(( Marcus Volker continued from A Bomb Ass MGMT Song ))
Flick.
Clunk.
Flick.
Clunk.
This shit sucks. He waited at the cliffs for either backstabbing pussy bitch or the eyeball stealing taser bitches and neither of them showed back up. Wow, so that’s what he meant to them, huh? Absolutely nothing. He waited for hours before it started to rain, and he promptly decided that this shit could sit and spin, and moved for some cover, seeing as he only had one set of bandages on his head, and he really didn’t want them to get all soggy and dirty.
So first thing he sees when he gets here, is a dead body. Specifically Danny. Truth be told it was the first time he saw an actual dead body, so that was pretty freaky. He decided to see what caused it, and the burnt out upper area looked like a good start.
He found a flare gun, and found his answer. It was an answer to a lot of shit. He found some flares on Danny and now he had something to defend himself with, even if it was rather unorthodox.
All he could do now was sit and think. He kind of wanted to get back to Adonis to be honest. It was nice to not be alone, but the last time Marco wasn’t alone, he got complacent. He was partially responsible for what happened on the cliffs after all. He put too much trust in someone who really hasn’t earned it, and got caught in the one moment he wasn’t paying attention.
Now he was currently rethinking and replaying the scene in his head, and he figured he didn’t mean much to Willow and Sierra. He was just their target because of what he had on him. It wasn’t personal on their end. That made him angrier to be honest.
They forgot about him. They thought they won’t have to worry anymore. They think he’s declawed and harmless. It was the same with Arjen. He thought Marco didn’t have bite anymore, that he had no leverage when he was tied up.
The fact that they basically forgot about him after doing this to him made the pain that much worse. He was thinking of just confronting them, telling them that they were pieces of shit and calling it a day. If they got buttmad and tried to kill him over it, it’d just prove his point that they were nothing more than cavemen in clothes.
But no. They didn’t think about him at all. They didn’t care that he was still out there. To them he wasn’t worth the effort of killing. The more he thought about what Angie said, the more he really, really, wanted to get back at them.
Then he saw Danny’s dead ass, and he was rethinking it again. Did he really want to kill? Would he be okay with that? Like shitty as they were, they were still people, and Marco did pride himself in being better than those hypocrites. Maybe he just needed to vent.
Honestly Marco didn’t know. He just wanted to get rid of this impotent rage somehow. Maybe he’d just scare Arjen back into being the spineless cuck puppet he was, then just leave him there and go find Adonis again.
Yeah, that sounded like a good plan. But he was still keeping the flare gun, because he was not losing his other eye over some fuckoff. Nah, the next person who tries to hurt him was getting turned into a human torch. He was more than justified acting in self defense if it came to that.
Woody Harrelson wearing a red wig in the Stinger of Venom saying “There’s Going To Be Carnage”
Open! Day 2 mid afternoon early evening.
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MurderWeasel
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((Sven Vee continued from elsewhere))
It had been some time now, but Sven could still smell that mix of flare chemicals and cooked flesh. He'd thought, for a while, that he was imagining it, and maybe he was. Maybe he was imagining it still, as he stepped softly through the doorway and into the ruins of a birdhouse—wait, no, a house for birds. There was a word for it, he knew there was a word for it, but it wasn't coming and the more he tried to force it the further from his grasp it slipped, snickering.
Not rookery. Not quite.
Maybe Sven was imagining all of this. The scene was something he could've painted. All around were statues, large, wooden, once-majestic, but now they were eaten away by scratches and chips and the wear and tear of simply existing for a long time. He recognized the Garuda, and the roc, and others resonated and sparked that feeling of knowing but did not call names immediately to mind. All were covered in a layer of feces, of variable thickness and constituency but generally a dry, flaky white. There was perhaps a social critique here, or a pithy metaphor, but Sven was tired from walking and the straps of his bag dug into his shoulders, and he'd almost managed to forget the collar until he suddenly didn't so that was on his mind too.
Also, there was a corpse off in the distance a bit, and a boy sitting there, hidden enough from view by the statues and the shadows cast by the second story that Sven could not make out his identity, not that he would have been too likely to recognize him in broad daylight from touching distance. There were pieces of wood strewn around, like something had collapsed or fallen in, and the floor was scuffed, dust disturbed. There had been a struggle here.
Sven took a step forward, frowning when his shoe squished.
His feet were wet. His socks were soggy. The rain pattered merrily against the roof, and Sven's flannel clung to him in a damp embrace. Speckles dotted his sunglasses, suddenly impairing his vision, or making him aware of their impairment. He took the glasses off for a moment, wiped only the side that matched his good eye, and placed them back. He took another squelching step towards the figure.
"Mind if I join you for a moment?" Sven called. "It's coming down out there."
He took another two steps, and kept his hand far from his lightsaber.
"We don't have to talk," he added. He realized he should perhaps have questioned the corpse, really, but now that ship had sailed and it would be awkward to bring it up. "I just want to dry off for a bit."
It had been some time now, but Sven could still smell that mix of flare chemicals and cooked flesh. He'd thought, for a while, that he was imagining it, and maybe he was. Maybe he was imagining it still, as he stepped softly through the doorway and into the ruins of a birdhouse—wait, no, a house for birds. There was a word for it, he knew there was a word for it, but it wasn't coming and the more he tried to force it the further from his grasp it slipped, snickering.
Not rookery. Not quite.
Maybe Sven was imagining all of this. The scene was something he could've painted. All around were statues, large, wooden, once-majestic, but now they were eaten away by scratches and chips and the wear and tear of simply existing for a long time. He recognized the Garuda, and the roc, and others resonated and sparked that feeling of knowing but did not call names immediately to mind. All were covered in a layer of feces, of variable thickness and constituency but generally a dry, flaky white. There was perhaps a social critique here, or a pithy metaphor, but Sven was tired from walking and the straps of his bag dug into his shoulders, and he'd almost managed to forget the collar until he suddenly didn't so that was on his mind too.
Also, there was a corpse off in the distance a bit, and a boy sitting there, hidden enough from view by the statues and the shadows cast by the second story that Sven could not make out his identity, not that he would have been too likely to recognize him in broad daylight from touching distance. There were pieces of wood strewn around, like something had collapsed or fallen in, and the floor was scuffed, dust disturbed. There had been a struggle here.
Sven took a step forward, frowning when his shoe squished.
His feet were wet. His socks were soggy. The rain pattered merrily against the roof, and Sven's flannel clung to him in a damp embrace. Speckles dotted his sunglasses, suddenly impairing his vision, or making him aware of their impairment. He took the glasses off for a moment, wiped only the side that matched his good eye, and placed them back. He took another squelching step towards the figure.
"Mind if I join you for a moment?" Sven called. "It's coming down out there."
He took another two steps, and kept his hand far from his lightsaber.
"We don't have to talk," he added. He realized he should perhaps have questioned the corpse, really, but now that ship had sailed and it would be awkward to bring it up. "I just want to dry off for a bit."
"I don't mind talking. I mean, like, if you wanna stay here be my guest. Just... watch your step. I don't think Danny-boy would like getting kicked in the head." Marco flip flopped the flare gun back and forth between each hand. "I mean... He probably ain't gonna feel it because he's dead, but y'know, respect for the deceased."
Marco looked at Sven.
"By the way, that wasn't me. I found him like that, honest." Marco kept passing his flare gun back and forth between his hands. He looked at Danny's corpse, frowning as he looked up at the area Marco guessed he fell from. "So, something really fucked up about all of this, is that I found his flare gun and the ammo for it upstairs, along with his bag. With the way he looks, I don't think it was an accident, and it definitely isn't a robbery because his shit is still here. Then again, shit's all burnt up, so maybe whoever did this panicked when everything caught fire. Maybe it could've been a robbery gone wrong, but honestly, I think someone was just looking for a kill, and Danny-boy there was the target."
Marco shrugged. "Don't know why, so I can't really help you with that. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm rambling about this. I guess I just wanna feel like a detective or some shit. Iunno… Either way, pretty fucked up scene going on here, wouldn't you agree?"
"Anything on your mind? You got any experiences you wanna talk about?"
Marco looked at Sven.
"By the way, that wasn't me. I found him like that, honest." Marco kept passing his flare gun back and forth between his hands. He looked at Danny's corpse, frowning as he looked up at the area Marco guessed he fell from. "So, something really fucked up about all of this, is that I found his flare gun and the ammo for it upstairs, along with his bag. With the way he looks, I don't think it was an accident, and it definitely isn't a robbery because his shit is still here. Then again, shit's all burnt up, so maybe whoever did this panicked when everything caught fire. Maybe it could've been a robbery gone wrong, but honestly, I think someone was just looking for a kill, and Danny-boy there was the target."
Marco shrugged. "Don't know why, so I can't really help you with that. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm rambling about this. I guess I just wanna feel like a detective or some shit. Iunno… Either way, pretty fucked up scene going on here, wouldn't you agree?"
"Anything on your mind? You got any experiences you wanna talk about?"
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Emprexx Plush
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((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued From Shine Razor Eyes))
"What in tarnation happened here?"
Mm. That was laying it on a little thick. Stage jitters, they hadn't needed to perform for an audience in daylight before. It was not an audience they expected pushback from, though. Their voices were unmistakable fixtures among George Hunter High's social fringe. Sven was...well, it was impolite even by their standards to speak ill of the touched, no? So Sven was Sven, and it was sufficient to say that memory was no longer among his strong suits. Marco did not require such a gentle touch. He was an erratic, ill-tempered idiot who managed to offend at least half of any room he entered without making conscious effort. If they had larger presence in the drama club they might have been wary of him, but one look at his face assured them they had nothing to worry about. Marco's already subpar sense of perception had been, shall we say, similarly diminished since arriving here.
So Carl called out, damp and shivering from anxiety more than the light rain. Far from Sven, farther from Marco. The assault rifle hung in his hands but his finger steered clear of the trigger while the barrel stayed towards the ground. Show the two his hesitation with a dash of naivete to dispel any fear he might open fire. "I mean, I kinda hear all that just, uh...I dunno. What kinda person does somethin' like this?"
A twinge of doubt, perhaps, that Blaise held no moral high ground. One that should not be indulged of course, it was obvious how different they were from whatever creature did this. Dante died peacefully, in a state that preserved his dignity. If the char of the corpse was anything to go by, it had not died so easily. Whoever had done this went out of their way to inflict pain on their victim. Blaise had spared it. Only the dull witted would confuse the two. However, that accusation did not exclude present company. Their disguise would remai; if what was left of Sven's brain cells could entertain what few Marco had cobbled together over the years there might be opportunity to help themself to some supplies.
"What in tarnation happened here?"
Mm. That was laying it on a little thick. Stage jitters, they hadn't needed to perform for an audience in daylight before. It was not an audience they expected pushback from, though. Their voices were unmistakable fixtures among George Hunter High's social fringe. Sven was...well, it was impolite even by their standards to speak ill of the touched, no? So Sven was Sven, and it was sufficient to say that memory was no longer among his strong suits. Marco did not require such a gentle touch. He was an erratic, ill-tempered idiot who managed to offend at least half of any room he entered without making conscious effort. If they had larger presence in the drama club they might have been wary of him, but one look at his face assured them they had nothing to worry about. Marco's already subpar sense of perception had been, shall we say, similarly diminished since arriving here.
So Carl called out, damp and shivering from anxiety more than the light rain. Far from Sven, farther from Marco. The assault rifle hung in his hands but his finger steered clear of the trigger while the barrel stayed towards the ground. Show the two his hesitation with a dash of naivete to dispel any fear he might open fire. "I mean, I kinda hear all that just, uh...I dunno. What kinda person does somethin' like this?"
A twinge of doubt, perhaps, that Blaise held no moral high ground. One that should not be indulged of course, it was obvious how different they were from whatever creature did this. Dante died peacefully, in a state that preserved his dignity. If the char of the corpse was anything to go by, it had not died so easily. Whoever had done this went out of their way to inflict pain on their victim. Blaise had spared it. Only the dull witted would confuse the two. However, that accusation did not exclude present company. Their disguise would remai; if what was left of Sven's brain cells could entertain what few Marco had cobbled together over the years there might be opportunity to help themself to some supplies.
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MurderWeasel
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That was quite the speech. It appeared that Sven had once again failed to make himself clear; in expressing his willingness to sit in absolute silence he had seemingly suggested in some fashion that such a state of affairs was not in fact his ideal progression. So be it. He supposed he didn't mind conversation all that much, so long as it was as one-sided as this was shaping up to be.
The boy juggled the weapon he held from hand to hand, disclaiming responsibility for the charred corpse on the ground. Oh, right, that was something that perhaps Sven should have been more concerned about, who exactly was the culprit. Somehow it seemed of lesser importance at the moment. The shot had been an accident, hadn't it? The victim was pushed, the angle just—wait, no, he was getting tangled. He had no idea what had transpired here.
In any event, a logical reading of the situation was thus: if the boy in front of him was lying and had killed the dead guy, then calling him out on the lie would simply escalate the situation and potentially mark Sven as a threat. If, on the other hand, what Sven knew to be true was, and the guy had not committed homicide, pressing him would leave him justifiably on edge, and he was still armed. There was nothing to gain from disbelieving, and much to lose, so he was he was telling the truth for all intents and purposes. This, at least, seemed a pretty cogent train of thought and nicely justified the course of action Sven had already chosen, so he was keeping it.
Also, thanks to the boy, Sven now had information. He had a point of origin for the weapon, a posited progression of events, a hypothetical motive, and even a potential name for the deceased (but he couldn't be totally sure about that; maybe it was an irreverent musical reference, and whether or not that was the case it was distracting him—the pipes, the pipes are calling). This guy, the living one, had in the process of "feeling like a detective" vocalized a process Sven was quite familiar with, had walked back through time with him in tow. That actually was more than a little disconcerting, now that he mulled it over. And now that he looked closer, actually looked at the guy and took him in instead of leaving him the sort of generalized mannequin that most of the class spent most of their time as, what had happened to his eye? Sven couldn't see, but he knew. You didn't wear a bandage or a patch or sunglasses at all hours of the day and night for fun.
"I agree," Sven said, and then he caught up with himself and clicked that yes, he was agreeing to this all being a "pretty fucked-up scene." He stood by that. As to the rest?
"Not much to talk about," he continued. "I was camping at the lighthouse, but it was in poor condition. Then...
"I got lost.
"And it started to rain."
There should've been something more, like, "and here we are," but there wasn't. But that was okay, because somebody else was coming in to do more talking, and hopefully carry the side of the conversation Sven wasn't able to. The accent was thick, Yosemite Sam. When Sven was very little, he suddenly remember out of nowhere, four or five years old, his family had put on an old collection of Loony Tunes shorts on VHS and in one Yosemite Sam threatened to dash Bugs Bunny to bits against a railroad track and as they'd rolled around fighting there had been these little white spark effects. Now, Sven understood the medium, the artistic shorthand for force and action, but as a child he had not been in on the rules and logic of a cartoon world and had believed Yosemite Sam's declaration genuine, and the action a literal depiction of both characters being dashed to bits. It had filled Sven with horror and revulsion and an entirely inexplicable excitement that he could not describe even now. He did not want this memory back. It swallowed his attention whole for a few seconds, and he didn't acknowledge the newcomer beyond a vague tilt of the head.
Instead, Sven took a few steps closer to the first boy he'd been speaking with, and laid his bag down on the ground and sat upon it, positioned so that one of the idols mostly blocked his line of sight to the body.
He felt something squish under his weight, probably the bread.
The boy juggled the weapon he held from hand to hand, disclaiming responsibility for the charred corpse on the ground. Oh, right, that was something that perhaps Sven should have been more concerned about, who exactly was the culprit. Somehow it seemed of lesser importance at the moment. The shot had been an accident, hadn't it? The victim was pushed, the angle just—wait, no, he was getting tangled. He had no idea what had transpired here.
In any event, a logical reading of the situation was thus: if the boy in front of him was lying and had killed the dead guy, then calling him out on the lie would simply escalate the situation and potentially mark Sven as a threat. If, on the other hand, what Sven knew to be true was, and the guy had not committed homicide, pressing him would leave him justifiably on edge, and he was still armed. There was nothing to gain from disbelieving, and much to lose, so he was he was telling the truth for all intents and purposes. This, at least, seemed a pretty cogent train of thought and nicely justified the course of action Sven had already chosen, so he was keeping it.
Also, thanks to the boy, Sven now had information. He had a point of origin for the weapon, a posited progression of events, a hypothetical motive, and even a potential name for the deceased (but he couldn't be totally sure about that; maybe it was an irreverent musical reference, and whether or not that was the case it was distracting him—the pipes, the pipes are calling). This guy, the living one, had in the process of "feeling like a detective" vocalized a process Sven was quite familiar with, had walked back through time with him in tow. That actually was more than a little disconcerting, now that he mulled it over. And now that he looked closer, actually looked at the guy and took him in instead of leaving him the sort of generalized mannequin that most of the class spent most of their time as, what had happened to his eye? Sven couldn't see, but he knew. You didn't wear a bandage or a patch or sunglasses at all hours of the day and night for fun.
"I agree," Sven said, and then he caught up with himself and clicked that yes, he was agreeing to this all being a "pretty fucked-up scene." He stood by that. As to the rest?
"Not much to talk about," he continued. "I was camping at the lighthouse, but it was in poor condition. Then...
"I got lost.
"And it started to rain."
There should've been something more, like, "and here we are," but there wasn't. But that was okay, because somebody else was coming in to do more talking, and hopefully carry the side of the conversation Sven wasn't able to. The accent was thick, Yosemite Sam. When Sven was very little, he suddenly remember out of nowhere, four or five years old, his family had put on an old collection of Loony Tunes shorts on VHS and in one Yosemite Sam threatened to dash Bugs Bunny to bits against a railroad track and as they'd rolled around fighting there had been these little white spark effects. Now, Sven understood the medium, the artistic shorthand for force and action, but as a child he had not been in on the rules and logic of a cartoon world and had believed Yosemite Sam's declaration genuine, and the action a literal depiction of both characters being dashed to bits. It had filled Sven with horror and revulsion and an entirely inexplicable excitement that he could not describe even now. He did not want this memory back. It swallowed his attention whole for a few seconds, and he didn't acknowledge the newcomer beyond a vague tilt of the head.
Instead, Sven took a few steps closer to the first boy he'd been speaking with, and laid his bag down on the ground and sat upon it, positioned so that one of the idols mostly blocked his line of sight to the body.
He felt something squish under his weight, probably the bread.
“Who in the fuck actually says, ‘What in Tarnation?’”
Sven and... Tarnation kid weirded Marco out. No lie, he was feeling pretty sketched out, by both of them. Sven had him creeped out when he decided to hide behind one of the statues, like he was hiding something. Marco could kinda peek over it, but he didn’t like not being able to see what was in his hands, or where they were right away.
Then there was The new guy, whom Marco had never heard before in his life. Who walked in with this almost-a-mockery of the southern accent. Yee Yee talked like some pit stop trucker wearing a pair of steel toes with a handlebar mustache and a fatter lip packed than a jawbreaker from Ed Edd and Eddy. No lie, this weirdo talked like a grade A cousin fucker, and Marco didn’t feel comfortable knowing that the son of Brother-Father and Aunt-Mother was walking around with an assault rifle. Slack jawed yokels had an advantage in the wilderness with a rifle, and that tacticool call of duty ass way he was carrying that tacticool ass rifle convinced Marco that the hillbilly was no exception to the stereotype.
He seemed okay enough at first glance, but the weirdo had this undertone that Marco didn’t like. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he just felt reminded of someone. This was bugging him immensely. It didn’t help that Marco realized he had no idea who this guy was, or that he ever seen him around before in his life.
“Well, new guy, I can tell you this. The same type of person who wrecked dead man’s shit over there, is probably the same type to do this.” Marco pointed to his bandage. He went back to passing the flare gun back and forth between his hands before he turned his attention back to Sven, listening to how he got here.
“Yeah... this rain is a bitch. I was waiting for a ‘friend’ myself, at the cliffs. Little chickenshit never showed up though, and you best bet I wasn’t gonna stand there all day getting soaked when I ain’t got shit on me.”
Marcus spat friend with all the electricity and venom the taser gave him. Marco bit his lip in restrained anger, thinking about the fact he came back to talk shit, but dipped never to be seen again. As quick as it came, it left again, and Marco’s mood changed back to his normal chipper self.
“Can’t complain though, it all worked out in the end really. I’m still mostly dry... Found me a new toy. And if I see any of the people I’m looking for, well...” Marco looked at his new flare gun, gap teeth grinning. “Let’s just say they can suck on my fire balls.”
“I don’t think I really need to explain why.” Marco said, smiling as his eye shot to his bandage and back. He looked back down at his hands, flip flopping the flare gun, before returning eye contact to the two visitors. He continued to do this for a solid seven seconds, before his eye lit up.
“Ah shit, I’m being rude as fuck! I almost forgot.” Marco began snapping his fingers as he turned to look at the yokel. “Heeeey, new guy... I don’t think I asked you your name yet...”
“To be honest, I don’t think I know who you are.”
Sven and... Tarnation kid weirded Marco out. No lie, he was feeling pretty sketched out, by both of them. Sven had him creeped out when he decided to hide behind one of the statues, like he was hiding something. Marco could kinda peek over it, but he didn’t like not being able to see what was in his hands, or where they were right away.
Then there was The new guy, whom Marco had never heard before in his life. Who walked in with this almost-a-mockery of the southern accent. Yee Yee talked like some pit stop trucker wearing a pair of steel toes with a handlebar mustache and a fatter lip packed than a jawbreaker from Ed Edd and Eddy. No lie, this weirdo talked like a grade A cousin fucker, and Marco didn’t feel comfortable knowing that the son of Brother-Father and Aunt-Mother was walking around with an assault rifle. Slack jawed yokels had an advantage in the wilderness with a rifle, and that tacticool call of duty ass way he was carrying that tacticool ass rifle convinced Marco that the hillbilly was no exception to the stereotype.
He seemed okay enough at first glance, but the weirdo had this undertone that Marco didn’t like. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he just felt reminded of someone. This was bugging him immensely. It didn’t help that Marco realized he had no idea who this guy was, or that he ever seen him around before in his life.
“Well, new guy, I can tell you this. The same type of person who wrecked dead man’s shit over there, is probably the same type to do this.” Marco pointed to his bandage. He went back to passing the flare gun back and forth between his hands before he turned his attention back to Sven, listening to how he got here.
“Yeah... this rain is a bitch. I was waiting for a ‘friend’ myself, at the cliffs. Little chickenshit never showed up though, and you best bet I wasn’t gonna stand there all day getting soaked when I ain’t got shit on me.”
Marcus spat friend with all the electricity and venom the taser gave him. Marco bit his lip in restrained anger, thinking about the fact he came back to talk shit, but dipped never to be seen again. As quick as it came, it left again, and Marco’s mood changed back to his normal chipper self.
“Can’t complain though, it all worked out in the end really. I’m still mostly dry... Found me a new toy. And if I see any of the people I’m looking for, well...” Marco looked at his new flare gun, gap teeth grinning. “Let’s just say they can suck on my fire balls.”
“I don’t think I really need to explain why.” Marco said, smiling as his eye shot to his bandage and back. He looked back down at his hands, flip flopping the flare gun, before returning eye contact to the two visitors. He continued to do this for a solid seven seconds, before his eye lit up.
“Ah shit, I’m being rude as fuck! I almost forgot.” Marco began snapping his fingers as he turned to look at the yokel. “Heeeey, new guy... I don’t think I asked you your name yet...”
“To be honest, I don’t think I know who you are.”
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Emprexx Plush
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Sven's retreat and Marco's sudden interest in them had left him exposed. That did not seem to bother him despite the gun in their arms. For a moment they considered testing their aim on his testicles; at this distance they were bound to hit something important. In a more reasonable world it would teach him to mind his observations more carefully. Alas, we did not live in that world. One look at his face told Blaise Marco had received his share of instruction on the island already and gleaned nothing from it. At least he was consistent. What a waste, though. He had inherited none of his father's wit, or charm, or personality, or...well, the last judgement could be unfair. There was no universe where they would ever experience the other side of that comparison. Did he know? It had not been some lengthy affair. More of a, how would you say, chance encounter? One they did not regret, though, and that would be marvelously entertaining to enlighten him with if it did not blow their cover. Another time, if he managed to survive long enough.
Carl forced a tense smile. "Can't say I'm surprised there fella. Not to be rude but uh, your peeper looks like it's seen better days. Surprised you can see at all." He hoisted the gun up a little. "Name's Carl, and I ain't lookin' for no trouble what with your fireballs and what not. How's about we leave a lil' room for Jesus and y'all keep over that way though, if we're talkin' like that?"
He consciously softened his smile when he nodded to Sven. "No offense big guy. Just...figure we all seen some sh-shit," a deliberate stutter and blush over the curse, "seems we're feelin' a might jumpy."
Carl forced a tense smile. "Can't say I'm surprised there fella. Not to be rude but uh, your peeper looks like it's seen better days. Surprised you can see at all." He hoisted the gun up a little. "Name's Carl, and I ain't lookin' for no trouble what with your fireballs and what not. How's about we leave a lil' room for Jesus and y'all keep over that way though, if we're talkin' like that?"
He consciously softened his smile when he nodded to Sven. "No offense big guy. Just...figure we all seen some sh-shit," a deliberate stutter and blush over the curse, "seems we're feelin' a might jumpy."
"Come on baby, (don't fear the reaper)...
Baby take my hand, (don't fear the reaper)...
We'll be able to fly, (don't fear the reaper)..."
He couldn't remember the rest of the song, so he kept repeating the chorus over and over again. And kept pretending he could see the reaper he was singing about, a tall, gaunt, shadowy figure, looming over him in the corner of his eye.
(Tom Swift continued from Dead Clicks)
He wasn't much for visuals, but he was pretty happy with the phantasm he'd crafted. He was tall, somewhere between 7 and 9 feet tall (it seemed to vary from moment to moment). A little traditional, of course--a gaunt shadow, bony and wraith-like, his massive, elaborate scythe resting as easily on his shoulder as Tom's own kami rested on his. But it was the face he took the most pride in: mostly obscured by his cowl, but glimpses of shriveled flesh offered a face that wasn't quite a skull. It was a little like his grandfather's. It was a little like Tom's.
Scary. Intimdating. But also human. Concrete. The shadow of death was hanging heavy over him, but like this it was almost understandable. He could imagine fighting this shadow, taking him on like a shonen protagonist, scythe against scythe, life versus death. Punch him in the face with philosophy. No need to fear the reaper.
"Come on baby..."
And of course, there was plenty of reason to fear the reaper. He'd heard the Announcements, same as everyone. He knew exactly how many of his fellow students were killers. Some repeat offenders, even. The reaper's willing hands, helping with his harvest.
"We'll be able to fly..."
Like Peter Pan, right off the edge of the cliff, right out into the world where the Reaper's scythe wasn't dangling over your head like a guillotine. But he wasn't Peter Pan, he couldn't fly, he had no happy thoughts to send him skywards. And even if he did, the collar on his neck would break him long before he reached safety.
No miracles. Just the reaper.
"Baby I'm your..."
He trailed off, stopped and listened. Voices. He heard voices. Those voices could be killers. Turn the other way.
And what stories will you hear that way?
Tom exhaled slowly, and lifted his voice again, a little louder so they'd know he was coming. He walked towards them, like a bard in a tabletop game or a fantasy story, confident in his music, confident in his skill. All swagger, all poise, all pretense.
He rested the little rise and saw them laid out before him: Sven Vee, who'd shared a class with him junior year: Marco, who he'd played DnD with once year (eons) ago: someone he only vaguely recognized. Blake?
And at their feet was...
"Oh," Tom said, in a voice almost as small as he felt.
Baby take my hand, (don't fear the reaper)...
We'll be able to fly, (don't fear the reaper)..."
He couldn't remember the rest of the song, so he kept repeating the chorus over and over again. And kept pretending he could see the reaper he was singing about, a tall, gaunt, shadowy figure, looming over him in the corner of his eye.
(Tom Swift continued from Dead Clicks)
He wasn't much for visuals, but he was pretty happy with the phantasm he'd crafted. He was tall, somewhere between 7 and 9 feet tall (it seemed to vary from moment to moment). A little traditional, of course--a gaunt shadow, bony and wraith-like, his massive, elaborate scythe resting as easily on his shoulder as Tom's own kami rested on his. But it was the face he took the most pride in: mostly obscured by his cowl, but glimpses of shriveled flesh offered a face that wasn't quite a skull. It was a little like his grandfather's. It was a little like Tom's.
Scary. Intimdating. But also human. Concrete. The shadow of death was hanging heavy over him, but like this it was almost understandable. He could imagine fighting this shadow, taking him on like a shonen protagonist, scythe against scythe, life versus death. Punch him in the face with philosophy. No need to fear the reaper.
"Come on baby..."
And of course, there was plenty of reason to fear the reaper. He'd heard the Announcements, same as everyone. He knew exactly how many of his fellow students were killers. Some repeat offenders, even. The reaper's willing hands, helping with his harvest.
"We'll be able to fly..."
Like Peter Pan, right off the edge of the cliff, right out into the world where the Reaper's scythe wasn't dangling over your head like a guillotine. But he wasn't Peter Pan, he couldn't fly, he had no happy thoughts to send him skywards. And even if he did, the collar on his neck would break him long before he reached safety.
No miracles. Just the reaper.
"Baby I'm your..."
He trailed off, stopped and listened. Voices. He heard voices. Those voices could be killers. Turn the other way.
And what stories will you hear that way?
Tom exhaled slowly, and lifted his voice again, a little louder so they'd know he was coming. He walked towards them, like a bard in a tabletop game or a fantasy story, confident in his music, confident in his skill. All swagger, all poise, all pretense.
He rested the little rise and saw them laid out before him: Sven Vee, who'd shared a class with him junior year: Marco, who he'd played DnD with once year (eons) ago: someone he only vaguely recognized. Blake?
And at their feet was...
"Oh," Tom said, in a voice almost as small as he felt.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
The guy with the bandaged eye had been stood up, apparently. Sven had a suspicion there was some nuance to that statement, perhaps some pretty menacing irony going on, but he wasn't entirely certain and the conversation was starting to turn around in his head and become (even more) difficult to follow. The chronology was all jumbled up, cause and effect of who he was responding to and who was responding to him and when they were just talking to each other blurring, especially because, truth be told, he was not all that interested in what they had to say. Yosemite Sam had introduced himself but that had happened in one of those moments Sven wasn't dialed in for, and the other guy had not identified himself at all. Nobody had asked Sven's name, so far as he could tell, which was quite alright with him.
The rain rattled against the upper floor or roof of the building, and against the ground outside, and Sven echoed it softly with his fingers, drumming against the plastic of the lightsaber hilt. He did not find or make a rhythm, but instead varied his pace as the whim struck him, fast one moment, slow the next, inconsistent always. The statues pleasantly obstructed his vision of the others, and they seemed willing to leave him his space. Sven felt so far from jumpy he couldn't even really vocalize it, but it wasn't worth arguing when he was just being asked to do what he was already doing and wished to continue.
"Fine by me," he said, nodding.
In fact, he was starting to relax. Now that he was aware of the rain, it was pleasant. It was a reason to stay indoors, and there were worse places to end up, no matter that this one smelled of chicken coop and burnt human flesh. Actually, with the statue blocking his view of it and his senses attuning to the new norm and filtering out consistent information, Sven had nearly let it slip his mind that there was a dead guy right here in their little circle, making for a party of four. That also didn't seem like a good topic of discourse. They'd touched on the first guy's eye a bit more, and that, at least, Sven had a thought or two about.
"When Odin lost an eye, it was in exchange for wisdom and the ability to perceive worlds beyond ours," Sven offered, conversationally. "It's not so bad."
And then they were interrupted again, by someone else stumbling his way into their circle. He wore flannel and jeans and sneakers, and he carried an air about him that pulled at the edges of Sven's mind; in short, he fit right in. He'd just discovered the body. Sven looked at him, took in his glasses, his misfit nose, and found himself thrown when there was actually a spark of recognition. A simple, small name. One that draped over his shoulders like a cloak. It wasn't quite right, but it also didn't feel wrong? He couldn't help himself. He took the plunge.
Sven nodded to the newcomer, in welcome.
"Joe," he said.
The rain rattled against the upper floor or roof of the building, and against the ground outside, and Sven echoed it softly with his fingers, drumming against the plastic of the lightsaber hilt. He did not find or make a rhythm, but instead varied his pace as the whim struck him, fast one moment, slow the next, inconsistent always. The statues pleasantly obstructed his vision of the others, and they seemed willing to leave him his space. Sven felt so far from jumpy he couldn't even really vocalize it, but it wasn't worth arguing when he was just being asked to do what he was already doing and wished to continue.
"Fine by me," he said, nodding.
In fact, he was starting to relax. Now that he was aware of the rain, it was pleasant. It was a reason to stay indoors, and there were worse places to end up, no matter that this one smelled of chicken coop and burnt human flesh. Actually, with the statue blocking his view of it and his senses attuning to the new norm and filtering out consistent information, Sven had nearly let it slip his mind that there was a dead guy right here in their little circle, making for a party of four. That also didn't seem like a good topic of discourse. They'd touched on the first guy's eye a bit more, and that, at least, Sven had a thought or two about.
"When Odin lost an eye, it was in exchange for wisdom and the ability to perceive worlds beyond ours," Sven offered, conversationally. "It's not so bad."
And then they were interrupted again, by someone else stumbling his way into their circle. He wore flannel and jeans and sneakers, and he carried an air about him that pulled at the edges of Sven's mind; in short, he fit right in. He'd just discovered the body. Sven looked at him, took in his glasses, his misfit nose, and found himself thrown when there was actually a spark of recognition. A simple, small name. One that draped over his shoulders like a cloak. It wasn't quite right, but it also didn't feel wrong? He couldn't help himself. He took the plunge.
Sven nodded to the newcomer, in welcome.
"Joe," he said.
Carl? This Yokel's name was Carl?! Haha, that's fucking rich! Golly Gee fucking Willackers, never stop being stereotypical, deep south! After all, who needs creativity when you have your cousin-sister-aunt-wife, right? Marco laughed. Seven hells, whoever named this kid fucking hated them! Marco hated Carl too, to be honest. From first impressions, he found that he didn't like Carl. Why? Who knows. Looking in Carl's general direction elicited the same reaction as a bull looking at a red cape. And much like a bull, Marco really wanted to see Carl gored through the mouth, and sent spiraling through the air, gmod ragdoll style, like those hypocritical self righteous excuses of human waste known as matadors. Marco didn't understand why, until Carl opened up his dip filled gobber to spew some more trailer park trash.
Marco knew why. He knew who Carl reminded him of now. The only thing stopping Marco from selling his soul this instant to go find whatever bloated mutant inbred maw from Walmart that vomited forth the spineless jellyfish known as 'Carl' and slap the Karen out of it was the fact that he'd already sold his soul eight times prior, and the ninth time was meant for him to get off the island. "Carl." First, he has the audacity to talk about his eye, like he was deaf and not partially blind, all passive aggressively like the big pussy he was, and second, he started waving his gun around at the same time he said he "Ain't not lookin' faw naw trahbuhl nah, yeh'see gad saw" not a second later. Carl's jumpy. Marco's all fine. "Caaaarrrrrllll…" Marco played with his name, let it roll off the tongue.
Marco stood up, leaned over the railing, flare gun still in hand. He felt safer here. He now had a direct line of sight to Sven and Carl, and all he had to do was flick his wrist to draw. He'd fire fast as shit if Mr. Jumpy tried anything. "Well Carl, I got two things for you, if it relaxes you a bit." He faked a smile. "If I wanted to cause you trouble, don't you think I would have already? I learned a thing or two about acting and reacting, and personally, I've learned reacting don't really lend you as much results as acting..." His eye darted to his bandage again in a less than subtle way, just so Carl would get the hint. "Now Carl, lemme ask you sum'n..." Marco inflated his Memphis accent, to speak in a language Carl would understand.
"You really think Jesus or his dead beat daddy gonna help you in this situation?" Marco brought his free hand up to his inverted cross earring. He began playing around with it, twirling it, flicking it, using it as a visual to drag his point home. "The big red man downstairs is the one who runs the world. Not a corpse on a stick." Marco's lips parted to reveal his gap toothed grin. "Might wanna ask him for something. He'll probably listen."
Marco was gonna continue, but Sven joined in. Odin? Marco's smug ass grin turned into an impressed smile. Well ain't that original! Norse gods! A better comparison that the bible belt bullshit that gets regurgitated 24/7 back home. "Haha! Well shit! That's implying I didn't learn anything I already didn't know! Good shit though, I see myself more as Loki though. Y'know, spending my time fucking with people and shit. Still appreciate it though, at least you're not all 'Hurr durr are you blind?'" He glanced at the jellyfish again.
Marco stood and waited as he heard someone singing some Blue Oyster Cult jams before trailing off. Seconds later, he joined in, looking around at the current occupants, before freezing and looking at the elephant corpse in the room.
Some seconds of silence later, and Sven broke it. Marco wanted to smash his head against the railing. He didn't.
"Tom." Marco corrected Sven...
Marco knew why. He knew who Carl reminded him of now. The only thing stopping Marco from selling his soul this instant to go find whatever bloated mutant inbred maw from Walmart that vomited forth the spineless jellyfish known as 'Carl' and slap the Karen out of it was the fact that he'd already sold his soul eight times prior, and the ninth time was meant for him to get off the island. "Carl." First, he has the audacity to talk about his eye, like he was deaf and not partially blind, all passive aggressively like the big pussy he was, and second, he started waving his gun around at the same time he said he "Ain't not lookin' faw naw trahbuhl nah, yeh'see gad saw" not a second later. Carl's jumpy. Marco's all fine. "Caaaarrrrrllll…" Marco played with his name, let it roll off the tongue.
Marco stood up, leaned over the railing, flare gun still in hand. He felt safer here. He now had a direct line of sight to Sven and Carl, and all he had to do was flick his wrist to draw. He'd fire fast as shit if Mr. Jumpy tried anything. "Well Carl, I got two things for you, if it relaxes you a bit." He faked a smile. "If I wanted to cause you trouble, don't you think I would have already? I learned a thing or two about acting and reacting, and personally, I've learned reacting don't really lend you as much results as acting..." His eye darted to his bandage again in a less than subtle way, just so Carl would get the hint. "Now Carl, lemme ask you sum'n..." Marco inflated his Memphis accent, to speak in a language Carl would understand.
"You really think Jesus or his dead beat daddy gonna help you in this situation?" Marco brought his free hand up to his inverted cross earring. He began playing around with it, twirling it, flicking it, using it as a visual to drag his point home. "The big red man downstairs is the one who runs the world. Not a corpse on a stick." Marco's lips parted to reveal his gap toothed grin. "Might wanna ask him for something. He'll probably listen."
Marco was gonna continue, but Sven joined in. Odin? Marco's smug ass grin turned into an impressed smile. Well ain't that original! Norse gods! A better comparison that the bible belt bullshit that gets regurgitated 24/7 back home. "Haha! Well shit! That's implying I didn't learn anything I already didn't know! Good shit though, I see myself more as Loki though. Y'know, spending my time fucking with people and shit. Still appreciate it though, at least you're not all 'Hurr durr are you blind?'" He glanced at the jellyfish again.
Marco stood and waited as he heard someone singing some Blue Oyster Cult jams before trailing off. Seconds later, he joined in, looking around at the current occupants, before freezing and looking at the elephant corpse in the room.
Some seconds of silence later, and Sven broke it. Marco wanted to smash his head against the railing. He didn't.
"Tom." Marco corrected Sven...
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
A new variable should make them nervous, but Marco was doing so much work for them. Every time he opened his mouth he made their job easier. Everyone else had to be hearing this insane nonsense, right? Who stands over a burnt corpse and brags about looting it, then moments later declares the devil runs the world like an edgy middle school outcast. Which, to be perfectly fair, was in line with his aesthetic. Sven was hiding, and Tom wasn't quite with them yet, but they could hear Carl if he made a move. It was time for some character growth. "Heya Tom," he said without looking back. "Maybe you can help with a lil' brain teaser. See, four fellas walk into a burnt out room with a deep fried corpse. Three of 'em think that's mighty inhuman, wonder what happened. Fourth one..." His eyes fixed on Marco. "Well he's got a yarn. Goes all, whaddya call it, cee-ehs-aye on the proceedings. Seems mighty confident in his version of events, and mighty pleased with himself for lootin' from the dead." He paused, nodded towards the flare gun in Marco's hands." Next thing ya know he's slingin' turn a' phrase about how he's gonna set those what crossed him to burnin' with a gun he calls a toy along with some colorful b-b-bullshit about the devil runnin' the world."
The barrel of the gun didn't come up yet, but it was close. They did not want to be seen as the aggressor here. No sudden moves from anyone. Mutually assured destruction, that was the phrase no? They did not need action now. What they needed was doubt. Doubt that the others could trust Marco, and doubt that he could trust any of them. In the worst case they could split his focus and make it easier to extricate themself when things inevitably went south. In the best, on the other hand, they might be able to turn them on each other and escape with the supplies he'd mentioned upstairs.
"Can't be the only one thinkin' it, fellas. He was here before all of us, saw him let you in Sven. Startin' to figure he did all this. Shoot, he's dang near braggin' about it what with his trickster god nonsense, like we're too dumb to see he's lyin' when he says he's lyin'. Well, how's about you keep them hands where we can see 'em until we sort this out, eh Loki?"
The barrel of the gun didn't come up yet, but it was close. They did not want to be seen as the aggressor here. No sudden moves from anyone. Mutually assured destruction, that was the phrase no? They did not need action now. What they needed was doubt. Doubt that the others could trust Marco, and doubt that he could trust any of them. In the worst case they could split his focus and make it easier to extricate themself when things inevitably went south. In the best, on the other hand, they might be able to turn them on each other and escape with the supplies he'd mentioned upstairs.
"Can't be the only one thinkin' it, fellas. He was here before all of us, saw him let you in Sven. Startin' to figure he did all this. Shoot, he's dang near braggin' about it what with his trickster god nonsense, like we're too dumb to see he's lyin' when he says he's lyin'. Well, how's about you keep them hands where we can see 'em until we sort this out, eh Loki?"
"Joe," said Sven, with confidence.
"What?" Tom blinked at him.
"Tom," Marco corrected him.
Tom laughed--a short, startled giggle. "Nope!" he said. "It's Joe now. Joe Speed." He paused. "Or...Speedy Joe?" He shook his head. "Figure it out later."
"Heya Tom," Blake said, without looking back, and the seriousness in their voice cut straight through Tom's short burst of good humor. "Maybe you can help with a lil' brain teaser."
"Uh?" Tom started, but Blake was pressing on, and the more they spoke, the more the shadow darkened over him, and the higher its scythe rose.
"Okay..." Tom said slowly. "Okay, wow, that's...a lot." He rubbed his head, looking down at the body. "Do we know...who..."
He inhaled through his nose, and shuddered. There was a black, awful smell, like food left too long on the stove. And the face...
Bile rising in his throat, burning in his chest. Tom clenched his fists, his abs, his soul. Distant. Detached. Muscles flexing in time to his owl familiar. Flex-flex-flex-flex. Flex-flex-flex-flex.
"Was he..." Was it a he?" "They," he decided. "On the Announcements?" Tom asked, after his bile had gone down a little.
"What?" Tom blinked at him.
"Tom," Marco corrected him.
Tom laughed--a short, startled giggle. "Nope!" he said. "It's Joe now. Joe Speed." He paused. "Or...Speedy Joe?" He shook his head. "Figure it out later."
"Heya Tom," Blake said, without looking back, and the seriousness in their voice cut straight through Tom's short burst of good humor. "Maybe you can help with a lil' brain teaser."
"Uh?" Tom started, but Blake was pressing on, and the more they spoke, the more the shadow darkened over him, and the higher its scythe rose.
"Okay..." Tom said slowly. "Okay, wow, that's...a lot." He rubbed his head, looking down at the body. "Do we know...who..."
He inhaled through his nose, and shuddered. There was a black, awful smell, like food left too long on the stove. And the face...
Bile rising in his throat, burning in his chest. Tom clenched his fists, his abs, his soul. Distant. Detached. Muscles flexing in time to his owl familiar. Flex-flex-flex-flex. Flex-flex-flex-flex.
"Was he..." Was it a he?" "They," he decided. "On the Announcements?" Tom asked, after his bile had gone down a little.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
A lot of discussion went down around Sven. The tension right now was up and down, up and down, the deck of a ship rocking on stormy seas, and it was enough to wear on him a little. The others here, presumably, were not as assured of their fates as Sven was, or else were in denial about the situation. That was not a crime, but it was tiresome in this moment, especially as he found a little affection for them. Joe, Loki, and Yosemite Sam, none of whom really existed. Yes, he could do far worse.
"This one wasn't on the announcements," Sven said, calmly. At least this was a topic he could speak to with some certainty, despite the fact that he still had no idea who the dead guy, who'd he almost let slip his mind again, was. "They would've mentioned the burning or the fall. We can wait until tomorrow and find out. I'm not impatient."
He yawned there, a little, not intentionally working to sell the statement, but rather because he'd been walking around quite a lot since he left the lighthouse and couldn't actually remember whether or not he'd slept. There was no recollection of having done so, but also none of stumbling through the dark for hours on end. No, the last clear, cogent image was...
"Wait," he said, perking back up, "wait, I think... I think I know who did it. This..."
He frowned. It was clear, though, clearer almost than the four of them still alive in this room, until it went hazy. It had been clear a second ago. The victim was pushed, fell. There were flames everywhere. The girl pulled the trigger. Maybe an accident?
"This, um, punk girl," he said. He couldn't remember too much about how she looked, outside of one detail.
"She had hair with blue streaks."
Did anyone in their class have blue hair? Sven was suddenly very unsure. He'd been talking way too much and sort of regretted getting involved in this capacity. He'd had a good thing going on not saying much and he didn't care about the blue-haired girl, found her a little distasteful if anything, but not enough to point the others at her, especially when he wasn't sure of the sequence of events at all.
He took a look at Joe. Joe would know, he'd affirmed his name and that meant he was the one most qualified to make the call on this. Ultimately, all of this was about helping the other one-eyed guy, because Sven was pretty sure he was innocent, but he couldn't say where that supposition was coming from and as he realized that he realized two other things: first that it probably came from nowhere at all and second that he didn't mind too much. It didn't matter, wasn't important. He drummed his fingers on the lightsaber again and wiggled his nose a little, making his sunglasses bounce up and down a couple times.
"This one wasn't on the announcements," Sven said, calmly. At least this was a topic he could speak to with some certainty, despite the fact that he still had no idea who the dead guy, who'd he almost let slip his mind again, was. "They would've mentioned the burning or the fall. We can wait until tomorrow and find out. I'm not impatient."
He yawned there, a little, not intentionally working to sell the statement, but rather because he'd been walking around quite a lot since he left the lighthouse and couldn't actually remember whether or not he'd slept. There was no recollection of having done so, but also none of stumbling through the dark for hours on end. No, the last clear, cogent image was...
"Wait," he said, perking back up, "wait, I think... I think I know who did it. This..."
He frowned. It was clear, though, clearer almost than the four of them still alive in this room, until it went hazy. It had been clear a second ago. The victim was pushed, fell. There were flames everywhere. The girl pulled the trigger. Maybe an accident?
"This, um, punk girl," he said. He couldn't remember too much about how she looked, outside of one detail.
"She had hair with blue streaks."
Did anyone in their class have blue hair? Sven was suddenly very unsure. He'd been talking way too much and sort of regretted getting involved in this capacity. He'd had a good thing going on not saying much and he didn't care about the blue-haired girl, found her a little distasteful if anything, but not enough to point the others at her, especially when he wasn't sure of the sequence of events at all.
He took a look at Joe. Joe would know, he'd affirmed his name and that meant he was the one most qualified to make the call on this. Ultimately, all of this was about helping the other one-eyed guy, because Sven was pretty sure he was innocent, but he couldn't say where that supposition was coming from and as he realized that he realized two other things: first that it probably came from nowhere at all and second that he didn't mind too much. It didn't matter, wasn't important. He drummed his fingers on the lightsaber again and wiggled his nose a little, making his sunglasses bounce up and down a couple times.
Marco caught onto the jellyfish's stutter, and just like that, he was alrighty biting like the shark he was. "Tuh-tuh-tuh- Tuhday Junior!" Look at this little fucking cretin. Look at him and laugh. Absolutely no fucking confidence whatsoever. Even he doesn't believe his own bullshit! He didn't even have the stones to get offended over his deity properly!
To give Carl points though, he did start off strong with his little speech. It was, good, then went into okay around the part he started talking about Marco. Once he stuttered though, it just went to shit, and any sort of gravity Marco felt disappeared. Spineless. Absolutely positively spineless. Marco didn't even remember Arjen being this pathetic and that was saying something! Speaking of Arjen- THAT'S who Carl reminded him of! That's why he hated him so fucking badly on first impressions! This guy was as much as a rat, if not worse than Arjen, and even better, Carl had the gall to be absolutely fucking- Oh shit, Tom was going code black over the dead body.
"Hey, uhh, Joe Slo-mo, don't worry about him, he's not gonna bite. Dude's jerky now. I been here since this place was just smoke. He's been like that since I got he-"
Carl would not shut the fuck up. Now he was insinuating Marco was the one to kill that poor sap. This little shit... Wow, he might have a name on the announcements before the three he's looking for! Marco was legitimately considering shutting up Carl right here and now in front of everyone to make a message out of him. It wouldn't be hard, a flick of his wrist, a squeeze of the trigger, and pop goes Carl, turned into a human firework.
His heart was beating in his chest. He was really, really thinking of doing it. Oh man, he was gonna do it. He was gonna see if he really had the nuts to kill someone right now wasn't he. Shit dude, he hadn't felt adrenaline like this since his first day a nuclear winter, or hell his own first player kill at nuclear winter. He was... Nah...
Nah...
Not yet. But Carl wasn't safe. Marco will get his.
No.
He will.
"Sure... You wanna see my hands?" It didn't take much. Marco just twisted his wrist off of the stairway balcony, raising the barrel of his flare gun from the ground, to Carl. Marco showed everyone in the room his gap. "You see my hands now... Now what?"
Marco didn't give him a chance to reply.
"No, I'm telling you what's happening now. The first thing that's not happening is you raising your rifle. Your arm even twitches, and I'm turning you into a jack-o-lantern in front of everyone. I told you I learned some shit from actions and reactions didn't I?" With his free hand, Marco pointed to himself. "I'm acting." He pointed to Carl. "You're reacting- and how you react, is how I'm gonna act... Upon you."
Marco wasn't gonna let someone else take his weapon away. He needed it. Catherine took his shiv, Sierra took his rifle. No more. This flare gun was his, and he was gonna drop someone with it before he lost it. If Carl wanted to be his test subject, so be it. It was his own fault for announcing his intentions before acting upon them, instead of just playing smart and raising the rifle first, then threatening.
Marco's heart was beating miles per minutes, but right now he felt pretty good. He felt control. "See, the only reason I ain't shot yet, is because your stupid ass ain't malicious; but you're a fucking idiot and you do need to know your place. Now I'd rather not traumatize Tom and Sven here, but you best bet I'll fucking end you if I think my neck's on the line. I hesitated once. Not again."
His eye affixed on Carl. He couldn't see Sven, but he could see Tom in what little peripheral vision he had. Marcus stood in place like a statue, unmoving, unblinking. He wasn't letting people fuck his shit again. This time he had the advantage, and he wasn't gonna lose it.
"So now, we're gonna play a game, Carl. Everyone here knows I'm honest. I don't lie, that's why people hate me in the first place. I tell them the truth they don't want to hear. Now you, Carl, let's talk about you. I don't know if you're a new kid, or just some weirdo incel like Demetri or Garren who's had the luck of avoiding infamy by keeping his mouth shut, I don't know, but I know that nobody knows you here. Y'see, nobody here fucking knows you. Basically, your name means shit, your word means shit. " Marco's eye moved up from Carl's hands, to his face, and back to his hands again.
"First rule of the game. You no longer rate your own name. From now on, I dub thy 'Jellyfish.' If I tell the Jellyfish to do something, the Jellyfish does something, or else it gets fucking disintegrated, star trek style. If the Jellyfish does what I say, then the Jellyfish keeps it's belongings, and more importantly it's life. I leave, and the Jellyfish can go on with it's life doing it's own little Jellyfish things. Does the Jellyfish understand?"
Marco awaited a response.
To give Carl points though, he did start off strong with his little speech. It was, good, then went into okay around the part he started talking about Marco. Once he stuttered though, it just went to shit, and any sort of gravity Marco felt disappeared. Spineless. Absolutely positively spineless. Marco didn't even remember Arjen being this pathetic and that was saying something! Speaking of Arjen- THAT'S who Carl reminded him of! That's why he hated him so fucking badly on first impressions! This guy was as much as a rat, if not worse than Arjen, and even better, Carl had the gall to be absolutely fucking- Oh shit, Tom was going code black over the dead body.
"Hey, uhh, Joe Slo-mo, don't worry about him, he's not gonna bite. Dude's jerky now. I been here since this place was just smoke. He's been like that since I got he-"
Carl would not shut the fuck up. Now he was insinuating Marco was the one to kill that poor sap. This little shit... Wow, he might have a name on the announcements before the three he's looking for! Marco was legitimately considering shutting up Carl right here and now in front of everyone to make a message out of him. It wouldn't be hard, a flick of his wrist, a squeeze of the trigger, and pop goes Carl, turned into a human firework.
His heart was beating in his chest. He was really, really thinking of doing it. Oh man, he was gonna do it. He was gonna see if he really had the nuts to kill someone right now wasn't he. Shit dude, he hadn't felt adrenaline like this since his first day a nuclear winter, or hell his own first player kill at nuclear winter. He was... Nah...
Nah...
Not yet. But Carl wasn't safe. Marco will get his.
No.
He will.
"Sure... You wanna see my hands?" It didn't take much. Marco just twisted his wrist off of the stairway balcony, raising the barrel of his flare gun from the ground, to Carl. Marco showed everyone in the room his gap. "You see my hands now... Now what?"
Marco didn't give him a chance to reply.
"No, I'm telling you what's happening now. The first thing that's not happening is you raising your rifle. Your arm even twitches, and I'm turning you into a jack-o-lantern in front of everyone. I told you I learned some shit from actions and reactions didn't I?" With his free hand, Marco pointed to himself. "I'm acting." He pointed to Carl. "You're reacting- and how you react, is how I'm gonna act... Upon you."
Marco wasn't gonna let someone else take his weapon away. He needed it. Catherine took his shiv, Sierra took his rifle. No more. This flare gun was his, and he was gonna drop someone with it before he lost it. If Carl wanted to be his test subject, so be it. It was his own fault for announcing his intentions before acting upon them, instead of just playing smart and raising the rifle first, then threatening.
Marco's heart was beating miles per minutes, but right now he felt pretty good. He felt control. "See, the only reason I ain't shot yet, is because your stupid ass ain't malicious; but you're a fucking idiot and you do need to know your place. Now I'd rather not traumatize Tom and Sven here, but you best bet I'll fucking end you if I think my neck's on the line. I hesitated once. Not again."
His eye affixed on Carl. He couldn't see Sven, but he could see Tom in what little peripheral vision he had. Marcus stood in place like a statue, unmoving, unblinking. He wasn't letting people fuck his shit again. This time he had the advantage, and he wasn't gonna lose it.
"So now, we're gonna play a game, Carl. Everyone here knows I'm honest. I don't lie, that's why people hate me in the first place. I tell them the truth they don't want to hear. Now you, Carl, let's talk about you. I don't know if you're a new kid, or just some weirdo incel like Demetri or Garren who's had the luck of avoiding infamy by keeping his mouth shut, I don't know, but I know that nobody knows you here. Y'see, nobody here fucking knows you. Basically, your name means shit, your word means shit. " Marco's eye moved up from Carl's hands, to his face, and back to his hands again.
"First rule of the game. You no longer rate your own name. From now on, I dub thy 'Jellyfish.' If I tell the Jellyfish to do something, the Jellyfish does something, or else it gets fucking disintegrated, star trek style. If the Jellyfish does what I say, then the Jellyfish keeps it's belongings, and more importantly it's life. I leave, and the Jellyfish can go on with it's life doing it's own little Jellyfish things. Does the Jellyfish understand?"
Marco awaited a response.
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Emprexx Plush
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A punk girl with blue hair? The chances that Sven had seen anything of value were slim to none, he'd arrived just moments before they had. There was the possibility that Marco had an accomplice, but he was too stupid to cover up something like that. He had to be, there was no conceivable reason to lie about a partner then draw this much attention to one's self with hostility. If this was some sort of bizarre gambit they hoped he got a thorough chewing out afterwards. Assuming he survived it at all, which to be frank they weren't going to give him excellent odds.
Carl listened to Marco's rant until he wore himself out. When the "gun" came up, he didn't blink. He probably should have, but Blaise's nature shone through a little too bright. They could sell it to the others as dangerous when it was convenient, but Marco was better off thinking of it as a toy. Nearly as effective as a popgun by the look of it, and that was if h had both eyes. To hit them at this distance, with his new disability, and his general level of incompetence would require a miracle no god looked on him favorably enough to provide. The fire would be a concern but one they would manage, and then? He would be effectively disarmed. Despite their lack of expertise they were certain flare guns did not come in fully automatic. They did not raise up their own weapon yet though. Not when Tom seemed poised to pop already. Slipping back into Carl's skin, he glanced at him. "So this dumb ess-oh-bee definitely killed that guy, yeah? We're done flappin' gums? What next?"
Raised on eyebrow back at Marco. "Oh, sorry, bein' rude. Jellyfish hears ya. Jellyfish don't care. Try not to burn down the buildin' there Cyclops, we'll get back to ya." Carl, simple soul that he was, made no open threat. No need to frighten anybody now was there? A layer deeper, why forecast your intentions when it was more justified to take the shot after he'd made good on his threats. A little kneecapping started to look reasonable after attempted murder.
Carl listened to Marco's rant until he wore himself out. When the "gun" came up, he didn't blink. He probably should have, but Blaise's nature shone through a little too bright. They could sell it to the others as dangerous when it was convenient, but Marco was better off thinking of it as a toy. Nearly as effective as a popgun by the look of it, and that was if h had both eyes. To hit them at this distance, with his new disability, and his general level of incompetence would require a miracle no god looked on him favorably enough to provide. The fire would be a concern but one they would manage, and then? He would be effectively disarmed. Despite their lack of expertise they were certain flare guns did not come in fully automatic. They did not raise up their own weapon yet though. Not when Tom seemed poised to pop already. Slipping back into Carl's skin, he glanced at him. "So this dumb ess-oh-bee definitely killed that guy, yeah? We're done flappin' gums? What next?"
Raised on eyebrow back at Marco. "Oh, sorry, bein' rude. Jellyfish hears ya. Jellyfish don't care. Try not to burn down the buildin' there Cyclops, we'll get back to ya." Carl, simple soul that he was, made no open threat. No need to frighten anybody now was there? A layer deeper, why forecast your intentions when it was more justified to take the shot after he'd made good on his threats. A little kneecapping started to look reasonable after attempted murder.