't hit he yelled out to his enemy combatant.
"This is the end for you, my little friend. I've done a lot to get to this place, and I'm not letting you stop me now!"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
Damien recognized that high-pitched voice the moment it spoke out, though he had to delay his grin until after the first shotgun blast pushed the door wide open, forcing him to recoil to the cover of the doorway wall. The blast as well as the resounding clank the buckshot made on the door most certainly jarred the androgynous creature, and it certainly left him shocked enough that he spent the next few moments breathing. Still, he was obliged to look around to see who was firing at him. It was then that his grin returned, although laced with the tension of the moment, as he got a visual inspection of his next prey.
For Damien it wasn't hard to see that Franco Sebberts, the pampered of the pampered, the haughtiest of haughty (and other comparisons upon comparisons), raised in an environment of utter luxury and utmost impunity, was crumbling. For all of Sebberts' riches, connections, and kill total, Damien could see in the revealing light that this was who Franco was underneath: a scared, trembling little boy with a big gun, hiding in a shell of complete depravity, environs included.
Perfect.
The irony hit him almost instantaneously, but that was after he realized he was in Franco's line of fire.
Damien started to move right before the next shot broke out. He felt some of the outermost buckshot shred through his hair...but nothing to shed blood as he quickly ducked behind some boxes on the opposite side of the room and tried to relax himself. Franco had confessed his crime, but that was already a moot point. Still, Damien tried to let the entire irony of the situation set in - along with the ringing of the shotgun - as he peered around the edge of the boxes with his revolver cocked and ready. There was a thick ray of light peering through the skylights, and the resulting glare was blocking some of his view...but he could get a general idea of where Franco's voice was coming from.
"It's funny, isn't it..." Damien replied in an effeminate yet somewhat scratched giggle that was but a soft-yet-certainly-audible tone compared to Franco's, "...how underneath all your boasting and your pride and all your riches, you're really just like I am..." The boy paused for a bit, when he also remembered there was some double irony when he suddenly remembered what Kristey had told him before she died...but that was for after the battle.
"...or rather," followed by another psychotic giggle, "...just like I used to be..."
He didn't stop to wonder if his mother was currently watching this. All the same, Franco's confession would have been nothing new ever since Franco's sordid soiree those weeks ago, though even in her despair she wouldn't outright cheer for her son in front of her aides.
For Damien it wasn't hard to see that Franco Sebberts, the pampered of the pampered, the haughtiest of haughty (and other comparisons upon comparisons), raised in an environment of utter luxury and utmost impunity, was crumbling. For all of Sebberts' riches, connections, and kill total, Damien could see in the revealing light that this was who Franco was underneath: a scared, trembling little boy with a big gun, hiding in a shell of complete depravity, environs included.
Perfect.
The irony hit him almost instantaneously, but that was after he realized he was in Franco's line of fire.
Damien started to move right before the next shot broke out. He felt some of the outermost buckshot shred through his hair...but nothing to shed blood as he quickly ducked behind some boxes on the opposite side of the room and tried to relax himself. Franco had confessed his crime, but that was already a moot point. Still, Damien tried to let the entire irony of the situation set in - along with the ringing of the shotgun - as he peered around the edge of the boxes with his revolver cocked and ready. There was a thick ray of light peering through the skylights, and the resulting glare was blocking some of his view...but he could get a general idea of where Franco's voice was coming from.
"It's funny, isn't it..." Damien replied in an effeminate yet somewhat scratched giggle that was but a soft-yet-certainly-audible tone compared to Franco's, "...how underneath all your boasting and your pride and all your riches, you're really just like I am..." The boy paused for a bit, when he also remembered there was some double irony when he suddenly remembered what Kristey had told him before she died...but that was for after the battle.
"...or rather," followed by another psychotic giggle, "...just like I used to be..."
He didn't stop to wonder if his mother was currently watching this. All the same, Franco's confession would have been nothing new ever since Franco's sordid soiree those weeks ago, though even in her despair she wouldn't outright cheer for her son in front of her aides.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler laZardo. 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.
The androgynous boy had a point, but Franco would be the last to believe it. Damien's brashness brought a cruel sneer to Franco's lips. He shuffled behind his makeshift barricade and rubbed the tattered cloth that wrapped his bloody right hand. After a grunt of anger he intensified his grip on the shotgun and made sure all his weapons where in place. Damien had no idea what he was getting into, even if he was reborn a psychopath baptized in blood, he was walking into an armoury.
Franco was by far one of the most heavily armed participants on the whole island and he'd been stalking the slaughterhouse for the past two days, even against superior combatants, Franco had proved he had the edge here, in the darkest corner of the darkest corner. It only took Franco a moment to harness his frustration with Damien and realize his advantage. Now he'd just have to use it.
"You know, Damien, you should be thanking me," Franco slinked further backwards, into the cover of darkness. "After what I did to Marvin that is..."
He waited a moment for his words to sink in on Damien, which would also give him time to crawl back deeper into the darkness. His eyes had adapted over the course of a day and a half to the intense dark, but he was willing to wager that Damien's would take a little longer.
"He cried before the end, Damien," Franco rolled the words off his venomous tongue. "Like a dog; he begged, pathetic, really... I guess you wouldn't know anything about that would you?"
The glare from Franco's eyes dimmed only slightly as he mentioned the murder, his sneer only faded for a moment. He slinked into the slaughterhouse, deeper and deeper, hoping his words would stall Damien enough that he would be able to crawl into a place of hiding. He could lay in ambush; wait until Damien was so close that he couldn't miss.
He was far enough in by the time he'd finished talking that he put away the shotgun and drew out his tazer; he planned to have fun with Damien, just like before.
Franco was by far one of the most heavily armed participants on the whole island and he'd been stalking the slaughterhouse for the past two days, even against superior combatants, Franco had proved he had the edge here, in the darkest corner of the darkest corner. It only took Franco a moment to harness his frustration with Damien and realize his advantage. Now he'd just have to use it.
"You know, Damien, you should be thanking me," Franco slinked further backwards, into the cover of darkness. "After what I did to Marvin that is..."
He waited a moment for his words to sink in on Damien, which would also give him time to crawl back deeper into the darkness. His eyes had adapted over the course of a day and a half to the intense dark, but he was willing to wager that Damien's would take a little longer.
"He cried before the end, Damien," Franco rolled the words off his venomous tongue. "Like a dog; he begged, pathetic, really... I guess you wouldn't know anything about that would you?"
The glare from Franco's eyes dimmed only slightly as he mentioned the murder, his sneer only faded for a moment. He slinked into the slaughterhouse, deeper and deeper, hoping his words would stall Damien enough that he would be able to crawl into a place of hiding. He could lay in ambush; wait until Damien was so close that he couldn't miss.
He was far enough in by the time he'd finished talking that he put away the shotgun and drew out his tazer; he planned to have fun with Damien, just like before.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
Damien knew a lot about what Franco was telling him about. It was all just to psyche him out...and one could hear the androgynous boy start to seethe at the thought. Franco's taunts didn't exactly have a positive effect on Damien, not necessarily because he tried to liken Marvin to him - for all he knew, Marvin could have been pissed-off-defiant to the very end - but more that he was bragging that he killed Marvin instead of Damien.
He could hear where Franco's voice appeared to be trailing off to, but only in a general direction. He cocked his the revolver, but hesitated to move at the click, because in this silence, any significant noise was deadly. His immediate environs were fairly lit but Franco could come out of any of the darker spots...which could be found on both sides. Just as well, as much as Damien could use stealth, this was also a building he was not used to getting around, and he didn't know how long Franco had resided here (though his impression was that the once-rich kid had been around here for a long while.)
As such, Damien didn't reply as he moved out from the boxes and toward the first dark spot in the direction of where he saw Franco duck and hide, shield held cautiously in front of him with the nozzle of the gun resting against the rim. The only way Franco could get him was from the back...and he dreaded that he'd left that side a bit too unprotected for his own good.
He could hear where Franco's voice appeared to be trailing off to, but only in a general direction. He cocked his the revolver, but hesitated to move at the click, because in this silence, any significant noise was deadly. His immediate environs were fairly lit but Franco could come out of any of the darker spots...which could be found on both sides. Just as well, as much as Damien could use stealth, this was also a building he was not used to getting around, and he didn't know how long Franco had resided here (though his impression was that the once-rich kid had been around here for a long while.)
As such, Damien didn't reply as he moved out from the boxes and toward the first dark spot in the direction of where he saw Franco duck and hide, shield held cautiously in front of him with the nozzle of the gun resting against the rim. The only way Franco could get him was from the back...and he dreaded that he'd left that side a bit too unprotected for his own good.
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Franco's eyes glimmered in the darkness on the slaughterhouse, like two tiny beads of crepuscular white light. He could easily make out Damien's shuffling form from the blackened corridor that he'd snaked himself into though he couldn't see much more than that. He could only assume that he'd accumulated a gun at this point in the game, and he seemed to be hiding behind a fairly large barrier, but a gun had hardly stopped Franco against his last victim.
While he had several firearms of his own (four at last count) he preferred a more direct approach, and had developed a taste for inflicting pain since his own near death experience with a now overdue opponent in B01. The fact that it was Damien made it all the more irresistible. It wasn't a matter of actually taking pleasure out of inflicting the pain; it was the dominance and the simple fact that it was someone else and not him.
It would make it all the more sweet that Damien wouldn't even see it coming. Franco worked his way slowly around the edge of the wall, Damien had followed straight forward just as Franco had anticipated, which had place Franco almost directly behind him. Franco still had enough wits about him to realize that this wasn't necessary, it was far from necessary, it was unwise, un-strategic and excessive, but Franco's greed had always been the one thing that would trump his common sense. He even realized this fact himself as he slowly positioned himself in a position to leap forward. He promised himself that he would finish it quickly after he was down...maybe...
His fingers sweat as he fingered the tazer, his new favourite toy, and inched steadily closer. His eyes widened like a sadistic predator, just this kill, just let me hurt him a little...The vicious cunning of a man was still there, but the restraint had gone, he needed it, more than anything.
He gritted his teeth together as he took a vicious swipe at the back of Damien's neck, the same way he had done it to the other girl who'd be foolish enough to enter his realm. It should knock him right out, just long enough so that Franco could disarm and restrain him. A hiss of triumph escaped through his teeth as the tazer made impact; a feverish wave of malicious victory welled in him but was swiftly deflated.
It didn't go off. Whether the battery was dead or it shorted out or the button was jammed didn't really matter, what mattered was that Franco's ambush had failed terribly and Damien had a gun in his hand. Franco reacted quickly; he readied himself to grab Damien's hand as he would turn around. He cursed his incompetence and his self-indulgence, this blunder could have been his undoing, but he still had the darkness on his side, and as long as he drew breath, he'd play to win.
While he had several firearms of his own (four at last count) he preferred a more direct approach, and had developed a taste for inflicting pain since his own near death experience with a now overdue opponent in B01. The fact that it was Damien made it all the more irresistible. It wasn't a matter of actually taking pleasure out of inflicting the pain; it was the dominance and the simple fact that it was someone else and not him.
It would make it all the more sweet that Damien wouldn't even see it coming. Franco worked his way slowly around the edge of the wall, Damien had followed straight forward just as Franco had anticipated, which had place Franco almost directly behind him. Franco still had enough wits about him to realize that this wasn't necessary, it was far from necessary, it was unwise, un-strategic and excessive, but Franco's greed had always been the one thing that would trump his common sense. He even realized this fact himself as he slowly positioned himself in a position to leap forward. He promised himself that he would finish it quickly after he was down...maybe...
His fingers sweat as he fingered the tazer, his new favourite toy, and inched steadily closer. His eyes widened like a sadistic predator, just this kill, just let me hurt him a little...The vicious cunning of a man was still there, but the restraint had gone, he needed it, more than anything.
He gritted his teeth together as he took a vicious swipe at the back of Damien's neck, the same way he had done it to the other girl who'd be foolish enough to enter his realm. It should knock him right out, just long enough so that Franco could disarm and restrain him. A hiss of triumph escaped through his teeth as the tazer made impact; a feverish wave of malicious victory welled in him but was swiftly deflated.
It didn't go off. Whether the battery was dead or it shorted out or the button was jammed didn't really matter, what mattered was that Franco's ambush had failed terribly and Damien had a gun in his hand. Franco reacted quickly; he readied himself to grab Damien's hand as he would turn around. He cursed his incompetence and his self-indulgence, this blunder could have been his undoing, but he still had the darkness on his side, and as long as he drew breath, he'd play to win.
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Damien thought he was getting close. He could sense it as he went down the corridor...and with that sense of closeness came a sense of fear. Here he was, about to face the slavedriver that his mother had sold him to...the pimp his mother rented him out to...the party master who fed him to the rats. He'd heard all about Franco's exploits, and there was no doubt that Franco had received many rewards for them, which Damien would face right now.
He could feel the breeze blowing through the corridor getting louder, sweat beading down his forehead as he advanced, his walk in a shakily similar manner as Jack Bauer in a terrorist's hideout. Damien could imagine Franco suddenly appearing in front of him, armed to the teeth...but all Damien needed was one good shot...and all he needed for that was a steady aim. Any moment now, he would appear...any moment now.
Then suddenly, everything went silent.
And Damien could hear a hiss.
From BEHIND him.
Aw, fuck.
Damien winced as soon as the object made contact. He didn't hear a gunshot, meaning that Franco had something a little more crude but just as painful waiting in store for him. But instead of feeling a blade piercing right into a vital internal organ, cold, blunt (or nail-tipped object impacting against the back of his head, he felt something almost completely different. In fact, what felt like two dull pokers jabbing him in the back of the neck didn't feel all that "harmful," (partially thanks to the hair there) though the pain and force it did cause was enough to jolt him and divert his attention.
He swung around to fire...only he brought both arms with him. It wasn't that hard to do, given that they were close together and one could simply help push the other. The only problem was that in the tension, he swung around too fast, and would very likely have missed...though the report of the fully-loaded revolver would have startled its intended target at the least.
He could feel the breeze blowing through the corridor getting louder, sweat beading down his forehead as he advanced, his walk in a shakily similar manner as Jack Bauer in a terrorist's hideout. Damien could imagine Franco suddenly appearing in front of him, armed to the teeth...but all Damien needed was one good shot...and all he needed for that was a steady aim. Any moment now, he would appear...any moment now.
Then suddenly, everything went silent.
And Damien could hear a hiss.
From BEHIND him.
Aw, fuck.
Damien winced as soon as the object made contact. He didn't hear a gunshot, meaning that Franco had something a little more crude but just as painful waiting in store for him. But instead of feeling a blade piercing right into a vital internal organ, cold, blunt (or nail-tipped object impacting against the back of his head, he felt something almost completely different. In fact, what felt like two dull pokers jabbing him in the back of the neck didn't feel all that "harmful," (partially thanks to the hair there) though the pain and force it did cause was enough to jolt him and divert his attention.
He swung around to fire...only he brought both arms with him. It wasn't that hard to do, given that they were close together and one could simply help push the other. The only problem was that in the tension, he swung around too fast, and would very likely have missed...though the report of the fully-loaded revolver would have startled its intended target at the least.
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Damien reacted much swifter than Franco could have anticipated. He had no idea the old schoolyard runt had ever had that potential. Still, for all his ill health and poor physical condition, Franco was as quick and cunning as a snake. His hands where there waiting when Damien turned around, he snapped out, clamping down in an attempt to grasp his wrists in a vicious snap.
He dropped his tazer to the ground; it was useless as far as Franco was concerned, just as he slipped back. The darkness was now inhabited with a cacophony of sounds, echoing throughout the bleak, haunted corridors. These halls had seen much death in their time, they would she more if Franco had anything to say for it. He could feel his temper reaching a fever pitch as he prepared to grapple and hopefully choke the life out of Damien.
~
Everyone always came back to the center of the island. Danya had pushed everyone here with his danger zones, tightening the noose, like compressing the air in a balloon; it was only a matter of time before it burst. His little scheme was working too, people were dying in handfuls in the central district of the island, which is exactly why until know Blake Ross had primarily made a life for himself on the outskirts. Everything was changing now though, and the key to survival was always adaptation.
Still, the residential district was bedlam and the hotel was a graveyard, but the industrial district was fairly uninhabited, only a few people would take up residence in a place so bleak and grey. Still, people were people and almost everyone had a gun at this point, and if Blake could just pull one off a body or ambush someone here, he wouldn't be so bad off.
He darted around the outside of the district with surprising stealth and efficiency, listening for commotion and anything else that might indicate inhabitancy. Maybe there were still benevolent people left, people who would shoot first, maybe Blake could even barter.
Just as he passed by the slaughterhouse Blake heard a strangely familiar and stomach churning voice.
~
He didn't even wait to make sure he had a solid grip on Damien's wrists. It was still dark; an advantage that Franco was exploiting to its fullest. Damien probably wouldn't be able to make out what he was shooting at, but Franco had spent the last day and a half here, he didn't need to make sure he had his hands wrapped around his wrist before he made his next move.
"I'll tear out your entrails and eat your heart, you stupid little runt!"
In one swift motion he jerked his head down and forward, aiming his head at Damien's teeth and nose. He'd seen it done in the movies before, and his current state of recklessness didn't give him time to realize how much it might hurt his own forehead.
He dropped his tazer to the ground; it was useless as far as Franco was concerned, just as he slipped back. The darkness was now inhabited with a cacophony of sounds, echoing throughout the bleak, haunted corridors. These halls had seen much death in their time, they would she more if Franco had anything to say for it. He could feel his temper reaching a fever pitch as he prepared to grapple and hopefully choke the life out of Damien.
~
Everyone always came back to the center of the island. Danya had pushed everyone here with his danger zones, tightening the noose, like compressing the air in a balloon; it was only a matter of time before it burst. His little scheme was working too, people were dying in handfuls in the central district of the island, which is exactly why until know Blake Ross had primarily made a life for himself on the outskirts. Everything was changing now though, and the key to survival was always adaptation.
Still, the residential district was bedlam and the hotel was a graveyard, but the industrial district was fairly uninhabited, only a few people would take up residence in a place so bleak and grey. Still, people were people and almost everyone had a gun at this point, and if Blake could just pull one off a body or ambush someone here, he wouldn't be so bad off.
He darted around the outside of the district with surprising stealth and efficiency, listening for commotion and anything else that might indicate inhabitancy. Maybe there were still benevolent people left, people who would shoot first, maybe Blake could even barter.
Just as he passed by the slaughterhouse Blake heard a strangely familiar and stomach churning voice.
~
He didn't even wait to make sure he had a solid grip on Damien's wrists. It was still dark; an advantage that Franco was exploiting to its fullest. Damien probably wouldn't be able to make out what he was shooting at, but Franco had spent the last day and a half here, he didn't need to make sure he had his hands wrapped around his wrist before he made his next move.
"I'll tear out your entrails and eat your heart, you stupid little runt!"
In one swift motion he jerked his head down and forward, aiming his head at Damien's teeth and nose. He'd seen it done in the movies before, and his current state of recklessness didn't give him time to realize how much it might hurt his own forehead.
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Damien tried desperately to pull himself out of Franco's grip even as Franco screamed at him, but to no avail. For all his psychosis, Damien was still about level if not weaker strength with Franco. And the degeneration of that spoiled brat's mind would have been entertaining had the androgynous "runt" not been in the path of his rampage.
In fact, if Damien hadn't ended up dropping the gun and shield from the somewhat suffocating grip that Franco had clenched his wrists in, he certainly did when the once-rich kid had brought his forehead down upon Damien's face. In fact, Franco wasn't off target, as Damien could feel his nose being damn near smashed by the force of Franco's headthrust, causing him to yelp out in pain much like a small, wounded animal. Both of his weapons clattered to the ground, also with loud reverberating clanks, though his revolver didn't fire again as it wasn't cocked (the Anaconda was double-action, so no extra cocking was needed.)
Damien realized he had one advantage though as he flailed his head from side to side from the pain that Franco's forehead had dealt upon it...that if Franco had to bring himself forward in the darkness to strike him, then Franco had also brought himself into striking range. As if somewhat out of reflex from the strike, Damien thrust one of his legs up hoping that one of them would somehow find Franco's crotch in the darkness.
In fact, if Damien hadn't ended up dropping the gun and shield from the somewhat suffocating grip that Franco had clenched his wrists in, he certainly did when the once-rich kid had brought his forehead down upon Damien's face. In fact, Franco wasn't off target, as Damien could feel his nose being damn near smashed by the force of Franco's headthrust, causing him to yelp out in pain much like a small, wounded animal. Both of his weapons clattered to the ground, also with loud reverberating clanks, though his revolver didn't fire again as it wasn't cocked (the Anaconda was double-action, so no extra cocking was needed.)
Damien realized he had one advantage though as he flailed his head from side to side from the pain that Franco's forehead had dealt upon it...that if Franco had to bring himself forward in the darkness to strike him, then Franco had also brought himself into striking range. As if somewhat out of reflex from the strike, Damien thrust one of his legs up hoping that one of them would somehow find Franco's crotch in the darkness.
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A small trickle of blood splatter down across his eyes as Franco's forehead impacted with Damien's skull. The tiny cut was merely superficial, but the pain in his skull was a lot more then he had anticipated. At least he'd scored a blow on Damien as well, but the pain it caused him was probably on par with his own. He heard Damien's weapons clatter to the floor as he ran a hand across his forehead, drawing back and feeling a small splotch of blood. The feeling only furthered his frenzy.
All reason flew out the window as Franco charged forward into the black abyss. His nails were long and uncut from his stay on the island, biting your nails was a bad habit, and it was one of the few things minuet enough to pass by his rigorous attempt to keep his appearance presentable. That had all gone days ago.
Franco charge forward while clawing madly, unmindful of his surroundings and blind to attack, hoping to kill Damien by whatever means necessary. Instead of a handful of hair or a smallish shoulder, Franco made contact with Damien's outstretched leg. He buckled hard as Damien's outstretch leg collided almost directly with his knee. Franco was moving so erratically that any it would be difficult to land a blow on him, but in his fury he'd done it all himself.
"Gah!"
He tumbled forward as his whole upper body propelled forward into the darkness with his legs sprawled hopelessly behind him. Elbow first, then spinning wildly with the moment, Franco only had time to seethe as he rolled with his momentum into a large piece of slaughterhouse equipment. He looked back at it mindfully for half a second, recognizing it as an industrial meat grinder.
Franco hoisted himself up and glared at Damien with absolute venom.
"You'll pay for that."
Franco charge forward once again, shoulders low, head first into a diving spear. He hoped to take both of them to the ground into even tighter quarters. More damage, more risk, more chance to get the kill.
~
Blake Ross crept up to the door of the slaughterhouse, it was slightly ajar and a glimmer of light led him on a path forward into the piercing darkness. The stench was irredeemable but his path was set, Blake already knew who was inside, he couldn't turn back now, he had to put him down.
B02's days were numbered.
All reason flew out the window as Franco charged forward into the black abyss. His nails were long and uncut from his stay on the island, biting your nails was a bad habit, and it was one of the few things minuet enough to pass by his rigorous attempt to keep his appearance presentable. That had all gone days ago.
Franco charge forward while clawing madly, unmindful of his surroundings and blind to attack, hoping to kill Damien by whatever means necessary. Instead of a handful of hair or a smallish shoulder, Franco made contact with Damien's outstretched leg. He buckled hard as Damien's outstretch leg collided almost directly with his knee. Franco was moving so erratically that any it would be difficult to land a blow on him, but in his fury he'd done it all himself.
"Gah!"
He tumbled forward as his whole upper body propelled forward into the darkness with his legs sprawled hopelessly behind him. Elbow first, then spinning wildly with the moment, Franco only had time to seethe as he rolled with his momentum into a large piece of slaughterhouse equipment. He looked back at it mindfully for half a second, recognizing it as an industrial meat grinder.
Franco hoisted himself up and glared at Damien with absolute venom.
"You'll pay for that."
Franco charge forward once again, shoulders low, head first into a diving spear. He hoped to take both of them to the ground into even tighter quarters. More damage, more risk, more chance to get the kill.
~
Blake Ross crept up to the door of the slaughterhouse, it was slightly ajar and a glimmer of light led him on a path forward into the piercing darkness. The stench was irredeemable but his path was set, Blake already knew who was inside, he couldn't turn back now, he had to put him down.
B02's days were numbered.
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Damien's nails had also grown, but they didn't seem as long given that Nicole had trimmed them the day before his fateful trip. Not that he'd paid much mind to that. knew he had hit something when he heard Franco cry out in more pain, and barely managed to watch him fall back when he tasted something seeping into his mouth.
He reflexively put a hand to his face as Franco recoiled into a large unit of industrial machinery, and immediately felt something slippery and smelled and then tasted something quite rusty. As soon as his taste buds felt it, he forced a smile and licked his chops.
"Tasssty...."
He'd tasted his own blood, trickling from a fairly busted nose. Not that he had too much time to savor every drop.
In fact, he barely had time to recognize exactly what it was that Franco had tumbled into before he found himself having to evade his opponent's charge, forward and to the side. Just as well, he didn't quite make it out in time, getting nailed on the shoulder - his injured shoulder - and yelping out in pain again as he was spun to the floor, face down. He could feel the barbed-wire baseball bat he'd slung around him nudging in on him but not scratching him thanks to his clothing.
There wasn't time to draw the baseball bat or his knife, for all he knew the latter had caught on the fabric of his pocket and would take too long to remove now. The one thing he was focusing on was just trying to get back up to his feet before Franco found another weapon he could use.
He reflexively put a hand to his face as Franco recoiled into a large unit of industrial machinery, and immediately felt something slippery and smelled and then tasted something quite rusty. As soon as his taste buds felt it, he forced a smile and licked his chops.
"Tasssty...."
He'd tasted his own blood, trickling from a fairly busted nose. Not that he had too much time to savor every drop.
In fact, he barely had time to recognize exactly what it was that Franco had tumbled into before he found himself having to evade his opponent's charge, forward and to the side. Just as well, he didn't quite make it out in time, getting nailed on the shoulder - his injured shoulder - and yelping out in pain again as he was spun to the floor, face down. He could feel the barbed-wire baseball bat he'd slung around him nudging in on him but not scratching him thanks to his clothing.
There wasn't time to draw the baseball bat or his knife, for all he knew the latter had caught on the fabric of his pocket and would take too long to remove now. The one thing he was focusing on was just trying to get back up to his feet before Franco found another weapon he could use.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler laZardo. 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.