((Continued from Love/Power))
At some point during the trek over from the woods, Michael snuck away for a bit of alone time. "Diabetic stuff," he'd said. Same excuse as he'd used with Nick.
The sun was coming up. He'd intended to do another camera monologue, but as he leant against a tree, staring into the camera, he realized he didn't have all that much he felt like he wanted to say. He looked down at the ground, chuckled softly to himself, and looked back up at the camera.
"I've lied to you a lot."
He kneeled down to the ground and took his backpack off. He fished around inside. "I dunno. The only difference between a sunset and a sunrise is the geographical location you look at it from," he brought his voice down to a whisper, because he didn't trust Teresa not be watching him. He figured his voice would be picked up by the microphone he assumed was somewhere on the collar around his neck. "I know she's using me for something. It's fine, I guess. I don't think she realizes I'm using her for something too," he paused. "I've been lying to her. I've lied to almost everyone I've talked to here. The only people I don't think I've ever actually lied to here are like, the folks I woke up near 'cept Justin, I guess, Nia maybe, and..." he pursed his lips, "Camila. Fuck, I don't even know what the truth is. I dunno why you expect me to tell it to you."
He pulled out a pair of aviators from the bag. He'd brought them with him on the trip as a meme sort of. Like, if he made a pun, he could put them on and do the CSI: Miami thing.
He'd worn them for his Halloween costume in junior year. He'd gone as the Unabomber.
"I miss what it's like to be, like, actually alone."
The cult robe's hood did a fine job of hiding his tears from the camera, but it didn't hide them from the people who saw him in-person. The sunglasses would help with that. He slipped his bifocals off and put the aviators on.
Voice back to an audible level, "Higher than high, lower than deep."
Five pills.
Back to Teresa.
_____
The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful. Teresa made mouth noises and Michael made mouth noises and screamed internally a bit and some other stuff happened at some point probably but whatever that's not the point. They arrived at the house where Michael'd found the robes and also Camila's corpse. He pointed at the door and snapped his fingers.
"We here," he stated simply. "Robes are in the bedroom. Watch out 'cus Camila's also in the bedroom; I dunno why, I wasn't the one who put her there. If you don't want to deal with that, there should be one in the main room, though it's like, a bit bloody. It's seen some use, but, uhhhhh, yeah. Lemme just make sure nobody's here."
He opened the door, stepped inside, and raised his gun. He closed the door behind him. He stepped into the bedroom.
He looked down at Camila. He opened his mouth, as if to say something erudite and pseudoprofound, but instead shook his head and closed his eyes. He had nothing. There were even more bugs flying around the hole he'd shot through her torso than there were last time. He stepped back into the main room and lowered his gun.
"Yeah, we clear!" he called out. As soon as he finished saying that, the speakers blared.
The official start of day six. A Friday. Five days had passed. A schoolweek.
Tomorrow was the weekend.
He listened.
Low Times
Morning, day 6. (open maybe I guess?????????????????)
((She)) didn't say anything about the sudden aviators, mostly because she didn't care. Though, like, she was maybe a bit jealous. Oh well.
The village sure was a fucking contrast to the mansion and big ass houses higher up the island. Like oof... the guys out here were really roughing it, like going from The Bachelor to Naked and Afraid. Though KNIFE GIRL wasn't naked and was only maybe a little afraid, so like maybe she was making out kinda okay. It was a lot better than ((hiding in a bush)), though, so guess that was something.
But she was still alive! Moments away from the 6th day, even! Practically a week! She couldn't even keep the number straight of how many other people've died by now, but she wasn't gonna worry about it. Lower numbers just meant she really did have to up the ante soon.
Camila, Camila.... uhm... this was still kinda awk as fuck but she still had no fucking clue who this girl was that Mikey kept talking about. Other than, like, he was the one who shot her point blank. But like, guess she was gonna find out soon anyway so it was a moot thing to ask.
Mikey gave the all clear, so that was good. "Cool, thanks. Give me a sec." She slipped past him into the bedroom, right as the announcements began to play.
The village sure was a fucking contrast to the mansion and big ass houses higher up the island. Like oof... the guys out here were really roughing it, like going from The Bachelor to Naked and Afraid. Though KNIFE GIRL wasn't naked and was only maybe a little afraid, so like maybe she was making out kinda okay. It was a lot better than ((hiding in a bush)), though, so guess that was something.
But she was still alive! Moments away from the 6th day, even! Practically a week! She couldn't even keep the number straight of how many other people've died by now, but she wasn't gonna worry about it. Lower numbers just meant she really did have to up the ante soon.
Camila, Camila.... uhm... this was still kinda awk as fuck but she still had no fucking clue who this girl was that Mikey kept talking about. Other than, like, he was the one who shot her point blank. But like, guess she was gonna find out soon anyway so it was a moot thing to ask.
Mikey gave the all clear, so that was good. "Cool, thanks. Give me a sec." She slipped past him into the bedroom, right as the announcements began to play.
As he listened, he walked over to the chair he'd sat in back when he was patching himself up after being shot by Nia. He sat down, leant back in the chair, and crossed his legs. His left hand, supported by his left arm, supported by an armrest, supported his head.
Nikki Nelson-Kelly'd been DZed, as had Gervais Frans Lambotte. Double triple-names.
Nathan Coleman was killed by Madison Springer.
Michael idly adjusted his sunglasses.
Madison Springer bludgeoned Nathan Coleman to death. Accidental kill, maybe? It didn't make sense to start a killing spree by killing Nathan. It didn't make sense to mercy kill someone by bludgeoning them to death. It didn't make sense to mercy kill someone by shooting them in the gut either, he supposed.
Michael remembered he'd decided to vote Nathan for president because, at the time, it had made him feel good about himself.
Quinn killed Meilin Zhou. MO unspecified. Earlier in the day than when the whole Sammy kerfuffle had happened, presumably, unless everyone after Meilin on the announcements had died in the middle of the night.
Claude shot Bret fuckin' Carter with a crossbow. Michael remembered Claude pointing a crossbow at him and Lori. He hoped Lori was doing okay. No. Stop that. He had to forget about Lori. He didn't hope Lori was doing okay. He wondered if Wyatt had been present. He knew the brothers had met up; Morgan had told him so. One finger.
Lorenzo shot Dane Lennox in the head. MO change. Spree killer.
Diego Larrosa "dug into" Mike Brown's neck. Shovel, perhaps? It was hard to kill someone with a shovel, he guessed, and that signified intent to kill.
He was the last Michael standing now. The ultimate Michael.
Wahoo.
Declyn Grayson-Anthis shot Drew Woods. Simple and -
Oh.
Oh?
Haha holy fucking shit.
Oh.
A quick, soft exhalation, out through his nose.
- Simple and effective, they said. They'd said the same thing about Camila.
They were totally fucking with Declyn's head in the same way they'd tried to fuck with Michael's head. Big oof for Declyn. 99% probability it was a mercy kill.
Michael briefly lifted his chin from his hand, looked up at a camera, raised an eyebrow, and shot the camera a fingergun.
Marco V. decapitated Colin McCabe with his chainsaw. MO stayed the same. An impractical MO; chainsaws were loud and like, dangerous to use as weapons. You couldn't sneak up on someone and kill them with a chainsaw. Still, third kill; spree killer.
Erika.
Yep, okay.
God fucking damnit.
Erika shot Yuki Hayashibara. Two fingers. Erika shot Sal Bonaventura. Three fingers. Erika shot Demetri Futscher. Four fingers.
Erika was the island's top killer. Nine kills.
No, she was the island's top direct killer. If they were counting indirect kills, Michael was pretty sure the top killer would be, well, Michael.
Jeremiah Anderson, Camila Cañizares, Alexander Brooke, Mackenzie Baker, Liberty Wren, William Dover, Katie Agustien, Saffron Fields, Oliver Lacroix, Tom Swift, Bret Carter, Yuki Hayashibara, Sal Bonaventura, Demetri Futscher.
Fourteen kills. One directly attributed to his name; thirteen not. Didn't mean they weren't his fault.
Oh well.
Ohhhhhhhhhhh welllllllllllllllllllllllll.
Lucas Brady bludgeoned himself to death with a rock. Fuck. That was... that was pretty messed up. Like, jeez. Fuck.
Michael'd deactivated his Facebook account during that whole shitstorm because he hadn't wanted to deal with watching the suffering that came with someone ruining their own life.
That was almost the same reason as why he'd ditched Aliya, Tony, and Justin.
Ha. Whoops. He remembered that now. Poor, sweet, innocent Day One Michael Froese.
Nia shot Aoi Mishima after a one-sided conversation. Ha. Ha. Because Nia was mute. Michael got the joke.
He didn't have enough hands to hold up fifteen fingers.
The DZ wasn't the village, so it didn't matter. Something about goats? Were there goats here? There were monkeys here; Michael'd seen them. He hadn't seen any goats yet. He liked goats. Monkeys were kind of scary and bitey, like angry toddlers, but goats were nice usually. Petting zoos usually had goats, so like, they were probably pretty chill. He wanted to see a goat here. He wanted goat friends.
Madison won the BKA.
"Mmm that's pretty fucked up y'all," Michael stated blankly. He wondered if Teresa was gonna be done picking out her robe (or whatever the fuck she was doing) soon.
Nikki Nelson-Kelly'd been DZed, as had Gervais Frans Lambotte. Double triple-names.
Nathan Coleman was killed by Madison Springer.
Michael idly adjusted his sunglasses.
Madison Springer bludgeoned Nathan Coleman to death. Accidental kill, maybe? It didn't make sense to start a killing spree by killing Nathan. It didn't make sense to mercy kill someone by bludgeoning them to death. It didn't make sense to mercy kill someone by shooting them in the gut either, he supposed.
Michael remembered he'd decided to vote Nathan for president because, at the time, it had made him feel good about himself.
Quinn killed Meilin Zhou. MO unspecified. Earlier in the day than when the whole Sammy kerfuffle had happened, presumably, unless everyone after Meilin on the announcements had died in the middle of the night.
Claude shot Bret fuckin' Carter with a crossbow. Michael remembered Claude pointing a crossbow at him and Lori. He hoped Lori was doing okay. No. Stop that. He had to forget about Lori. He didn't hope Lori was doing okay. He wondered if Wyatt had been present. He knew the brothers had met up; Morgan had told him so. One finger.
Lorenzo shot Dane Lennox in the head. MO change. Spree killer.
Diego Larrosa "dug into" Mike Brown's neck. Shovel, perhaps? It was hard to kill someone with a shovel, he guessed, and that signified intent to kill.
He was the last Michael standing now. The ultimate Michael.
Wahoo.
Declyn Grayson-Anthis shot Drew Woods. Simple and -
Oh.
Oh?
Haha holy fucking shit.
Oh.
A quick, soft exhalation, out through his nose.
- Simple and effective, they said. They'd said the same thing about Camila.
They were totally fucking with Declyn's head in the same way they'd tried to fuck with Michael's head. Big oof for Declyn. 99% probability it was a mercy kill.
Michael briefly lifted his chin from his hand, looked up at a camera, raised an eyebrow, and shot the camera a fingergun.
Marco V. decapitated Colin McCabe with his chainsaw. MO stayed the same. An impractical MO; chainsaws were loud and like, dangerous to use as weapons. You couldn't sneak up on someone and kill them with a chainsaw. Still, third kill; spree killer.
Erika.
Yep, okay.
God fucking damnit.
Erika shot Yuki Hayashibara. Two fingers. Erika shot Sal Bonaventura. Three fingers. Erika shot Demetri Futscher. Four fingers.
Erika was the island's top killer. Nine kills.
No, she was the island's top direct killer. If they were counting indirect kills, Michael was pretty sure the top killer would be, well, Michael.
Jeremiah Anderson, Camila Cañizares, Alexander Brooke, Mackenzie Baker, Liberty Wren, William Dover, Katie Agustien, Saffron Fields, Oliver Lacroix, Tom Swift, Bret Carter, Yuki Hayashibara, Sal Bonaventura, Demetri Futscher.
Fourteen kills. One directly attributed to his name; thirteen not. Didn't mean they weren't his fault.
Oh well.
Ohhhhhhhhhhh welllllllllllllllllllllllll.
Lucas Brady bludgeoned himself to death with a rock. Fuck. That was... that was pretty messed up. Like, jeez. Fuck.
Michael'd deactivated his Facebook account during that whole shitstorm because he hadn't wanted to deal with watching the suffering that came with someone ruining their own life.
That was almost the same reason as why he'd ditched Aliya, Tony, and Justin.
Ha. Whoops. He remembered that now. Poor, sweet, innocent Day One Michael Froese.
Nia shot Aoi Mishima after a one-sided conversation. Ha. Ha. Because Nia was mute. Michael got the joke.
He didn't have enough hands to hold up fifteen fingers.
The DZ wasn't the village, so it didn't matter. Something about goats? Were there goats here? There were monkeys here; Michael'd seen them. He hadn't seen any goats yet. He liked goats. Monkeys were kind of scary and bitey, like angry toddlers, but goats were nice usually. Petting zoos usually had goats, so like, they were probably pretty chill. He wanted to see a goat here. He wanted goat friends.
Madison won the BKA.
"Mmm that's pretty fucked up y'all," Michael stated blankly. He wondered if Teresa was gonna be done picking out her robe (or whatever the fuck she was doing) soon.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
There really was a body in the bedroom. Right there, on display like a museum piece.
...Oh. Ohhhhhh. Okay. Yeah. Camila. That face rang several bells; saw her back at Mikki's party, last time KNIFE GIRL could recall. Not, like, conversating with her. But now she knew who Camila was.
Damn that shit must suck.
KNIFE GIRL threw her a peace sign and said, "Whaddup?" And then she started to look for the robes Mikey talked about, listening to the announcements as they droned.
Damn, Erika and Quinn really weren't letting up. Feminist win!
The other names didn't super mean anything. The faces were there and the names too with the memories of parties and love lost and all that shit but like, yeah. Ya know.
Save for one.
Yuki.
She chuckled, resuming the search for the goods.
A short time later, she strutted out of the bedroom, spinning with her arms extended out in front of Mikey. The white- off-white? Eggshell? Eggshell- the eggshell robe draped and flowed with her form like butter in a hot skillet. Except for it being a bit too long so it trailed behind like a wedding dress but like she could fix it in post.
"So, whadd'ya think? Fab or drab?"
...Oh. Ohhhhhh. Okay. Yeah. Camila. That face rang several bells; saw her back at Mikki's party, last time KNIFE GIRL could recall. Not, like, conversating with her. But now she knew who Camila was.
Damn that shit must suck.
KNIFE GIRL threw her a peace sign and said, "Whaddup?" And then she started to look for the robes Mikey talked about, listening to the announcements as they droned.
Damn, Erika and Quinn really weren't letting up. Feminist win!
The other names didn't super mean anything. The faces were there and the names too with the memories of parties and love lost and all that shit but like, yeah. Ya know.
Save for one.
Yuki.
She chuckled, resuming the search for the goods.
A short time later, she strutted out of the bedroom, spinning with her arms extended out in front of Mikey. The white- off-white? Eggshell? Eggshell- the eggshell robe draped and flowed with her form like butter in a hot skillet. Except for it being a bit too long so it trailed behind like a wedding dress but like she could fix it in post.
"So, whadd'ya think? Fab or drab?"
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Fingernail against gun metal. A metronome. Roughly 120 BPM.
Only a little bit slower than his heartbeat.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
'Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo,' he imagined a deep bass (the instrument) hum.
Quiet voice. Whispering with purpose. Rhythm.
"The town where she was born, like the town where I was born, was built by white settlers seeking gold and other treasures. Like me, she feels uncomfortable in the clothing of her ancestors. 'It's not easy,' she would say, ripping her fingers into the ashtray, 'It's not easy to erase your blood.'"
"Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo," he sang softly, an octave higher than the bass in his head. An imaginary harmony.
Whispering.
"Once, she found a man to treasure, and together they'd planted flowers of warning, fearing frost. Late, on shallow evenings while their enemies slept, they hammered the soil asking for answers in green. His value declined when he offered his name. Why did he offer?"
"Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo."
'Tap tap tap tap, tap, tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap, tap,' his fingernail beat against an imaginary piano. It repeated once, in tandem with the next spoken verse. Quick. Songlike in rhythm.
"His fend gets spread on,
Sitting on the avenue.
Blame it on the dump truck.
Blame it on the fuel.
Transient, Transient.
Everybody owes;
Living on the dump truck, Living on the fuel."
Imaginary drums sounded. He immediately resumed speaking after the silent beat.
"When she was seven years old, she saw a man get shot, but no one came for a long time because it happened in a remote parking lot in Las Vegas, and she was waiting for her mom to come back from working the blackjack table down at the Circus Circus casino; and that night, her mom said that the two of them and the now dead guy were the only three people who ever really lived in Las Vegas, and that everybody else just arrived, ate their complementary shrimp cocktails, and left."
Finger snap.
"Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo."
A few moments of silence. The wind outside sounded like it was dying down.
Teresa emerged from the bedroom, a spinning mass of white robes. The robe looked a little big on her, but like, whatever.
Name: Michael Froese.
Occupation: Influencer.
"Gucci gang," he stated in response to Teresa's question. A joke popped into his head and out of his mouth. "Glad someone finally took Nathan down."
'Badumtish,' his fingers tapped.
He was really really glad he was wearing the sunglasses, because, like, oof, it hurt what remained of his soul to make that pun.
He craned his neck back and looked at the ceiling, seemingly annoyed with himself. He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Fuuuuuuck," he groaned.
Fingernail against gun metal. A metronome. Roughly 120 BPM.
Only a little bit slower than his heartbeat.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
'Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo,' he imagined a deep bass (the instrument) hum.
Quiet voice. Whispering with purpose. Rhythm.
"The town where she was born, like the town where I was born, was built by white settlers seeking gold and other treasures. Like me, she feels uncomfortable in the clothing of her ancestors. 'It's not easy,' she would say, ripping her fingers into the ashtray, 'It's not easy to erase your blood.'"
"Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo," he sang softly, an octave higher than the bass in his head. An imaginary harmony.
Whispering.
"Once, she found a man to treasure, and together they'd planted flowers of warning, fearing frost. Late, on shallow evenings while their enemies slept, they hammered the soil asking for answers in green. His value declined when he offered his name. Why did he offer?"
"Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo."
'Tap tap tap tap, tap, tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap, tap,' his fingernail beat against an imaginary piano. It repeated once, in tandem with the next spoken verse. Quick. Songlike in rhythm.
"His fend gets spread on,
Sitting on the avenue.
Blame it on the dump truck.
Blame it on the fuel.
Transient, Transient.
Everybody owes;
Living on the dump truck, Living on the fuel."
Imaginary drums sounded. He immediately resumed speaking after the silent beat.
"When she was seven years old, she saw a man get shot, but no one came for a long time because it happened in a remote parking lot in Las Vegas, and she was waiting for her mom to come back from working the blackjack table down at the Circus Circus casino; and that night, her mom said that the two of them and the now dead guy were the only three people who ever really lived in Las Vegas, and that everybody else just arrived, ate their complementary shrimp cocktails, and left."
Finger snap.
"Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo, doo, doo doo, doo doo."
A few moments of silence. The wind outside sounded like it was dying down.
Teresa emerged from the bedroom, a spinning mass of white robes. The robe looked a little big on her, but like, whatever.
Name: Michael Froese.
Occupation: Influencer.
"Gucci gang," he stated in response to Teresa's question. A joke popped into his head and out of his mouth. "Glad someone finally took Nathan down."
'Badumtish,' his fingers tapped.
He was really really glad he was wearing the sunglasses, because, like, oof, it hurt what remained of his soul to make that pun.
He craned his neck back and looked at the ceiling, seemingly annoyed with himself. He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Fuuuuuuck," he groaned.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Catherine had to deal with a lot after spending five days and one night on the island.
However, she wasn't getting used to the satisfaction of waking up in the morning.
((Catherine spent the night here.))
It was gritty and it was dirty, but it worked as a bed. It wasn't as if she had slept in the bed, that would have been too easy. Instead, she found her way back into a closet. Catherine was glad that every houses were built the same. She knew the layout on the back of her hand and she could easily find her way in the darkness.
The satisfaction, though. It was strange to wake up to that. That wasn't something she was used to, or probably would ever get used to. Maybe if she actually had a life ahead of her, Catherine would be able to enjoy this feeling. Instead, she just sat down on the pillow. She stared at the sun for maybe a little too long as she watched it rise.
There was nothing to do with these feelings. Catherine couldn't speak about them. Well, physically, she could. But mentally? Just voicing her concerns about feeling good on the island made her feel viscerally sick. She tried to empty her mind.
Announcements were not a good way to change her mind. It just set her legs into cements. It was a wound that kept opening and spreading on her body. It was a cancer that started in her brain. It moved to her heart, numbing her chest.
Okay, thinking about how you were dying was also a bad way to change your mind. The names of the people mattered to Catherine, but not as much as she wanted them to, until-
"...Marco Volker decapitating Colin McCabe..."
She needed fresh air.
No, she didn't fresh air.
She needed a new set of lungs.
And brain.
And heart, for that matter. If she was going to throw herself away, she needed to replace every parts. Catherine pushed the closet door opened and barged into the bedroom. It was still too humid. Her whole body was wet. Catherine just wanted to be dry again. She pushed her head through the window, hoping for wind.
And there was nothing.
Well, there was Michael, sitting in a chair, inside the house in front of her. Great, how long had he been there? And was he wearing a robe? It was white and it had red rims around its hood and the sleeves. Catherine's breath suddenly got quicker when she noticed the gun. Wait, wasn't he on the announcement? If her hair wasn't stuck in lumps at the base of her neck, they might have had rose up.
"What the fuck are you doing?" She was panting and she had done nothing. Embarrassing. "And what the fuck are you wearing?"
However, she wasn't getting used to the satisfaction of waking up in the morning.
((Catherine spent the night here.))
It was gritty and it was dirty, but it worked as a bed. It wasn't as if she had slept in the bed, that would have been too easy. Instead, she found her way back into a closet. Catherine was glad that every houses were built the same. She knew the layout on the back of her hand and she could easily find her way in the darkness.
The satisfaction, though. It was strange to wake up to that. That wasn't something she was used to, or probably would ever get used to. Maybe if she actually had a life ahead of her, Catherine would be able to enjoy this feeling. Instead, she just sat down on the pillow. She stared at the sun for maybe a little too long as she watched it rise.
There was nothing to do with these feelings. Catherine couldn't speak about them. Well, physically, she could. But mentally? Just voicing her concerns about feeling good on the island made her feel viscerally sick. She tried to empty her mind.
Announcements were not a good way to change her mind. It just set her legs into cements. It was a wound that kept opening and spreading on her body. It was a cancer that started in her brain. It moved to her heart, numbing her chest.
Okay, thinking about how you were dying was also a bad way to change your mind. The names of the people mattered to Catherine, but not as much as she wanted them to, until-
"...Marco Volker decapitating Colin McCabe..."
She needed fresh air.
No, she didn't fresh air.
She needed a new set of lungs.
And brain.
And heart, for that matter. If she was going to throw herself away, she needed to replace every parts. Catherine pushed the closet door opened and barged into the bedroom. It was still too humid. Her whole body was wet. Catherine just wanted to be dry again. She pushed her head through the window, hoping for wind.
And there was nothing.
Well, there was Michael, sitting in a chair, inside the house in front of her. Great, how long had he been there? And was he wearing a robe? It was white and it had red rims around its hood and the sleeves. Catherine's breath suddenly got quicker when she noticed the gun. Wait, wasn't he on the announcement? If her hair wasn't stuck in lumps at the base of her neck, they might have had rose up.
"What the fuck are you doing?" She was panting and she had done nothing. Embarrassing. "And what the fuck are you wearing?"
"Yeah, honestly I'm kinda all 'whaaaat?' that it was Maddie, but ya know."
Ya know what? That it wasn't some real rando? ROBED GIRL #3 wasn't sure what the end of that thought really was. Anywho , gonna shelve that thinkpiece for later.
"Gucci gang, gucci gang...," she repeated mostly to herself, following up with a pitiful dab that mostly constituted the robe wings smacking her in the face.
And then there came a rumbling and a tumbling from within the bedroom. ROBED GIRL #3 quickly folded her arms back inwards and stepped a distance away from the door.
Maybe Mikey really didn't finish the job. Or the job got relisted.
She really hoped they didn't just stumble into The Walking Dead.
ROBED GIRL #3 whipped out the knife with a subtly but noticeably shaky hand, nearly tripping on the train of the robe.
It spoke; you'd think it'd've calmed her nerves down a bit but it sure didn't! So like... yeah. She was gonna let Miguel take point on this. Just gonna hang out here with her knife.
Ya know what? That it wasn't some real rando? ROBED GIRL #3 wasn't sure what the end of that thought really was. Anywho , gonna shelve that thinkpiece for later.
"Gucci gang, gucci gang...," she repeated mostly to herself, following up with a pitiful dab that mostly constituted the robe wings smacking her in the face.
And then there came a rumbling and a tumbling from within the bedroom. ROBED GIRL #3 quickly folded her arms back inwards and stepped a distance away from the door.
Maybe Mikey really didn't finish the job. Or the job got relisted.
She really hoped they didn't just stumble into The Walking Dead.
ROBED GIRL #3 whipped out the knife with a subtly but noticeably shaky hand, nearly tripping on the train of the robe.
It spoke; you'd think it'd've calmed her nerves down a bit but it sure didn't! So like... yeah. She was gonna let Miguel take point on this. Just gonna hang out here with her knife.
Michael was too busy staring at the reflection of his own eyes on the insides of the lenses of his sunglasses to notice Teresa hitting herself in the face with decades-stagnant fabric. If you looked into the light the right way, the glasses made pretty good mirrors. His eyes looked like his eyes, he guessed. Pupils dilated like usual. One thing that surprised him, though, was that they weren't crying. He felt like he should've probably been crying, but like... he wasn't.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
He imagined Beryl's empty eyesockets staring back at him instead of his own eyes.
Still nothing.
He felt kind of relieved, which was odd, he supposed, but like whaaaaaatever. He wasn't even all that high right now; he'd taken the same number of pills as he had the day he'd talked to Erika.
He was doing okay now. Maybe not, like, okay from the view of everyone other than him (and Teresa probably), but like, he felt like he was doing okay, and that was what mattered.
Then the bedroom made angry noises, and for a second, Michael's brain was like 'oh no not ghost camila', but then he remembered what happened last time his brain had done that. Ghosts weren't real. People were.
A voice asked him what the fuck he was doing.
Sometimes, questions didn't have answers.
The voice asked him what the fuck he was wearing.
Well, it wasn't Quinn's voice or Camila's voice, and if whoever the fuck it was was playing for keeps, Michael figured they'd have shot him in the face by now, so...
...he lurched out of the chair and turned his body to face the doorway leading to the bedroom. A quick cursory glance revealed jack shit 'cept Camila, who was like, still dead and stuff. He looked over at Teresa. She looked kinda like she was freaking the fuck out. Aiiiight? He looked back through the doorway. Ah. Ah? Aaaaaaahhhhhh. He could see someone through the window, in the next house over.
He squinted. He wasn't sure who the fuck it was; he couldn't see their face too great without his looking-at-things glasses on.
It didn't really matter who the fuck they were anymore, he supposed.
His gun went up; both hands. It was an automatic action. "The fuck d'you think?" he spat with conviction, like there was an obvious answer to either question.
Honestly, it was a legit question on his part. He needed to know what kind of person he looked like from an outsider's perspective.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
He imagined Beryl's empty eyesockets staring back at him instead of his own eyes.
Still nothing.
He felt kind of relieved, which was odd, he supposed, but like whaaaaaatever. He wasn't even all that high right now; he'd taken the same number of pills as he had the day he'd talked to Erika.
He was doing okay now. Maybe not, like, okay from the view of everyone other than him (and Teresa probably), but like, he felt like he was doing okay, and that was what mattered.
Then the bedroom made angry noises, and for a second, Michael's brain was like 'oh no not ghost camila', but then he remembered what happened last time his brain had done that. Ghosts weren't real. People were.
A voice asked him what the fuck he was doing.
Sometimes, questions didn't have answers.
The voice asked him what the fuck he was wearing.
Well, it wasn't Quinn's voice or Camila's voice, and if whoever the fuck it was was playing for keeps, Michael figured they'd have shot him in the face by now, so...
...he lurched out of the chair and turned his body to face the doorway leading to the bedroom. A quick cursory glance revealed jack shit 'cept Camila, who was like, still dead and stuff. He looked over at Teresa. She looked kinda like she was freaking the fuck out. Aiiiight? He looked back through the doorway. Ah. Ah? Aaaaaaahhhhhh. He could see someone through the window, in the next house over.
He squinted. He wasn't sure who the fuck it was; he couldn't see their face too great without his looking-at-things glasses on.
It didn't really matter who the fuck they were anymore, he supposed.
His gun went up; both hands. It was an automatic action. "The fuck d'you think?" he spat with conviction, like there was an obvious answer to either question.
Honestly, it was a legit question on his part. He needed to know what kind of person he looked like from an outsider's perspective.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
"Crackhead." Catherine spat.
The gun went up. It wasn't directly pointing at her, but it might have had the same effect on Catherine's body. She flinched as she saw the metallic object show its eye to her. Her hands gripped the side of window, waiting for the shot to ring out. It didn't.
Instead, she heard 'gucci gang' which was less preferable than the sound of getting shot. It meant two things: that Michael wasn't alone and that he was with a girl. If Michael managed to get laid here then Garren should take notes. Anyways, the eye of the gun was still staring her so she gazed back. While there was a very real risk of getting killed or at least maimed, Catherine's resolve was checked so she administered another round of adrenaline to her body. Through her teeth, she managed to keep her breathing steady.
"You look like a fucking crackhead."
She wasn't sure where she was going with this but she was going somewhere. She knew what she wanted though: human contact.
"Anyways, where did you get the robe? eBay? Amazon?"
The gun went up. It wasn't directly pointing at her, but it might have had the same effect on Catherine's body. She flinched as she saw the metallic object show its eye to her. Her hands gripped the side of window, waiting for the shot to ring out. It didn't.
Instead, she heard 'gucci gang' which was less preferable than the sound of getting shot. It meant two things: that Michael wasn't alone and that he was with a girl. If Michael managed to get laid here then Garren should take notes. Anyways, the eye of the gun was still staring her so she gazed back. While there was a very real risk of getting killed or at least maimed, Catherine's resolve was checked so she administered another round of adrenaline to her body. Through her teeth, she managed to keep her breathing steady.
"You look like a fucking crackhead."
She wasn't sure where she was going with this but she was going somewhere. She knew what she wanted though: human contact.
"Anyways, where did you get the robe? eBay? Amazon?"
So like. Yeah. ROBED GIRL #3 chillaxed and relaxed all cool while Mikey took care of the murder zombie ghost.
Except it didn't sound like he was really freaking. Unless he was a real freak into dead girls, but it also sounded like he wasn't using his inside voice so maybe there wasn't even anything in the room in the first place.
She took a sec to get her heart rate down a bit before entering.
Yeah, Camila was still there, so that was, ya know, good... let's just let the zombie thing slide for now.
More importantly, there was someone else in the house next over vibing. But also not really vibing, considering the whole getting stared down by a handgun thing.
"Whaddup, Cathy!?" she waved the knife hand at the window girl and took a few more steps in behind Mikey. "You peanut butter and jelly? It's okay if you arrrrrrr-!"
On the last step, her foot got caught in the robe touching the floor and slid a few inches. She didn't take a nice trip and see them next fall, nah- but she was slightly hunched over with arms extended for a few heartbeat-less moments with eyes wide as saucers.
"I'm okay."
Except it didn't sound like he was really freaking. Unless he was a real freak into dead girls, but it also sounded like he wasn't using his inside voice so maybe there wasn't even anything in the room in the first place.
She took a sec to get her heart rate down a bit before entering.
Yeah, Camila was still there, so that was, ya know, good... let's just let the zombie thing slide for now.
More importantly, there was someone else in the house next over vibing. But also not really vibing, considering the whole getting stared down by a handgun thing.
"Whaddup, Cathy!?" she waved the knife hand at the window girl and took a few more steps in behind Mikey. "You peanut butter and jelly? It's okay if you arrrrrrr-!"
On the last step, her foot got caught in the robe touching the floor and slid a few inches. She didn't take a nice trip and see them next fall, nah- but she was slightly hunched over with arms extended for a few heartbeat-less moments with eyes wide as saucers.
"I'm okay."
(Zachary Beck, continued from Ineer Turmoil 3: The Reckoning)
Zach was making his way up the path south of the village. Leaving behind the cabin he’d spent two days bunking in, with Brandon’s corpse still rotting away in front of it. The image of a zombie Brandon coming back to strangle him flashed in his mind. He winced at the thought.
You’re gonna need some serious therapy if you make it through this shitshow.
”Crackhead. You look like a fucking crackhead.”
Zach’s train of thought was interrupted by a familiar voice. He looked over and saw the girl he’d talk to yesterday. It’s a small world after all. Or, small island in this case.
Who was she even talking to? It looked like she hadn’t noticed Zach. Rather, she looked like she was talking to someone in the neighboring cabin. Should Zach say something? Maybe not. He decided to hang back while things played out.
Zach was making his way up the path south of the village. Leaving behind the cabin he’d spent two days bunking in, with Brandon’s corpse still rotting away in front of it. The image of a zombie Brandon coming back to strangle him flashed in his mind. He winced at the thought.
You’re gonna need some serious therapy if you make it through this shitshow.
”Crackhead. You look like a fucking crackhead.”
Zach’s train of thought was interrupted by a familiar voice. He looked over and saw the girl he’d talk to yesterday. It’s a small world after all. Or, small island in this case.
Who was she even talking to? It looked like she hadn’t noticed Zach. Rather, she looked like she was talking to someone in the neighboring cabin. Should Zach say something? Maybe not. He decided to hang back while things played out.
B018: Ned Jackson- 
G039: Yuki Hayashibara- 
B034: Zachary Beck- Okay so-
-Okay so FUCK YOU window girl, but if anyone here was a crackhead, it was the person staring through other people's windows, yelling at said people through said windows. Like, fuck you, you voyeur. She reminded Michael of the people on the other side of the cameras, watching them on the internet.
He was about to respond to the girl's robe "question" but was interrupted by the sound of Teresa entering the room. She called window girl Cathy. Michael didn't know any Cathies. He knew of a Catherine. He squinted again.
Yeah window girl was probably Catherine Zier, then. He'd definitely shittalked her on more than one occasion. Most of the time, the target of his ire was her clothes; like, bitch who the fuck needs that many belts?????
Anyways, Teresa said some stuff prodding at Catherine sort of, and then she said "arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," like a pirate, which momentarily confused Michael (pirates??? Why were pirates relevant??????) but then Teresa said she was okay, and it was like, oh, she'd probably been havin' a slip'n'slide or whatever. He momentarily glanced back at her, making (from his perspective) eye contact. He offered her a genuine smile.
"Hey, I'm glad you're okay," he said, softly.
Back to Catherine. Smile gone. Loud voice. "Biiiiiiiitch," he took a few steps forward and lowered the gun so that it was pointing at the general area where he guessed Catherine's legs were, "nobody other than you buys clothes from eBay, you fuckin' walking Etsy collection."
He briefly looked sideways at Camila's corpse. He was glad she still had her windbreaker over her face. He didn't want to know what it looked like after a few days of tropical decay. He wondered if she still had eyes. He couldn't smell her — he'd gone noseblind to corpse smell — but like, he figured whatever was happening to her wasn't pretty. The windbreaker was the closest thing her corpse would get to privacy — to some form of dignity.
He sniffled. All of a sudden his eyes felt kind of wet. Tears of hatred.
He wished he was a little less of a coward.
He looked back at Catherine, approximated eye contact, frowned slightly, and fired at her once through the walls below their respective windows.
-Okay so FUCK YOU window girl, but if anyone here was a crackhead, it was the person staring through other people's windows, yelling at said people through said windows. Like, fuck you, you voyeur. She reminded Michael of the people on the other side of the cameras, watching them on the internet.
He was about to respond to the girl's robe "question" but was interrupted by the sound of Teresa entering the room. She called window girl Cathy. Michael didn't know any Cathies. He knew of a Catherine. He squinted again.
Yeah window girl was probably Catherine Zier, then. He'd definitely shittalked her on more than one occasion. Most of the time, the target of his ire was her clothes; like, bitch who the fuck needs that many belts?????
Anyways, Teresa said some stuff prodding at Catherine sort of, and then she said "arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," like a pirate, which momentarily confused Michael (pirates??? Why were pirates relevant??????) but then Teresa said she was okay, and it was like, oh, she'd probably been havin' a slip'n'slide or whatever. He momentarily glanced back at her, making (from his perspective) eye contact. He offered her a genuine smile.
"Hey, I'm glad you're okay," he said, softly.
Back to Catherine. Smile gone. Loud voice. "Biiiiiiiitch," he took a few steps forward and lowered the gun so that it was pointing at the general area where he guessed Catherine's legs were, "nobody other than you buys clothes from eBay, you fuckin' walking Etsy collection."
He briefly looked sideways at Camila's corpse. He was glad she still had her windbreaker over her face. He didn't want to know what it looked like after a few days of tropical decay. He wondered if she still had eyes. He couldn't smell her — he'd gone noseblind to corpse smell — but like, he figured whatever was happening to her wasn't pretty. The windbreaker was the closest thing her corpse would get to privacy — to some form of dignity.
He sniffled. All of a sudden his eyes felt kind of wet. Tears of hatred.
He wished he was a little less of a coward.
He looked back at Catherine, approximated eye contact, frowned slightly, and fired at her once through the walls below their respective windows.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Catherine wanted to scream at Michael.
She didn't know why, but fuck, she just wanted to smash her fist in his face. Maybe breaking his glasses in the way, maybe knocking a tooth or three out. She wasn't sure.
The girl from inside the house did something for sure, and Michael looked away.
It pissed her off even more. Fucking robe and fucking sunglasses. Catherine wanted to wring his neck into a scarf. And she wanted to barf, she wanted to barf everywhere. Maybe cry, too. She really wanted to scream. Catherine didn't know in what order. She was exhausted and tired and restless, but fuck, she had so much energy all of a sudden.
He turned back to her and he insulted her. It was not even a good insult.
He probably found it on Wikipedia. Fucking nerd who can't come up with his own material, a postmodernist nightmare, really.
And then, he shot her.
Honestly, Catherine expected something better. Wasn't she worth being shot in the head? No, instead the bullet went through the wall and into her calf. It was hanging somewhere in the body, but she wasn't too worried about it. Well, she would be worried about it if any of this was real.
"Aim straigh', toad fucker."
And so, she didn't move.
She didn't know why, but fuck, she just wanted to smash her fist in his face. Maybe breaking his glasses in the way, maybe knocking a tooth or three out. She wasn't sure.
The girl from inside the house did something for sure, and Michael looked away.
It pissed her off even more. Fucking robe and fucking sunglasses. Catherine wanted to wring his neck into a scarf. And she wanted to barf, she wanted to barf everywhere. Maybe cry, too. She really wanted to scream. Catherine didn't know in what order. She was exhausted and tired and restless, but fuck, she had so much energy all of a sudden.
He turned back to her and he insulted her. It was not even a good insult.
He probably found it on Wikipedia. Fucking nerd who can't come up with his own material, a postmodernist nightmare, really.
And then, he shot her.
Honestly, Catherine expected something better. Wasn't she worth being shot in the head? No, instead the bullet went through the wall and into her calf. It was hanging somewhere in the body, but she wasn't too worried about it. Well, she would be worried about it if any of this was real.
"Aim straigh', toad fucker."
And so, she didn't move.
"Yeah, thanks," ROBED GIRL #3 replied back to Mikey as she recombobulated her footing.
Yeah, this wasn't gonna work out without some alterations, and the sooner the better. Wasn't like Cathy was going anywhere when at gunpoint, anyway, so like, pause on that whole thing.
She stabbed the knife into the robe (careful enough to not, ya know, nick herself) and jerked it across the fabric, leaving a new trim line just around the knees.
She got about halfway before shooting back up and realizing that like, OMG, he fucking shot her right there. God damn it, she always missed the good shit!
The shocked expression on her face melted into a crooked smirk as she turned back down and continued to cut the fabric apart.
"Shoot that bitch again."
Yeah, this wasn't gonna work out without some alterations, and the sooner the better. Wasn't like Cathy was going anywhere when at gunpoint, anyway, so like, pause on that whole thing.
She stabbed the knife into the robe (careful enough to not, ya know, nick herself) and jerked it across the fabric, leaving a new trim line just around the knees.
She got about halfway before shooting back up and realizing that like, OMG, he fucking shot her right there. God damn it, she always missed the good shit!
The shocked expression on her face melted into a crooked smirk as she turned back down and continued to cut the fabric apart.
"Shoot that bitch again."
((Yuka Hayashibara continues from The Fifth Announcement))
Twenty or so meters away from the house, Yuka stood and watched, looked through the windows. The glare from the morning sun made the scene inside hard to discern, but she could tell there was a guy and girl in one house, and a girl in the other. There was a standoff, arms stretched, pointed towards the other house.
Once a bang went off, Yuka decided to head over to the house where the sound came from. They got that out of their system, she was glad to see it, but also, Erika had had a gun, and they had been near the houses at the time Erika kil
Erika had been near the houses.
So, Yuka headed over, walked around the house to get to the entrance. There was a boy in the distance, standing in the path opposite the way she had come from, but he was irrelevant. He wasn't Erika, or Katrina.
Looking into the entrance, she saw the two up close. The boy still had no name to him, but the girl.
They had stumbled around Mikki Swift's house together, back then, waltzed their way home 3 AM.
Slurred words, giggles that bubbled from nowhere. Three-legged races to nowhere.
There had been a time, before all this, when she had been like that.
A time when she'd been herself.
She forced a smile, her eyes didn't follow, and then she walked inside.
"Hey, girl! How's it been?"
Twenty or so meters away from the house, Yuka stood and watched, looked through the windows. The glare from the morning sun made the scene inside hard to discern, but she could tell there was a guy and girl in one house, and a girl in the other. There was a standoff, arms stretched, pointed towards the other house.
Once a bang went off, Yuka decided to head over to the house where the sound came from. They got that out of their system, she was glad to see it, but also, Erika had had a gun, and they had been near the houses at the time Erika kil
Erika had been near the houses.
So, Yuka headed over, walked around the house to get to the entrance. There was a boy in the distance, standing in the path opposite the way she had come from, but he was irrelevant. He wasn't Erika, or Katrina.
Looking into the entrance, she saw the two up close. The boy still had no name to him, but the girl.
They had stumbled around Mikki Swift's house together, back then, waltzed their way home 3 AM.
Slurred words, giggles that bubbled from nowhere. Three-legged races to nowhere.
There had been a time, before all this, when she had been like that.
A time when she'd been herself.
She forced a smile, her eyes didn't follow, and then she walked inside.
"Hey, girl! How's it been?"
