(Continued from Break Out, Break Out)
(OOC: Private thread between me and Scipher for the moment.)
That bastard was chasing her. She knew it. She could run to the ends of the whole goddamn Earth and he'd be right behind her with his goddamn gun. Hell, if she survived all this and for some reason decided to become an astronaut, she could travel to the Moon and he'd still somehow be behind her. Normally she would have just been annoyed, but this was going on way too long. She was sick and tired of being chased by him. It was time to stop running and become the hunter instead of the hunted.
Her feet had carried her to thick jungle, forcing her to slow her pace to avoid the various plants and other things that could potentially screw her over. At least there were tons of hiding spaces, although the bushes and grass could be hiding something other than dry (and wet) land. She found a thick, leafy hiding spot and crouched behind it, holding the rock she had picked up earlier.
And now was one of those times, those infinitesimally rare times where she regretting being tall. She just hoped it was enough. She would beat the shit out of John Rizzolo if it was the last thing she did. She swore it.
Running of the Fallen
Running of the Fallen
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Tythanin. 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.
((John continued from Break Out, Break Out))
John knew he was getting close. He was uninjured aside from the cut, and Velvet was noticeably laboring. John was feeling that wonderful adrenaline rush and laughter returning to his head. That beautiful sound filling his ears. There was only one problem.
Where the fuck did she go?
John had just seen her, and once he rounded the corner she had disappeared. Before he went to far ahead of the turn, he opened his bag slowly then bent over. Making it seem like he was tying his shoe, he slipped the tire iron into his sock and rolled his pant leg over it. Standing back up, he took out a bottle of water, allowed himself a small drink, then put it back, zipped up the bag and walked forward slowly.
"Veeelvet. Oh Veeelvet! I know you're here somewhere. Come and play with your good friend Johnny. Come show me that you're so much bigger and stronger than me. Come on outtt!" John mockingly called into the surrounding brush.
John knew he was getting close. He was uninjured aside from the cut, and Velvet was noticeably laboring. John was feeling that wonderful adrenaline rush and laughter returning to his head. That beautiful sound filling his ears. There was only one problem.
Where the fuck did she go?
John had just seen her, and once he rounded the corner she had disappeared. Before he went to far ahead of the turn, he opened his bag slowly then bent over. Making it seem like he was tying his shoe, he slipped the tire iron into his sock and rolled his pant leg over it. Standing back up, he took out a bottle of water, allowed himself a small drink, then put it back, zipped up the bag and walked forward slowly.
"Veeelvet. Oh Veeelvet! I know you're here somewhere. Come and play with your good friend Johnny. Come show me that you're so much bigger and stronger than me. Come on outtt!" John mockingly called into the surrounding brush.
Stuff. Things. Stuff and things.
'What the hell?!' He was still after her! At least there would be one thing she could say as she sent him to hell. He was really persistent. Too bad persistence didn't really measure up to pure strength and while she might be tired, she was going to beat the shit out of him. She hefted her rock, ready to chuck it at his face the moment he appeared.
And there he was. Searching for her with some shit-eating grin, that same stupid gun in his hand. Well she wasn't going to let him win. He could be confident all he wanted, but she swore to wipe that smile off of his face. Maybe she's strangle him to death. That sounded like it would be fun to do.
But first she had to get him unarmed. She didn't dare move, though...the slightest noise could alert him to her presence and she wanted to make her attack as big as a surprise as possible. And there it was, her chance. He was busy searching the bushes and his side was facing her. She immediately leaped out of her hiding spot and threw the rock with all her might at his gun hand.
"Hey John! Catch this, you fucking prick!"
And there he was. Searching for her with some shit-eating grin, that same stupid gun in his hand. Well she wasn't going to let him win. He could be confident all he wanted, but she swore to wipe that smile off of his face. Maybe she's strangle him to death. That sounded like it would be fun to do.
But first she had to get him unarmed. She didn't dare move, though...the slightest noise could alert him to her presence and she wanted to make her attack as big as a surprise as possible. And there it was, her chance. He was busy searching the bushes and his side was facing her. She immediately leaped out of her hiding spot and threw the rock with all her might at his gun hand.
"Hey John! Catch this, you fucking prick!"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Tythanin. 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.
If only he'd been looking the other way...
John heard the yell but was not able to turn in time to deflect the blow. The rock connected with his wrist causing him to drop the gun, which hit the ground and bounced a couple feet to John's right. His desire was to dive for the gun, but he couldn't give up his back to Velvet. She was a strong girl, and could probably do some damage if he didn't get to the gun in time. This was a time to retaliate physically without the aid of bullets.
John turned, shaking his hand to try and rid some of the pain in his wrist away.
"Nice throw. You should have played baseball. Pity you won't get the chance." He said smugly.
John charged at Velvet and threw his right hand aiming right for Velvet's jaw.
John heard the yell but was not able to turn in time to deflect the blow. The rock connected with his wrist causing him to drop the gun, which hit the ground and bounced a couple feet to John's right. His desire was to dive for the gun, but he couldn't give up his back to Velvet. She was a strong girl, and could probably do some damage if he didn't get to the gun in time. This was a time to retaliate physically without the aid of bullets.
John turned, shaking his hand to try and rid some of the pain in his wrist away.
"Nice throw. You should have played baseball. Pity you won't get the chance." He said smugly.
John charged at Velvet and threw his right hand aiming right for Velvet's jaw.
Stuff. Things. Stuff and things.
(OOC: All GMing of Riz is approved by Scipher.)
She could have yelled for joy the moment she saw that her weapon had knocked the gun out of John's hand. Now that he didn't have that thing anymore, she could fight him on her own terms. And her own terms included beating the crap out of him. She saw him take a quick look towards his gun before charging at her. Luckily, she had more than enough time to dodge and quickly moved out of the way, his fist flashing past her cheek just centimeters away.
She tried to retaliate, swinging her own punch, only to miss completely as John ducked under her attack and rammed into her. She staggered back a couple of steps, glaring at John as they both paused to think about their next moves. She was the first one to act, running at John as she aimed a kick, pretending that it was just like nailing a soccer ball at kickoff. The attack connected and she heard John's cry of pain before swinging a fist at his face.
He recoiled, but managed to recover almost immediately, a fact that Velvet would have appreciated if he didn't punch her in the stomach. Her breath escaped her body in a rush and John capitalized on his advantage, laying on her as best he could. Velvet brought her hands up to try to defend herself, but she wasn't used to street brawling. To be honest, she had hoped that her first kick would be more than enough to give her an overwhelming advantage, but apparently it didn't.
She continued her defense until a branch came underfoot, tripping her and sending her on her back. This was more of a boon than a bane, however, as it caused John's next wild punch to miss completely. She lashed out with her feet, tripping him and sending him crashing down to the ground as well. She immediately leaped upon his fallen body, pinning him as she looked at him with a mixture of victory and rage.
"Fuck you, John! Fuck you! I hope you've enjoyed all the shit you've pulled so far, cause I'm going to take your messed up mind and your fucked up game and send them both down to hell!" She screamed as she punched him on the face several times. She felt a tooth or two break off in his mouth and inside her mind, she began to laugh. She smiled with manic glee as she moved her hands to his throat and began to squeeze, enjoying the sensation of choking every last bit of life from his body.
She was so involved trying to strangle John that she didn't notice that tire iron hitting her in the face. 'Wha-?'
The iron came again, slamming into the side of her head and flipping her off of John. She landed on her back, stunned and barely able to hear besides the ringing going off in her ears. She tried to get back to her feet, but was knocked down again as John slammed the iron cruelly into her stomach. She gagged, trying to glare angrily as he hit her once again.
'This...can't be happening. I'm supposed to win. I'm...I'm supposed to win, dammit! No...no!'
She tried to punch him, but she was repelled again and she felt the overwhelming pain of broken bones. She almost screamed, but clamped down and only a choked off gasp escaped. It was the only thing she could do now. She had lost. But John could see her in pain, he could give her pain, but no...she would never let him hear how much pain she was in. It wasn't much...but it was something.
She could have yelled for joy the moment she saw that her weapon had knocked the gun out of John's hand. Now that he didn't have that thing anymore, she could fight him on her own terms. And her own terms included beating the crap out of him. She saw him take a quick look towards his gun before charging at her. Luckily, she had more than enough time to dodge and quickly moved out of the way, his fist flashing past her cheek just centimeters away.
She tried to retaliate, swinging her own punch, only to miss completely as John ducked under her attack and rammed into her. She staggered back a couple of steps, glaring at John as they both paused to think about their next moves. She was the first one to act, running at John as she aimed a kick, pretending that it was just like nailing a soccer ball at kickoff. The attack connected and she heard John's cry of pain before swinging a fist at his face.
He recoiled, but managed to recover almost immediately, a fact that Velvet would have appreciated if he didn't punch her in the stomach. Her breath escaped her body in a rush and John capitalized on his advantage, laying on her as best he could. Velvet brought her hands up to try to defend herself, but she wasn't used to street brawling. To be honest, she had hoped that her first kick would be more than enough to give her an overwhelming advantage, but apparently it didn't.
She continued her defense until a branch came underfoot, tripping her and sending her on her back. This was more of a boon than a bane, however, as it caused John's next wild punch to miss completely. She lashed out with her feet, tripping him and sending him crashing down to the ground as well. She immediately leaped upon his fallen body, pinning him as she looked at him with a mixture of victory and rage.
"Fuck you, John! Fuck you! I hope you've enjoyed all the shit you've pulled so far, cause I'm going to take your messed up mind and your fucked up game and send them both down to hell!" She screamed as she punched him on the face several times. She felt a tooth or two break off in his mouth and inside her mind, she began to laugh. She smiled with manic glee as she moved her hands to his throat and began to squeeze, enjoying the sensation of choking every last bit of life from his body.
She was so involved trying to strangle John that she didn't notice that tire iron hitting her in the face. 'Wha-?'
The iron came again, slamming into the side of her head and flipping her off of John. She landed on her back, stunned and barely able to hear besides the ringing going off in her ears. She tried to get back to her feet, but was knocked down again as John slammed the iron cruelly into her stomach. She gagged, trying to glare angrily as he hit her once again.
'This...can't be happening. I'm supposed to win. I'm...I'm supposed to win, dammit! No...no!'
She tried to punch him, but she was repelled again and she felt the overwhelming pain of broken bones. She almost screamed, but clamped down and only a choked off gasp escaped. It was the only thing she could do now. She had lost. But John could see her in pain, he could give her pain, but no...she would never let him hear how much pain she was in. It wasn't much...but it was something.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Tythanin. 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.
He was losing. John Rizzolo was losing the fight, and was about to die. The blows to his face were furious, and from what he could tell in between blows he'd lost two teeth for sure, possibly more. In a last ditch effort he'd reached out for his pant leg, pulled it up and sure enough used his tire iron to knock Velvet off of him.
Blood running down his face and seeping into his shirt John crawled after Velvet, delivering a vicious blow to her stomach. John was able to get the mount position this time and began to rain down blows with the tire iron at Velvet's head.
"You...stupid fuckin...stupid." John growled in anger as he continued his assault. She'd almost won. Keyword almost.
John continued to bash at her skull his right arm screaming in pain as it grew tired but John was not stopping. The adrenaline was too strong, it was just running through every vein in his body.
John struck her once more and reared back his arm before saying, "You god damn bitch. You god damn stupid bitch. You should have a taken the bullet when you had the chance."
John continued his assault until something caught his eye off to the side. There it was. His pistol was lying mere feet away from where the fight had taken place. John stood up off of Velvet and delivered a kick to her midsection. He walked over and picked up the gun.
With a completely smug smile John turned back to Velvet, "I guess it is true after all. People do get second chances."
With that John squeezed the trigger of the pistol.
Blood running down his face and seeping into his shirt John crawled after Velvet, delivering a vicious blow to her stomach. John was able to get the mount position this time and began to rain down blows with the tire iron at Velvet's head.
"You...stupid fuckin...stupid." John growled in anger as he continued his assault. She'd almost won. Keyword almost.
John continued to bash at her skull his right arm screaming in pain as it grew tired but John was not stopping. The adrenaline was too strong, it was just running through every vein in his body.
John struck her once more and reared back his arm before saying, "You god damn bitch. You god damn stupid bitch. You should have a taken the bullet when you had the chance."
John continued his assault until something caught his eye off to the side. There it was. His pistol was lying mere feet away from where the fight had taken place. John stood up off of Velvet and delivered a kick to her midsection. He walked over and picked up the gun.
With a completely smug smile John turned back to Velvet, "I guess it is true after all. People do get second chances."
With that John squeezed the trigger of the pistol.
Stuff. Things. Stuff and things.
It hurt. Her arms hurt, her body hurt, her heart hurt, hell at this point, even her teeth seemed to hurt. Everything hurt. The only thing that seemed to work right now was her mind. She had already closed her eyes, not wanting to see the victorious face of that jackass anymore. At least things were getting better. The pain was going away.
With her eyes closed and the pain fading away, it was almost as if she was in her own world. There was no such thing as Survival of the Fittest, there was no such person as Danya, and she was living happily as the famous captain of the Varsity Soccer team. But she knew that was just a dream...it was her dream. And it was ruined by this game...that single day where her life had been ruined.
But instead of crying for herself, the only thing she could really think about now was how sorry she was. Sorry to her parents for not being able to live and be the best daughter the Retsiloh family would ever have. Sorry to the future world for not being able to be in it. Sorry to all the people she hadn't met on the island, dead or alive. Sorry to those people that she had met on the island (besides John, he was a fucking bastard and she hoped he got killed and burned in hell).
Oddly enough, after that last thought, all her sorrow disappeared and she was overcome with a burning rage. Feeling came to her limbs and even though her whole body was screaming at her to just lay down and die, some spark within her told her to keep fighting. She just had to get one last shot in. One last show of strength to make John remember who she was.
He said something, but she couldn't really hear it. Her lips moved.
"Fuck...you..."
BANG
Her body fell back to the ground, its middle finger raised in a last, one-finger salute.
STUDENT G78 - VELVET RETSILOH - DECEASED
With her eyes closed and the pain fading away, it was almost as if she was in her own world. There was no such thing as Survival of the Fittest, there was no such person as Danya, and she was living happily as the famous captain of the Varsity Soccer team. But she knew that was just a dream...it was her dream. And it was ruined by this game...that single day where her life had been ruined.
But instead of crying for herself, the only thing she could really think about now was how sorry she was. Sorry to her parents for not being able to live and be the best daughter the Retsiloh family would ever have. Sorry to the future world for not being able to be in it. Sorry to all the people she hadn't met on the island, dead or alive. Sorry to those people that she had met on the island (besides John, he was a fucking bastard and she hoped he got killed and burned in hell).
Oddly enough, after that last thought, all her sorrow disappeared and she was overcome with a burning rage. Feeling came to her limbs and even though her whole body was screaming at her to just lay down and die, some spark within her told her to keep fighting. She just had to get one last shot in. One last show of strength to make John remember who she was.
He said something, but she couldn't really hear it. Her lips moved.
"Fuck...you..."
BANG
Her body fell back to the ground, its middle finger raised in a last, one-finger salute.
STUDENT G78 - VELVET RETSILOH - DECEASED
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Tythanin. 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.
-
Super Llama†
- Posts: 339
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 7:39 am
{{continued from The Denial Twist}}
Charles Lloyd made his way down the stairs into the living room. The room itself was pretty dark, the curtains in place to block out any light that tried to get in, the only illumination coming from the TV, which was broadcasting some kind of televangelist program. After the SOTF camera feeds went dead suddenly, the networks spent a day or two wondering what they should do, before finally returning to their regular programming. The exact cause of the feed cutting off had yet to be discovered, though that certainly didn't stop all kinds of rumors from circulating on the various fan boards, from the good (the military had found the island, Danya was either dead or in custody, and the surviving students were being loaded into helicopters to be sent home even as we speak) to the bad (there was an accident with the terrorist's computer system, and all the collars were detonated; there were no survivors.)
Across the living room was a large sofa, and seated on that sofa was his middle sister, Maggie, who looked like she hadn't had a good nights sleep in a long time. She stared blankly at the screen, as if she wasn't really paying attention to what was on it. Watching Maggie for a few moments, he finally just couldn't hold himself back any more.
"Jesus, Maggie. When are you going to stop torturing yourself like this?" There was no way Charles could understand how Maggie was feeling, and he understood that. After all, if their father hadn't accepted that job offer that required them to move, Maggie wouldn't be here right now. Just a single denial, a single "I wouldn't want to do anything stressful like that to my family..." After a couple days of trying to come up with something to comfort her, everyone decided to just put it on hold for the time being. There's no way it'd really work, anyway; not until the game had finally come to a close.
But Charles couldn't just keep quiet anymore. It'd been nine days since the start of the game, and Maggie had barely gotten any sleep. She'd barely eaten any, hell, she hadn't even left the house since then. She just stayed glued to the TV, watching the game unfold. Even after the feed went dead, she continued to sit there, waiting for it to come back.
Maggie didn't answer, continuing to stare at the TV as the televangelist continued his energetic sermon. She remembered the day it started: She was watching the TV in the living room, when suddenly the display changed abruptly, announcing the start of the third mass televised iteration of Survival of the Fittest. Maggie sighed and reached for the remote to turn off the TV, not wanting to watch this questionably real show of mass murder, when the announcement came that every one of this version's contestants came from Southridge High School.
She dropped the remote.
And then she watched, with a mixture of shock and...well, more shock. She watched the brutal murder of Heather Tilmitt, Blood Boy's murder of Kara Holmes and Rebecca Bradbury, Melina Frost's...well, EVERYTHING Melina Frost did. She watched as the people she used to share classrooms with, people she passed in the halls, maybe even people she had feelings for (she had quite a large number of boyfriends throughout high school, somehow always winding up with selfish assholes, and had gained the unfortunate reputation of being a bit of a slut, despite having never slept with any of them) turning on each other, killing each other in brutal and violent ways, all for the off-chance that one of them would make it off the island alive.
And then, on the fifth day, she saw her.
"Lyn..."
She was huddled against a wall inside one of the buildings on the island, seeking shelter from the rain. Part of her was relieved that she was still alive, though another part of her was horrified that she had found her way onto the island. The fact that she was there hit her harder than the appearance of most of the other students, because among the various people at Southridge, she was one of the few she could consider a true friend.
Then someone else walked in, and after a moment Maggie recognized him as Lyn's cousin, Anthony. She never knew him, personally, but she had tried a couple of times to confront him on Lyn's behalf, only to be stopped by Lyn's urging for her not to. She watched as things quickly spiraled out of control. Words turned into arguments, arguments turned into violence, and violence turned into...
"Oh, God no. Lyn, what are you doing!?"
She watched helplessly as Lyn finally gave into the game, unleashing years worth of pent-up aggression and bitterness, like a stray dog that had been kicked one too many times. Lyn was going to kill her own cousin, brutally and sadistically, and there was nothing she could do about it.
"No...Lyn, don't do it. Please, don't do it."
But it was done.
She slumped back against the sofa. Lyn Burbank was a killer; she didn't even have self defense of anything like that as an excuse. She was a murderer, plain and simple. The feeling of horror gave way to simple digust for a brief moment before moving, oddly enough, onto pity. Millions of people had just watched her kill a man in cold blood on national TV. Even if she survived and went home, any hopes of Lyn returning to a normal life were destroyed right than and there.
But then again, seeing what she had gone through, maybe she WOULDN'T want to return home.
She continued to watch, making sure to keep track of the other students (especially SADD and their mystery plan to escape the island that somehow involved smashing cameras), though she kept focused on Lyn and her attempted plan of revenge against her classmates; the attempted standoff at the Church, her winning the daily BKA, the start of the fight against Melina, and then...
Static.
"It's my fault..." Maggie finally spoke up, catching Charles by surprise.
"What?"
"It's my fault. My fault that she...that she turned out like this." Charles assumed that Maggie was talking about that Lyn girl, the crazy little blonde girl who murdered her cousin and started calling herself Laeil for some reason. She hadn't really made enough of an impact by the time the camera feeds died, though she still managed to gain a few fans keen on rooting for one of the underdogs.
"If I hadn't told Harry about her being a lesbian, then..." Harry had never took people keeping secrets from him very well. After Harry came to pick Maggie up, on the day that Lyn finally confessed to her, Harry badgered her constantly as to what that little scene was all about, until Maggie caved in and told him. Unfortunately, he was never good at KEEPING secrets, either, and the rumor about Maggie having a lesbian admirer spread throughout the school in a matter of days. Maggie had felt absolutely horrible about it, so much so that she couldn't even bring herself to look Lyn in the eye. She could almost feel it, that feeling of bitterness and betrayal whenever Lyn looked her way. She had confided to her a secret she had not told anyone else, and she in turn had thrown her to the wolves.
"Oh, come on. Do you honestly believe that?" Charles said, a bit of annoyance in his voice. "She's obviously had a lot of other bad things happen to her that had nothing to do with you. People don't just go 'Oh my God, my best friend betrayed me! I'm going to go kill a bunch of people!'" It was tactless and potentially hurtful, but it had to be said. If their father or Allison were home, he'd probably get yelled at just now, but fortunately he was at work and she was at a friend's house.
"You don't understand." Maggie started, opening her mouth to say more, when suddenly the image on the TV changed, showing a boy kneeling on a beach, brandishing a shotgun while surrounded by dead bodies. This could only be one thing, and sure enough, a small news ticker-like object scrolled across the bottom of the screen, apologizing for the 'technical difficulties' before reading off a list of the students that had died while the feed was lost. Maggie was glued to the screen, reading each of the names, and sighing in relief when Lyn's name wasn't among them. She was rather disheartened, though, by the listing of Adam Dodd and Neil Sinclair. If any of the students were to stand a chance of beating the system and putting a stop to this barbarous game, it would've been them.
Suddenly, as if a light bulb had gone off in her head, she grabbed the remote, and flipped through the channels, only staying on each one long enough to get the idea of what was happening. Finally, she stopped on one, a guy and girl fighting in the jungle. That wasn't what she was paying attention to, though. She was focused on the background, as a figure dressed in black slowly made its way towards the two of them.
"There she is..."
----------
The monster inside me is getting bigger...
Laeil trudged through the jungle, fighting her way through the brush. Her mind was still reeling from the morning's revelation. Not only had Melina died, but Danya refusing to reveal who killed anyone anymore meant she couldn't track down the killer, or could even know if her killer was still alive. To say she was pissed was an understatement. All she knew was someone had to pay. She had to find some poor bastard, and make them pay for her wasted efforts.
Along the way, she had managed to compose herself long enough to do something about her sword. Unzipping her pack partway, she stuck the blade inside of the bag, then used a couple of the safety pins that were attached to her sleeves to hold the zipper in place and keep it from sliding down further, holding the handle in place. It was a crappy sheath, but it took care of her sword, allowing her to handle the revolver with both hands while still being able to pull her sword out fairly easily should she need it.
Laeil run a hand through her hair, her fingers getting caught in the tangled and dirt-infested mess. She winced as she tried to pull her fingers upward, making some attempt to comb the knots out of her hair, before finally giving up once it became apparent that she was more likely to pull her hair out before she could work out the knots the way she was trying to. It was just then that she heard the sounds of a scuffle nearby, looking off in the direction it was coming from before making her way towards it cautiously.
She caught the sight of a boy and a really tall girl locked in combat, the girl having the boy pinned to the floor and wailing on his face. At first, the victor in this little fight seemed obvious, but then the boy pulled out a tire iron and smacked her with it, the beatdown changing hands in an instant, before finally grabbing a gun off of the ground and putting a bullet in the girl's head. The gun going off sounded rather odd; muffled, as if he were shooting through a pillow.
Watching the altercation, Laeil came to one conclusion about the boy: he was fucking crazy. He really seemed to enjoy that moment of revenge he got in the end, more than a typical sane person would. Someone of sound mind probably would've seen someone dangerous whom they should just leave the hell alone.
Laeil, however, saw a target with his back exposed.
She stepped forward, careful to make as little noise as possible as he approached the gun-wielding boy. Killing him wouldn't be enough to ease her mind. No, not at all. She was going to have some fun first. As she got right up behind him, she pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head.
Now dance, puppet. Dance.
"Bang."
Charles Lloyd made his way down the stairs into the living room. The room itself was pretty dark, the curtains in place to block out any light that tried to get in, the only illumination coming from the TV, which was broadcasting some kind of televangelist program. After the SOTF camera feeds went dead suddenly, the networks spent a day or two wondering what they should do, before finally returning to their regular programming. The exact cause of the feed cutting off had yet to be discovered, though that certainly didn't stop all kinds of rumors from circulating on the various fan boards, from the good (the military had found the island, Danya was either dead or in custody, and the surviving students were being loaded into helicopters to be sent home even as we speak) to the bad (there was an accident with the terrorist's computer system, and all the collars were detonated; there were no survivors.)
Across the living room was a large sofa, and seated on that sofa was his middle sister, Maggie, who looked like she hadn't had a good nights sleep in a long time. She stared blankly at the screen, as if she wasn't really paying attention to what was on it. Watching Maggie for a few moments, he finally just couldn't hold himself back any more.
"Jesus, Maggie. When are you going to stop torturing yourself like this?" There was no way Charles could understand how Maggie was feeling, and he understood that. After all, if their father hadn't accepted that job offer that required them to move, Maggie wouldn't be here right now. Just a single denial, a single "I wouldn't want to do anything stressful like that to my family..." After a couple days of trying to come up with something to comfort her, everyone decided to just put it on hold for the time being. There's no way it'd really work, anyway; not until the game had finally come to a close.
But Charles couldn't just keep quiet anymore. It'd been nine days since the start of the game, and Maggie had barely gotten any sleep. She'd barely eaten any, hell, she hadn't even left the house since then. She just stayed glued to the TV, watching the game unfold. Even after the feed went dead, she continued to sit there, waiting for it to come back.
Maggie didn't answer, continuing to stare at the TV as the televangelist continued his energetic sermon. She remembered the day it started: She was watching the TV in the living room, when suddenly the display changed abruptly, announcing the start of the third mass televised iteration of Survival of the Fittest. Maggie sighed and reached for the remote to turn off the TV, not wanting to watch this questionably real show of mass murder, when the announcement came that every one of this version's contestants came from Southridge High School.
She dropped the remote.
And then she watched, with a mixture of shock and...well, more shock. She watched the brutal murder of Heather Tilmitt, Blood Boy's murder of Kara Holmes and Rebecca Bradbury, Melina Frost's...well, EVERYTHING Melina Frost did. She watched as the people she used to share classrooms with, people she passed in the halls, maybe even people she had feelings for (she had quite a large number of boyfriends throughout high school, somehow always winding up with selfish assholes, and had gained the unfortunate reputation of being a bit of a slut, despite having never slept with any of them) turning on each other, killing each other in brutal and violent ways, all for the off-chance that one of them would make it off the island alive.
And then, on the fifth day, she saw her.
"Lyn..."
She was huddled against a wall inside one of the buildings on the island, seeking shelter from the rain. Part of her was relieved that she was still alive, though another part of her was horrified that she had found her way onto the island. The fact that she was there hit her harder than the appearance of most of the other students, because among the various people at Southridge, she was one of the few she could consider a true friend.
Then someone else walked in, and after a moment Maggie recognized him as Lyn's cousin, Anthony. She never knew him, personally, but she had tried a couple of times to confront him on Lyn's behalf, only to be stopped by Lyn's urging for her not to. She watched as things quickly spiraled out of control. Words turned into arguments, arguments turned into violence, and violence turned into...
"Oh, God no. Lyn, what are you doing!?"
She watched helplessly as Lyn finally gave into the game, unleashing years worth of pent-up aggression and bitterness, like a stray dog that had been kicked one too many times. Lyn was going to kill her own cousin, brutally and sadistically, and there was nothing she could do about it.
"No...Lyn, don't do it. Please, don't do it."
But it was done.
She slumped back against the sofa. Lyn Burbank was a killer; she didn't even have self defense of anything like that as an excuse. She was a murderer, plain and simple. The feeling of horror gave way to simple digust for a brief moment before moving, oddly enough, onto pity. Millions of people had just watched her kill a man in cold blood on national TV. Even if she survived and went home, any hopes of Lyn returning to a normal life were destroyed right than and there.
But then again, seeing what she had gone through, maybe she WOULDN'T want to return home.
She continued to watch, making sure to keep track of the other students (especially SADD and their mystery plan to escape the island that somehow involved smashing cameras), though she kept focused on Lyn and her attempted plan of revenge against her classmates; the attempted standoff at the Church, her winning the daily BKA, the start of the fight against Melina, and then...
Static.
"It's my fault..." Maggie finally spoke up, catching Charles by surprise.
"What?"
"It's my fault. My fault that she...that she turned out like this." Charles assumed that Maggie was talking about that Lyn girl, the crazy little blonde girl who murdered her cousin and started calling herself Laeil for some reason. She hadn't really made enough of an impact by the time the camera feeds died, though she still managed to gain a few fans keen on rooting for one of the underdogs.
"If I hadn't told Harry about her being a lesbian, then..." Harry had never took people keeping secrets from him very well. After Harry came to pick Maggie up, on the day that Lyn finally confessed to her, Harry badgered her constantly as to what that little scene was all about, until Maggie caved in and told him. Unfortunately, he was never good at KEEPING secrets, either, and the rumor about Maggie having a lesbian admirer spread throughout the school in a matter of days. Maggie had felt absolutely horrible about it, so much so that she couldn't even bring herself to look Lyn in the eye. She could almost feel it, that feeling of bitterness and betrayal whenever Lyn looked her way. She had confided to her a secret she had not told anyone else, and she in turn had thrown her to the wolves.
"Oh, come on. Do you honestly believe that?" Charles said, a bit of annoyance in his voice. "She's obviously had a lot of other bad things happen to her that had nothing to do with you. People don't just go 'Oh my God, my best friend betrayed me! I'm going to go kill a bunch of people!'" It was tactless and potentially hurtful, but it had to be said. If their father or Allison were home, he'd probably get yelled at just now, but fortunately he was at work and she was at a friend's house.
"You don't understand." Maggie started, opening her mouth to say more, when suddenly the image on the TV changed, showing a boy kneeling on a beach, brandishing a shotgun while surrounded by dead bodies. This could only be one thing, and sure enough, a small news ticker-like object scrolled across the bottom of the screen, apologizing for the 'technical difficulties' before reading off a list of the students that had died while the feed was lost. Maggie was glued to the screen, reading each of the names, and sighing in relief when Lyn's name wasn't among them. She was rather disheartened, though, by the listing of Adam Dodd and Neil Sinclair. If any of the students were to stand a chance of beating the system and putting a stop to this barbarous game, it would've been them.
Suddenly, as if a light bulb had gone off in her head, she grabbed the remote, and flipped through the channels, only staying on each one long enough to get the idea of what was happening. Finally, she stopped on one, a guy and girl fighting in the jungle. That wasn't what she was paying attention to, though. She was focused on the background, as a figure dressed in black slowly made its way towards the two of them.
"There she is..."
----------
The monster inside me is getting bigger...
Laeil trudged through the jungle, fighting her way through the brush. Her mind was still reeling from the morning's revelation. Not only had Melina died, but Danya refusing to reveal who killed anyone anymore meant she couldn't track down the killer, or could even know if her killer was still alive. To say she was pissed was an understatement. All she knew was someone had to pay. She had to find some poor bastard, and make them pay for her wasted efforts.
Along the way, she had managed to compose herself long enough to do something about her sword. Unzipping her pack partway, she stuck the blade inside of the bag, then used a couple of the safety pins that were attached to her sleeves to hold the zipper in place and keep it from sliding down further, holding the handle in place. It was a crappy sheath, but it took care of her sword, allowing her to handle the revolver with both hands while still being able to pull her sword out fairly easily should she need it.
Laeil run a hand through her hair, her fingers getting caught in the tangled and dirt-infested mess. She winced as she tried to pull her fingers upward, making some attempt to comb the knots out of her hair, before finally giving up once it became apparent that she was more likely to pull her hair out before she could work out the knots the way she was trying to. It was just then that she heard the sounds of a scuffle nearby, looking off in the direction it was coming from before making her way towards it cautiously.
She caught the sight of a boy and a really tall girl locked in combat, the girl having the boy pinned to the floor and wailing on his face. At first, the victor in this little fight seemed obvious, but then the boy pulled out a tire iron and smacked her with it, the beatdown changing hands in an instant, before finally grabbing a gun off of the ground and putting a bullet in the girl's head. The gun going off sounded rather odd; muffled, as if he were shooting through a pillow.
Watching the altercation, Laeil came to one conclusion about the boy: he was fucking crazy. He really seemed to enjoy that moment of revenge he got in the end, more than a typical sane person would. Someone of sound mind probably would've seen someone dangerous whom they should just leave the hell alone.
Laeil, however, saw a target with his back exposed.
She stepped forward, careful to make as little noise as possible as he approached the gun-wielding boy. Killing him wouldn't be enough to ease her mind. No, not at all. She was going to have some fun first. As she got right up behind him, she pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head.
Now dance, puppet. Dance.
"Bang."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Super Llama.
"Bang."
John didn't even have time to enjoy his victory over Velvet. The minute he'd dropped to his knees to catch his breath he felt the cold unforgiving steel of a gun barrel to the back of his head. The tire iron lay on the ground in front of him. Would it work a second time as a bail out?
"You know, I give you credit. Sneaking up on me like that. Catching me while I recover," John said quietly, "Not bad at all. Hell I'll bet your parents watching this would be so proud," John threw his pistol a couple of feet away, it wouldn't be much good in this position anyways, "You did however make one crucial mistake. If you're going to put a gun to someone's head, keep yourself at least a foot or two away from making contact, or else its really easy for the person to do this."
As John said the word 'this', in one fluid motion he was able to scoop the tire iron and spin around, aiming the shot at his attackers gun hand. If he could knock it away they'd be able to have a nice little conversation, and after the fight with Velvet, that was all John Rizzolo wanted.
John didn't even have time to enjoy his victory over Velvet. The minute he'd dropped to his knees to catch his breath he felt the cold unforgiving steel of a gun barrel to the back of his head. The tire iron lay on the ground in front of him. Would it work a second time as a bail out?
"You know, I give you credit. Sneaking up on me like that. Catching me while I recover," John said quietly, "Not bad at all. Hell I'll bet your parents watching this would be so proud," John threw his pistol a couple of feet away, it wouldn't be much good in this position anyways, "You did however make one crucial mistake. If you're going to put a gun to someone's head, keep yourself at least a foot or two away from making contact, or else its really easy for the person to do this."
As John said the word 'this', in one fluid motion he was able to scoop the tire iron and spin around, aiming the shot at his attackers gun hand. If he could knock it away they'd be able to have a nice little conversation, and after the fight with Velvet, that was all John Rizzolo wanted.
Stuff. Things. Stuff and things.
-
Super Llama†
- Posts: 339
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 7:39 am
And then everything went to hell.
Her failure didn't really surprise her as it would've had it happened earlier. With all the constant fuck ups she had to endure, she was starting to get used to it. It still didn't make her any less pissed off, though.
Before Laeil could pull the trigger, the boy had spun around, slamming the mass of steel on his person into her gun hand. A surge of pain jolted right up her arm, loosening her grip on the revolver enough for it to drop to the ground.
"Fuck!" She cursed through the pain. The tire iron had opened up a cut on the palm. It wasn't serious, but what was serious was that it FUCKING HURT. The boy had just gained the advantage in that moment, relieving her of her gun while keeping his own. Unless...
"Thank God for PLAN B!" Laeil reached back and pulled the gladius from her pack, taking a swing at the boy's own gun hand. The attack was a bit awkward, but it was quick, and hopefully she had caught her opponent by surprise.
Her failure didn't really surprise her as it would've had it happened earlier. With all the constant fuck ups she had to endure, she was starting to get used to it. It still didn't make her any less pissed off, though.
Before Laeil could pull the trigger, the boy had spun around, slamming the mass of steel on his person into her gun hand. A surge of pain jolted right up her arm, loosening her grip on the revolver enough for it to drop to the ground.
"Fuck!" She cursed through the pain. The tire iron had opened up a cut on the palm. It wasn't serious, but what was serious was that it FUCKING HURT. The boy had just gained the advantage in that moment, relieving her of her gun while keeping his own. Unless...
"Thank God for PLAN B!" Laeil reached back and pulled the gladius from her pack, taking a swing at the boy's own gun hand. The attack was a bit awkward, but it was quick, and hopefully she had caught her opponent by surprise.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Super Llama.
((Quincy Archer continued from Guns for Show, Knives for a Pro))
In his restless dreams, he saw that town...
Rochester.
It was as he remembered from his youth. The cloudy sky, the chirping robins, the aroma of fresh-cut grass, and to top it off, the massive forms of the town's famous castle and cathedral, visible on the horizon. For the first time since he arrived on the island, Quincy smiled, not out of schadenfreude or irony, but from simple joy.
Now he was home. Now he could forget the last nine years. In fact, he could scarcely remember a thing already. All he knew was that he wanted very badly to show his dad his report card. A good report card meant a trip to the confectionery, where he could pick whatever sweeties he wanted to take home and enjoy for the summer. He always made sure to make it last, though; his dad taught him to savor what he got, and sometimes mentioned that if Quincy wasn't as active as he was, his mum wouldn't allow him to indulge himself so. Yes, mummy dearest always wanted her son to be the best he could be, but thanks to dad, he was eased into the role, like a pair of comfortable boots.
Quincy ran through the narrow streets, blurring past the scenery as he pushed himself to the door of his apartment. As he raced, he began to hear a faint voice, mostly obscured by static, but he could tell that it was a man's voice, jovial and celebratory. He'd never heard it before; did someone leave their radio on?
Finally he reached the front door and opened it, and as he stepped inside, the voice from the radio began to clear up. For some reason, the man was announcing various names, perhaps identifying the lucky winners to a contest.
"...ames Ellet, Will Sigurb*SKKK*son, Stephanie Evans, and *SKKKKRR* favorite femme fatale, Melina Frost!"
Who were these people? Quincy's smile faded from his face as he climbed the stairs, curious about the program that had been left running. As he got closer to the third floor, where his family lived, the voice from the radio got clearer and clearer.
"Also joining the *SKKRRRCH* are Darnell Butler, Keith Jackson, Brad Kavanagh, Matt Wittany, Isabelle Archer, Bill Ritch, John Sheppard, Kallie Majors, Terrie Brightwell, Alice Jones...oh, isn't this exciting?"
Now that he could hear the voice, he noticed that it wasn't quite in the attitude he assumed. It was still jolly and all, but now he noticed barbs underneath his words, as though the host concealed a thinly veiled hatred of his audience.
Wait. Why was his mother's name on that list?
"Ahem, Julie Mikan, Dominica Shapiro, Kyrie Joseph, Denise Dupuis, Marnie Yaguchi, Rio Koizumi, and last but definitely not least, our very own red-headed rat, the no longer so resilient Adam Dodd! I'm proud of you, children."
He reached the third floor. He slowly approached the door to room 313, his report card now forgotten and crumpled in his sweaty hand. Finally, he reached it, but against his better judgment, he remained a few feet in front of it, listening to the now crystal-clear sound of the radio, which had just started up again after a short pause on the host's part.
"All of the old danger zones are cleared, and have been replaced with the Chapel, the Barracks, the Storehouse, the Lagoon, the Quarry, and the Graveyard. Also, these danger zones will not be cleared tomorrow, so I hope you were paying attention!"
Quincy's hand was almost to the door when the man's next words made his hand turn to ice.
"We've seen a lot of kills on the island today, but I'm going to award the best kill to Quincy Archer, for performing the first ever matricide on our little program! Congratulations, you limey bastard! Head to the Apartment Complex to receive your reward! Hell, you're almost there already, just walk right through that door!"
His hand turned to ice. Now he remembered. The island, the killing, the revolver, Hannah...
"Have a nice day, children!" The radio clicked off, and Quincy heard a succession of footsteps as someone else bounded up the stairs. He whirled around and-
"Dad?"
Duncan Archer hadn't changed at all. Same scraggly orange neck-beard, same turtleneck sweater, same everything. The only thing missing was his jovial attitude; he regarded Quincy not with warmth, but with fear and apprehension. He remained silent, staring at Quincy as though he were a dangerous animal.
"Dad, it's me, Quincy." Quincy's voice began to sound desperate for even a hint of recognition. He took a step toward Duncan, who immediately stepped down and back onto the stairs.
"What did you do to her?" he asked Quincy. He struggled to speak, his voice wracked with pain.
"What?" It took Quincy a second to realize what he meant. "No! It wasn't me! You can't trust a word he says, dad, he's just trying to get a rise out of us!"
"Don't lie to me, Quincy. I didn't raise a liar." Duncan sighed. "I've told you a million times by now, Quincy, you can't blame her for the divorce. I'm very disappointed in-"
"Are you listening to me?" Quincy yelled. "I! Didn't! Kill! Her!"
The door to apartment 313 flew open, slamming into the opposite wall and revealing the Archer family kitchen. The room was far darker than Quincy remembered it, with only a single flickering bulb illuminating the kitchen table.
Straddled on the table was the body of Isabelle archer, a woman in a salmon-colored dress, with her graying blond hair curled in a bun. Both her dress and her hair were splattered with blood; a large amount seemed to have erupted from her mouth and dripped in rivulets onto her screaming face and the table, and the dress was split down the middle, as was the flesh beneath it. Quincy could barely see something metallic sticking out from between her breasts... was it the tip of his new sword?
"What do you call that, then?" Duncan snarled.
"Alright, clever dick!" Quincy screamed, storming into the kitchen and reaching for the hilt of the sword, before realizing where it was likely buried. "Maybe I did want to kill her! But you know what? She deserves it! She came here and took me from my life so she could be a California jet-setter and have more money than God! The only thing she ever did for me is pressure me to do my studies! YOU were the one who taught me to believe in myself! YOU were the one who helped me get over those gits who made fun of my hair! YOU were the one who raised me!"
Quincy choked back a sob and wiped his eyes with the collar of his shirt. "It was all you..."
Duncan folded his arms and stared at Quincy again, now making him feel like a festering patch of urine on the bathroom floor. "Apparently I didn't teach you well enough. I let you out of my sight and you let yourself fall apart." He spat on the floor. "I've seen the way you treat others, Quincy. Do you honestly think that's what I wanted you to do? Or are you going to blame everything on Warren again?"
He walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light switch, revealing a massive series of mounted human heads covering the walls like a honeycomb, leaving only the occasional gap with no head, and only a plaque with a name that Quincy couldn't read. All the heads had undergone the full taxidermy treatment, preserving all of their physical features and none of the personality that made them human. Many of them looked like their heads were partially or entirely made of wax. All of them had eyes of glass, staring into the distance.
No, that wasn't right. They were staring at him.
He recognized all of the former SADD members: Neil, Warren, Dane, Dennis, Matthew, Dominica, and Hannah, along with Margaret and several other people he'd bumped into.
He counted the plaques without heads. There were less than three dozen left.
By the time his attention turned back to Duncan, he was staring down the barrel of the Colt Python.
"You can't blame Warren anymore, Quincy. He's dead."
He cocked the hammer back.
"And you deserve to die, too, Quincy!"
-----
The real Quincy opened his eyes in the middle of an ear-piercing scream. He got up and looked around, not that it did him any good. He fell asleep in a hollow underneath a tree, where no one could find him. It was pitch black, and the only light streamed through the hole he crawled in from. As he struggled to push his daypack and sword through the hole, he noticed something wildly different about the jungle.
"Bloody bleeding Christ..."
The floor, rather than being covered in plants and compost, was blanketed with a thick layer of ash. The trees had lost all of their leaves and bark and twisted their branches into grotesque shapes. The cloudless sky was now colored slate gray and occasionally dropped a new flake of ash onto the ground. A thick fog surrounded Quincy, preventing him from seeing more than a few yards into the distance.
He nervously grasped his sword and started walking through the ash, aimlessly wandering until he found another soul. It wasn't too long until he heard the scuffle of battle. Nervously, he approached the combatants, hiding behind the smooth, black trees, until he could see them more clearly.
-----
Another discrepancy I noticed is that the numbers given to the students in SOTF don't make any fucking sense. They're not arranged in alphabetical order, and there are significant gaps in the numbers for series one; Aaron Bourdon had the number 892 out of the boys when there were only 120 students of both sexes on the island. The only pattern I could detect was that there was a loose correlation with the numbers the students have and how soon they showed up on camera. But how would the terrorists know that the latter would happen?
That's all I have in terms of SOTF news for now. I'm too exasperated dealing with the bitch to research any more. I can't stand her anymore. She's never around, always with that friend of hers, leaving me to clean up after them and cook their meals. Fucking bitch. One of these days she'll drink herself to death and I'll just laugh and laugh and laugh...
In his restless dreams, he saw that town...
Rochester.
It was as he remembered from his youth. The cloudy sky, the chirping robins, the aroma of fresh-cut grass, and to top it off, the massive forms of the town's famous castle and cathedral, visible on the horizon. For the first time since he arrived on the island, Quincy smiled, not out of schadenfreude or irony, but from simple joy.
Now he was home. Now he could forget the last nine years. In fact, he could scarcely remember a thing already. All he knew was that he wanted very badly to show his dad his report card. A good report card meant a trip to the confectionery, where he could pick whatever sweeties he wanted to take home and enjoy for the summer. He always made sure to make it last, though; his dad taught him to savor what he got, and sometimes mentioned that if Quincy wasn't as active as he was, his mum wouldn't allow him to indulge himself so. Yes, mummy dearest always wanted her son to be the best he could be, but thanks to dad, he was eased into the role, like a pair of comfortable boots.
Quincy ran through the narrow streets, blurring past the scenery as he pushed himself to the door of his apartment. As he raced, he began to hear a faint voice, mostly obscured by static, but he could tell that it was a man's voice, jovial and celebratory. He'd never heard it before; did someone leave their radio on?
Finally he reached the front door and opened it, and as he stepped inside, the voice from the radio began to clear up. For some reason, the man was announcing various names, perhaps identifying the lucky winners to a contest.
"...ames Ellet, Will Sigurb*SKKK*son, Stephanie Evans, and *SKKKKRR* favorite femme fatale, Melina Frost!"
Who were these people? Quincy's smile faded from his face as he climbed the stairs, curious about the program that had been left running. As he got closer to the third floor, where his family lived, the voice from the radio got clearer and clearer.
"Also joining the *SKKRRRCH* are Darnell Butler, Keith Jackson, Brad Kavanagh, Matt Wittany, Isabelle Archer, Bill Ritch, John Sheppard, Kallie Majors, Terrie Brightwell, Alice Jones...oh, isn't this exciting?"
Now that he could hear the voice, he noticed that it wasn't quite in the attitude he assumed. It was still jolly and all, but now he noticed barbs underneath his words, as though the host concealed a thinly veiled hatred of his audience.
Wait. Why was his mother's name on that list?
"Ahem, Julie Mikan, Dominica Shapiro, Kyrie Joseph, Denise Dupuis, Marnie Yaguchi, Rio Koizumi, and last but definitely not least, our very own red-headed rat, the no longer so resilient Adam Dodd! I'm proud of you, children."
He reached the third floor. He slowly approached the door to room 313, his report card now forgotten and crumpled in his sweaty hand. Finally, he reached it, but against his better judgment, he remained a few feet in front of it, listening to the now crystal-clear sound of the radio, which had just started up again after a short pause on the host's part.
"All of the old danger zones are cleared, and have been replaced with the Chapel, the Barracks, the Storehouse, the Lagoon, the Quarry, and the Graveyard. Also, these danger zones will not be cleared tomorrow, so I hope you were paying attention!"
Quincy's hand was almost to the door when the man's next words made his hand turn to ice.
"We've seen a lot of kills on the island today, but I'm going to award the best kill to Quincy Archer, for performing the first ever matricide on our little program! Congratulations, you limey bastard! Head to the Apartment Complex to receive your reward! Hell, you're almost there already, just walk right through that door!"
His hand turned to ice. Now he remembered. The island, the killing, the revolver, Hannah...
"Have a nice day, children!" The radio clicked off, and Quincy heard a succession of footsteps as someone else bounded up the stairs. He whirled around and-
"Dad?"
Duncan Archer hadn't changed at all. Same scraggly orange neck-beard, same turtleneck sweater, same everything. The only thing missing was his jovial attitude; he regarded Quincy not with warmth, but with fear and apprehension. He remained silent, staring at Quincy as though he were a dangerous animal.
"Dad, it's me, Quincy." Quincy's voice began to sound desperate for even a hint of recognition. He took a step toward Duncan, who immediately stepped down and back onto the stairs.
"What did you do to her?" he asked Quincy. He struggled to speak, his voice wracked with pain.
"What?" It took Quincy a second to realize what he meant. "No! It wasn't me! You can't trust a word he says, dad, he's just trying to get a rise out of us!"
"Don't lie to me, Quincy. I didn't raise a liar." Duncan sighed. "I've told you a million times by now, Quincy, you can't blame her for the divorce. I'm very disappointed in-"
"Are you listening to me?" Quincy yelled. "I! Didn't! Kill! Her!"
The door to apartment 313 flew open, slamming into the opposite wall and revealing the Archer family kitchen. The room was far darker than Quincy remembered it, with only a single flickering bulb illuminating the kitchen table.
Straddled on the table was the body of Isabelle archer, a woman in a salmon-colored dress, with her graying blond hair curled in a bun. Both her dress and her hair were splattered with blood; a large amount seemed to have erupted from her mouth and dripped in rivulets onto her screaming face and the table, and the dress was split down the middle, as was the flesh beneath it. Quincy could barely see something metallic sticking out from between her breasts... was it the tip of his new sword?
"What do you call that, then?" Duncan snarled.
"Alright, clever dick!" Quincy screamed, storming into the kitchen and reaching for the hilt of the sword, before realizing where it was likely buried. "Maybe I did want to kill her! But you know what? She deserves it! She came here and took me from my life so she could be a California jet-setter and have more money than God! The only thing she ever did for me is pressure me to do my studies! YOU were the one who taught me to believe in myself! YOU were the one who helped me get over those gits who made fun of my hair! YOU were the one who raised me!"
Quincy choked back a sob and wiped his eyes with the collar of his shirt. "It was all you..."
Duncan folded his arms and stared at Quincy again, now making him feel like a festering patch of urine on the bathroom floor. "Apparently I didn't teach you well enough. I let you out of my sight and you let yourself fall apart." He spat on the floor. "I've seen the way you treat others, Quincy. Do you honestly think that's what I wanted you to do? Or are you going to blame everything on Warren again?"
He walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light switch, revealing a massive series of mounted human heads covering the walls like a honeycomb, leaving only the occasional gap with no head, and only a plaque with a name that Quincy couldn't read. All the heads had undergone the full taxidermy treatment, preserving all of their physical features and none of the personality that made them human. Many of them looked like their heads were partially or entirely made of wax. All of them had eyes of glass, staring into the distance.
No, that wasn't right. They were staring at him.
He recognized all of the former SADD members: Neil, Warren, Dane, Dennis, Matthew, Dominica, and Hannah, along with Margaret and several other people he'd bumped into.
He counted the plaques without heads. There were less than three dozen left.
By the time his attention turned back to Duncan, he was staring down the barrel of the Colt Python.
"You can't blame Warren anymore, Quincy. He's dead."
He cocked the hammer back.
"And you deserve to die, too, Quincy!"
-----
The real Quincy opened his eyes in the middle of an ear-piercing scream. He got up and looked around, not that it did him any good. He fell asleep in a hollow underneath a tree, where no one could find him. It was pitch black, and the only light streamed through the hole he crawled in from. As he struggled to push his daypack and sword through the hole, he noticed something wildly different about the jungle.
"Bloody bleeding Christ..."
The floor, rather than being covered in plants and compost, was blanketed with a thick layer of ash. The trees had lost all of their leaves and bark and twisted their branches into grotesque shapes. The cloudless sky was now colored slate gray and occasionally dropped a new flake of ash onto the ground. A thick fog surrounded Quincy, preventing him from seeing more than a few yards into the distance.
He nervously grasped his sword and started walking through the ash, aimlessly wandering until he found another soul. It wasn't too long until he heard the scuffle of battle. Nervously, he approached the combatants, hiding behind the smooth, black trees, until he could see them more clearly.
-----
Another discrepancy I noticed is that the numbers given to the students in SOTF don't make any fucking sense. They're not arranged in alphabetical order, and there are significant gaps in the numbers for series one; Aaron Bourdon had the number 892 out of the boys when there were only 120 students of both sexes on the island. The only pattern I could detect was that there was a loose correlation with the numbers the students have and how soon they showed up on camera. But how would the terrorists know that the latter would happen?
That's all I have in terms of SOTF news for now. I'm too exasperated dealing with the bitch to research any more. I can't stand her anymore. She's never around, always with that friend of hers, leaving me to clean up after them and cook their meals. Fucking bitch. One of these days she'll drink herself to death and I'll just laugh and laugh and laugh...
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Solitair. 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.
John's attack connected and the most dangerous part of this girl, who John could now see was Laeil Burbank, was neutralized. John rolled forward and grabbed his gun. He was going to win this fight too.
"Shit!"
His win would have to be postponed however, for as he turned all he saw was a flash of silver coming right towards his gun hand. He was able to dodge the girl's sword for the most part. As he moved to dodge the sword, his foot slipped sending his face towards the blade. It only grazed him, but he now a fresh cut on his right cheek to match the cut above his eye. The warm blood began to run down his now stubble cover jaw line.
Deciding it would be better to take some shelter for the time being, John darted for some rather large moss covered rocks.
"Man, and people think I'm crazy..." He muttered under his breath as he readied himself to take another shot. Before he moved, he realized he was still gripping his tire iron in one hand. Using the same strategy he'd used against Velvet, John tucked the tire iron back into his sock and pulled his pant leg over it.
John took a deep breath before peeking out and taking a shot at where the girl was.
"Shit!"
His win would have to be postponed however, for as he turned all he saw was a flash of silver coming right towards his gun hand. He was able to dodge the girl's sword for the most part. As he moved to dodge the sword, his foot slipped sending his face towards the blade. It only grazed him, but he now a fresh cut on his right cheek to match the cut above his eye. The warm blood began to run down his now stubble cover jaw line.
Deciding it would be better to take some shelter for the time being, John darted for some rather large moss covered rocks.
"Man, and people think I'm crazy..." He muttered under his breath as he readied himself to take another shot. Before he moved, he realized he was still gripping his tire iron in one hand. Using the same strategy he'd used against Velvet, John tucked the tire iron back into his sock and pulled his pant leg over it.
John took a deep breath before peeking out and taking a shot at where the girl was.
Stuff. Things. Stuff and things.
-
Super Llama†
- Posts: 339
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 7:39 am
Laeil gave a smirk of satisfaction as her attack connected, though she was actually aiming to relieve the boy of his gun, thus putting them on equal ground. Oh well, a hit's a hit.
Just before the boy turned to run for cover, she managed to match a face to a name: JR Rizzolo. Some guy on the baseball team, along with Anthony and Sean. What else was there? What the fuck did she care? He was just another one of the people that had to die if she didn't want to.
As Riz turned to head for cover, Laeil ran towards her gun, deciding that he'd gotten too far out of range for her to attack without chasing him, and chasing someone with a gun when you've only a sword isn't the best of ideas. Dropping the pack as she went, she grabbed hold of the revolver and dived behind a nearby tree, a bullet clipping it a split second after.
As she hid behind the tree, Laeil looked back towards her pack. It was close, but to get it she'd have to get out from behind the tree and expose herself to attack. A stray beam of sunlight caused the glass inside to shine. Her secret weapon. If she could just get ahold of one of them...
But she needed a distraction. Sticking her sword into the ground, she grabbed a nearby rock; a nice size, to be sure. Taking off her hoodie, she crammed the rock into one of the front pockets and then stepped out of cover just long enough to fire a couple shots Riz's way, hoping that it would distract him long enough that he wouldn't notice what she was about to do; throw the rock-laden hoodie in the opposite direction, towards another nearby tree, before sprinting towards the pack.
Just before the boy turned to run for cover, she managed to match a face to a name: JR Rizzolo. Some guy on the baseball team, along with Anthony and Sean. What else was there? What the fuck did she care? He was just another one of the people that had to die if she didn't want to.
As Riz turned to head for cover, Laeil ran towards her gun, deciding that he'd gotten too far out of range for her to attack without chasing him, and chasing someone with a gun when you've only a sword isn't the best of ideas. Dropping the pack as she went, she grabbed hold of the revolver and dived behind a nearby tree, a bullet clipping it a split second after.
As she hid behind the tree, Laeil looked back towards her pack. It was close, but to get it she'd have to get out from behind the tree and expose herself to attack. A stray beam of sunlight caused the glass inside to shine. Her secret weapon. If she could just get ahold of one of them...
But she needed a distraction. Sticking her sword into the ground, she grabbed a nearby rock; a nice size, to be sure. Taking off her hoodie, she crammed the rock into one of the front pockets and then stepped out of cover just long enough to fire a couple shots Riz's way, hoping that it would distract him long enough that he wouldn't notice what she was about to do; throw the rock-laden hoodie in the opposite direction, towards another nearby tree, before sprinting towards the pack.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Super Llama.
Quincy stood deathly still, craning his neck around the tree in an attempt to sneak a peek at the fight. The fog didn't make it easy, though; all he could glimpse through it was the occasional shadow, and that's if he was very lucky. He was about to creep closer to the combatants when one of them, a girl it looked like, rushed past Quincy's tree in an attempt to find her own.
Like so much of the scenery, the girl appeared only as a warped, monochrome distortion of reality. The ash from the ground had bonded to her skin, coloring it a flat, lifeless shade of gray, much like her eyes. Her hair was arranged in one of the worst styles that Quincy could ever remember seeing: the flat top. On men, the flat-top symbolized an embarrassing cultural dead end, the embarrassing cousin with Down's Syndrome that no one would ever enjoy spending time with. On women... blimey.
Fortunately, her attire managed to distract him from the hideous thing on the girl's head. It wasn't so much an article of clothing as it was a solid shadow, a skintight layer of darkness covering maybe about one half of her body. It wasn't even consistent in which half it covered; it shifted and flowed like a puddle of castor oil. One second, it formed a rough outline of a bikini, leaving her stomach and navel exposed, the next it collapsed around her abdomen and flowed down to her legs, exposing bare breasts. The weirdest thing about the costume was the sort of body it clothed - something so ordinary that it wouldn't even be used on a Hollywood-style homely girl, a level of plainness that you just didn't find in fiction. When Quincy felt his heart fluttering despite this, he suddenly recognized her.
Lyn Burbank was another of the few students he couldn't bring himself to harass, since her life was wretched enough without his interference. He knew how to recognize a kindred spirit.
(So why not help her?)
...That wasn't a something Quincy would admit to anyone. There were few things that Quincy did during his high school years that he'd ever be ashamed of. He freely admitted sending Andy Walker a carton of KY Jelly for his birthday, and he grinned like a fool when his boytoy Sean wailed on his balls. He even squeezed Trish McCarroll's arse when he passed her in the cafeteria that one time. Oh, sure, everyone acted outraged and shit, but he could hear the odd laugh here and there. Rio Koizumi in particular was slow to cover up her amusement, he noticed. Rio was alright. Pity she had to die.
But Lyn...
Well, when Quincy heard the truth about her... preferences, he was so angry - not playfully maliciois, but genuinely furious, both at her and at himself - that he had to take his anger out on someone. And fortunately, her cousin Anthony was very easy to hate. It was the only time he'd ever been suspended from school.
Bloody hormones.
He snapped out of reminiscing long enough to edge behind the tree, away from Lyn. Thank God her suit never revealed her vulva, or he'd have been rooted to the spot. Did she see him? What would she do if she did, come after him? She did look qiute angry, and he wouldn't want to get between her and her opponent.
He sidled up against his tree and gripped his sword with both hands, ready for whatever came for him.
Like so much of the scenery, the girl appeared only as a warped, monochrome distortion of reality. The ash from the ground had bonded to her skin, coloring it a flat, lifeless shade of gray, much like her eyes. Her hair was arranged in one of the worst styles that Quincy could ever remember seeing: the flat top. On men, the flat-top symbolized an embarrassing cultural dead end, the embarrassing cousin with Down's Syndrome that no one would ever enjoy spending time with. On women... blimey.
Fortunately, her attire managed to distract him from the hideous thing on the girl's head. It wasn't so much an article of clothing as it was a solid shadow, a skintight layer of darkness covering maybe about one half of her body. It wasn't even consistent in which half it covered; it shifted and flowed like a puddle of castor oil. One second, it formed a rough outline of a bikini, leaving her stomach and navel exposed, the next it collapsed around her abdomen and flowed down to her legs, exposing bare breasts. The weirdest thing about the costume was the sort of body it clothed - something so ordinary that it wouldn't even be used on a Hollywood-style homely girl, a level of plainness that you just didn't find in fiction. When Quincy felt his heart fluttering despite this, he suddenly recognized her.
Lyn Burbank was another of the few students he couldn't bring himself to harass, since her life was wretched enough without his interference. He knew how to recognize a kindred spirit.
(So why not help her?)
...That wasn't a something Quincy would admit to anyone. There were few things that Quincy did during his high school years that he'd ever be ashamed of. He freely admitted sending Andy Walker a carton of KY Jelly for his birthday, and he grinned like a fool when his boytoy Sean wailed on his balls. He even squeezed Trish McCarroll's arse when he passed her in the cafeteria that one time. Oh, sure, everyone acted outraged and shit, but he could hear the odd laugh here and there. Rio Koizumi in particular was slow to cover up her amusement, he noticed. Rio was alright. Pity she had to die.
But Lyn...
Well, when Quincy heard the truth about her... preferences, he was so angry - not playfully maliciois, but genuinely furious, both at her and at himself - that he had to take his anger out on someone. And fortunately, her cousin Anthony was very easy to hate. It was the only time he'd ever been suspended from school.
Bloody hormones.
He snapped out of reminiscing long enough to edge behind the tree, away from Lyn. Thank God her suit never revealed her vulva, or he'd have been rooted to the spot. Did she see him? What would she do if she did, come after him? She did look qiute angry, and he wouldn't want to get between her and her opponent.
He sidled up against his tree and gripped his sword with both hands, ready for whatever came for him.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Solitair. 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.
There was some return fire, but it never came close to John. Blood still dribbling from his mouth from the encounter with Velvet, John collected himself. There was a thick bit of fog rolling through the area and visibility was becoming extremely limited. John peeked out from his hiding place and just as he suspected, he could no longer see more than 10-15 feet in front of him.
"Son of a bitch." He muttered under his breath.
John took the opportunity to swap the clips of his gun again. This time, loading up the previously used half-clip he still had in his bag, figuring it was better now to just use up the clip with the least ammo and try to conserve some for the coming days. After he finished swapping the clips, he peeked out again. This time he saw movement, a silhouette of someone moving out there.
John took aim at the shadow and fired.
((OOC: John is firing towards Quincy))
"Son of a bitch." He muttered under his breath.
John took the opportunity to swap the clips of his gun again. This time, loading up the previously used half-clip he still had in his bag, figuring it was better now to just use up the clip with the least ammo and try to conserve some for the coming days. After he finished swapping the clips, he peeked out again. This time he saw movement, a silhouette of someone moving out there.
John took aim at the shadow and fired.
((OOC: John is firing towards Quincy))
Stuff. Things. Stuff and things.