[[Garrett Hunter continued from Burn the Louvre]]
Garrett didn't get far. Not that he could be expected to.
He'd ran at first. Ran at breakneck speeds, in fact- ran faster than he'd ever ran before. Such was to be expected when there was essentially a gun to his back. He cursed wildly all the while, but that was nothing new, either- Garrett had spent pretty much every waking moment in this game loudly spouting various nonsensical combinations of fuck and shit and cocksucker and every other colorful adjective.
But he couldn't run for very long.
As he went, he slowed. His sprint decreased to a regular run, then a jog, then a walk. He was making his way at whatever speed through the houses of the residential district- no direction in mind. Hell, he had no mind to choose a direction with. He was wrapped in a cocoon of pain and he had no directive except get the fuck away from whoever shot me.
His walk slowed further and he limped his way free of the town, onto an old dirt road.
He kept moving. Pure instinct kept him going at this point. Kept him going for another- what, ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? Two? Pain blocks out all sense of time, makes every moment last way too long.
At any rate- it was around when the loudspeaker buzzed to life that he finally collapsed.
"Good afternoon, students. I've been instructed to read out a prewritten statement from Mr. Danya regarding an incident that has taken place on the island..."
Garrett looked up from the ground, listening more carefully to this announcement than he had to any other, though his mind was clouded from pain and blood loss. Of course, this wasn't any ordinary announcement.
So that cocksucker Danya's using our teacher now?
...
Liz...Liz Polanski...wait, wasn't she-
He twitched, an involuntary groan escaping his lips as pain seized his leg, worse than before. He gritted his teeth and sat up, tearing his pant leg out of the way. It was about time he got a handle on exactly how bad his wounds were.
Jesus, it's worse than I thought...fucking hell...
He tore through his bag, grabbing a water bottle and washing the blood away- and quickly discovering that his wounds weren't so bad, after all. The caked blood had disguised the real size of his injuries- they were pretty small, actually, though no less painful.
They were still bleeding, though. He cursed and dug his first aid kit out of his bag.
Garrett was good at handling pain, usually, but he wasn't so good at treating injuries. Whatever. He'd figured this out.
The Middle Children of History
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Hollyquin†
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The Middle Children of History
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(Madeleine Smith continued from Cool Ranch)
Maddy didn't expect to find this place again, but it really could not be any other place. The same familiar landmarks, the same stretch of dirt. She'd come a long way from when she'd first arrived on the island, and returning to the road she'd woken up on gave Maddy a degree of nostalgia. Still, she couldn't allow herself to be distracted from her mission. Whoever this Liz Polanski was, she would pay for what she was doing to this island. It was bad enough that her peers were killing each other without Danya getting into the whole thing because one stupid student got the cavalier idea of ruining the psycho's ratings.
So lost was Madeleine in remembrance that she barely noticed the man treating his wounds on the side of the road. She had seen Garrett on occasion, but had never put a name to the face. She supposed that now was as good a time as any, as the man did appear to be injured.
Not your problem, not your problem. Just keep walking and don't look directly at him.
Stepping off the path, and silencing that nagging voice in her head, Maddy said to the man, "Are-are you alright? I know a b-bit of first aid." Granted, the bit of first aid that she knew would probably not extend past clotting methods. She'd skimmed the first chapter on a book about first aid when she was younger out of curiosity, but had swiftly snapped it shut when one of the first images she'd seen was a bleeding arm. Maddy had been a very easily frightened girl back then, and her mental condition hadn't improved much since. Still, at the very least, she could give the man's leg a glance without feeling remotely sick.
"Huh, that's not that bad," she said to herself, crouching down so that she could get a better look at it. "Umm...if you don't mind, uh...how did it happen?" Just because the man was injured, it didn't make him any less dangerous, and Maddy's gun was on the ready, just in case. Granted, this close up, and in this body position, she'd be dead before she could draw the weapon, assuming that the man had something nasty like a knife. If he had something silly like, say, a slinky, then she felt pretty assured in her chances.
Maddy didn't expect to find this place again, but it really could not be any other place. The same familiar landmarks, the same stretch of dirt. She'd come a long way from when she'd first arrived on the island, and returning to the road she'd woken up on gave Maddy a degree of nostalgia. Still, she couldn't allow herself to be distracted from her mission. Whoever this Liz Polanski was, she would pay for what she was doing to this island. It was bad enough that her peers were killing each other without Danya getting into the whole thing because one stupid student got the cavalier idea of ruining the psycho's ratings.
So lost was Madeleine in remembrance that she barely noticed the man treating his wounds on the side of the road. She had seen Garrett on occasion, but had never put a name to the face. She supposed that now was as good a time as any, as the man did appear to be injured.
Not your problem, not your problem. Just keep walking and don't look directly at him.
Stepping off the path, and silencing that nagging voice in her head, Maddy said to the man, "Are-are you alright? I know a b-bit of first aid." Granted, the bit of first aid that she knew would probably not extend past clotting methods. She'd skimmed the first chapter on a book about first aid when she was younger out of curiosity, but had swiftly snapped it shut when one of the first images she'd seen was a bleeding arm. Maddy had been a very easily frightened girl back then, and her mental condition hadn't improved much since. Still, at the very least, she could give the man's leg a glance without feeling remotely sick.
"Huh, that's not that bad," she said to herself, crouching down so that she could get a better look at it. "Umm...if you don't mind, uh...how did it happen?" Just because the man was injured, it didn't make him any less dangerous, and Maddy's gun was on the ready, just in case. Granted, this close up, and in this body position, she'd be dead before she could draw the weapon, assuming that the man had something nasty like a knife. If he had something silly like, say, a slinky, then she felt pretty assured in her chances.
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Hollyquin†
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He wasn't making much progress. His hands were shaking too badly for him to secure the bandages, and his leg was quickly becoming soaked again in blood. He cursed wildly and then bit his lip hard to keep himself quiet. Why won't it just stop...bleeding? At this rate I'm gonna pass out...fuck, if I pass out I'm dead, I can't do that. Fuck, concentrate on some...some shit, keep yourself awake, conscious, Garrett, don't pass out...shit, is that a person?
Indeed it was a person. A girl, which was really just fucking typical. At the moment when he most wanted to find someone he knew, find one of his boys, another godfucking girl comes wandering into his life. It was annoying, to say the least. His eye twitched involuntarily and he gasped- the pain which he'd been trying so hard to distract himself from rolled over him like a wave. Ignore her. Concentrate on this fuckin'...fuckin' not dying thing. Concentrate on-
Hope. There's hope. Concentrate on that shit.
He'd listened to that announcement, through his pain, he really had. That girl- Liz Polanski, that girl from town, he realized now- she'd gotten her collar off. She'd succeeded. Garrett had mocked her efforts but she'd done it, she'd beaten the system, and as much as Garrett hated to admit it he had to find her now. If there was gonna be a rebellion, he was gonna be all over it. Even if it was led by a girl.
Speaking of girls...
"Are-are you alright? I know a b-bit of first aid."
Fuck! Fucking stupid bitch thinking I need her help, yeah fucking RIGHT, I never need help, not from anyone... He grunted, the pain keeping him from forming proper words. What the fuck would first aid help with, anyway? I can figure this bandage shit out, but she can't stop the pain and neither can I. Fucking fuck.
"Huh, that's not that bad. Umm...if you don't mind, uh...how did it happen?"
Oh yeah, she can say it's not bad as long as she's not the one who got SHOT IN THE GODFUCKING LEG.
"Got shot," he spoke finally, his voice clipped. His eye twitched again as he held back his reflex reaction to the pain. "And I don't need your fucking first aid. I'm fine."
Indeed it was a person. A girl, which was really just fucking typical. At the moment when he most wanted to find someone he knew, find one of his boys, another godfucking girl comes wandering into his life. It was annoying, to say the least. His eye twitched involuntarily and he gasped- the pain which he'd been trying so hard to distract himself from rolled over him like a wave. Ignore her. Concentrate on this fuckin'...fuckin' not dying thing. Concentrate on-
Hope. There's hope. Concentrate on that shit.
He'd listened to that announcement, through his pain, he really had. That girl- Liz Polanski, that girl from town, he realized now- she'd gotten her collar off. She'd succeeded. Garrett had mocked her efforts but she'd done it, she'd beaten the system, and as much as Garrett hated to admit it he had to find her now. If there was gonna be a rebellion, he was gonna be all over it. Even if it was led by a girl.
Speaking of girls...
"Are-are you alright? I know a b-bit of first aid."
Fuck! Fucking stupid bitch thinking I need her help, yeah fucking RIGHT, I never need help, not from anyone... He grunted, the pain keeping him from forming proper words. What the fuck would first aid help with, anyway? I can figure this bandage shit out, but she can't stop the pain and neither can I. Fucking fuck.
"Huh, that's not that bad. Umm...if you don't mind, uh...how did it happen?"
Oh yeah, she can say it's not bad as long as she's not the one who got SHOT IN THE GODFUCKING LEG.
"Got shot," he spoke finally, his voice clipped. His eye twitched again as he held back his reflex reaction to the pain. "And I don't need your fucking first aid. I'm fine."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hollyquin. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
(Mirabelle Nesa continued from "Can You Hear Me Now?")
She wished she still felt elated as she had when she'd finished kicking Garrett's ass.
Growling to herself, Belle kicked at some loose twigs underfoot. She was wandering amidst a particularly think clump of felled logs, barely paying attention to her surroundings. Her face was fixed in a firm scowl as she tried to ignore her aches--both physical and mental. Physically, she was starting to get hungry--she had eaten sparingly so as to conserve her food, but she was starting to run out and it was beginning to hurt a little. More than that, she'd been wandering over the island unceasingly, searching for...well, something, she knew that much. She was thinking about returning to the Sawmill early--as far as she knew, Jackie's bag and gun had gone untouched, and she had to start moving that way any-
Jackie. Samantha.
There was the second ache--the creeping doubt that works its fingers into the corners of her mind and refused to let go, that insisted she was weak, that Samantha had at least been acting the way she believed she should and Belle had been on some fucking powertrip and-
"And I don't need your fucking first aid. I'm fine."
Belle froze. That voice...
This day just keeps getting better.
But he sounded hurt--each word sounded like an effort, and she could hear the pain in his tone. He was trying to turn down aid, which meant he...
He was an asshole and he'd hurt her and she wanted him to-
What wound Master Xiang do?
She grimaced, then calmed herself. If she had to kick his ass, she was at least going to try to play by Master Xiang's rules first. She didn't want to feel like this anymore.
Steeling herself, forcing calm and confidence she didn't feel into her movements, Belle vaulted over the log in front of her and landed with her hands slightly raised to show she was unarmed. Garrett was sitting, pale-faced with blood oozing down his leg. There was a girl with him, gun in one hand. Probably not his assailant, since she was looking at the wound with concerned. Her name was...Madeline? Like the cartoon? And she swam or played tennis or....or something.
Focus. Don't get distracted.
"Let her treat you, jackass," she said, without too much hostility. "You look like you need it."
She wished she still felt elated as she had when she'd finished kicking Garrett's ass.
Growling to herself, Belle kicked at some loose twigs underfoot. She was wandering amidst a particularly think clump of felled logs, barely paying attention to her surroundings. Her face was fixed in a firm scowl as she tried to ignore her aches--both physical and mental. Physically, she was starting to get hungry--she had eaten sparingly so as to conserve her food, but she was starting to run out and it was beginning to hurt a little. More than that, she'd been wandering over the island unceasingly, searching for...well, something, she knew that much. She was thinking about returning to the Sawmill early--as far as she knew, Jackie's bag and gun had gone untouched, and she had to start moving that way any-
Jackie. Samantha.
There was the second ache--the creeping doubt that works its fingers into the corners of her mind and refused to let go, that insisted she was weak, that Samantha had at least been acting the way she believed she should and Belle had been on some fucking powertrip and-
"And I don't need your fucking first aid. I'm fine."
Belle froze. That voice...
This day just keeps getting better.
But he sounded hurt--each word sounded like an effort, and she could hear the pain in his tone. He was trying to turn down aid, which meant he...
He was an asshole and he'd hurt her and she wanted him to-
What wound Master Xiang do?
She grimaced, then calmed herself. If she had to kick his ass, she was at least going to try to play by Master Xiang's rules first. She didn't want to feel like this anymore.
Steeling herself, forcing calm and confidence she didn't feel into her movements, Belle vaulted over the log in front of her and landed with her hands slightly raised to show she was unarmed. Garrett was sitting, pale-faced with blood oozing down his leg. There was a girl with him, gun in one hand. Probably not his assailant, since she was looking at the wound with concerned. Her name was...Madeline? Like the cartoon? And she swam or played tennis or....or something.
Focus. Don't get distracted.
"Let her treat you, jackass," she said, without too much hostility. "You look like you need it."
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.”
Madeleine was mortified. At first, she'd thought he'd just gotten stabbed with something, but learning that the fellow had been shot made her realize that this whole thing was way out of her league. She'd seen people take out bullets in TV shows, but she'd also read that taking out a bullet the wrong way would just make things worse, and that it was usually better to leave a bullet in there and just treat the wound. But how would she communicate that to this very angry man who already clearly doubted her medical talents, such as they were?
"I'm sorry," she finally said, "I didn't know." Seeing how Garrett was shaking so badly, she took out her own medical kit and said to him, "I-if it's okay, I'd like to help anyway." She didn't know how she was controlling her stuttering, but it wasn't hurting her to do it. Removing her own bandages and a few square pieces of gauze, she checked the wound and realized that the fellow probably hadn't disinfected it or washed it at all. That was just asking for infection on top of the blood that he probably had lost already.
"I'm sorry," she finally said, "I didn't know." Seeing how Garrett was shaking so badly, she took out her own medical kit and said to him, "I-if it's okay, I'd like to help anyway." She didn't know how she was controlling her stuttering, but it wasn't hurting her to do it. Removing her own bandages and a few square pieces of gauze, she checked the wound and realized that the fellow probably hadn't disinfected it or washed it at all. That was just asking for infection on top of the blood that he probably had lost already.
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Hollyquin†
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"Let her treat you, jackass. You look like you need it." .
No. Fuck, no. This day sucks enough already. First I get shot at, now I'm bleeding out in the goddamn dirt and now this. Why didn't that sniper faggot just waste me when he had the chance?
Of course he recognized the voice immediately. How could he not? Garrett was intensely familiar with hatred, and he knew that the voice of your enemy was just as clearly burned in memory as the voice of your friend. He could remember his friends voices- Edward Sweet's voice- his dad's voice, and he could remember Mirabelle Fucking Nesa's voice just as well. So he was growling when he looked up, not at all surprised to see her face staring back at him.
There was something unfamiliar about her voice. Maybe it was that, for once, it wasn't dripping with open hostility?
Whatever.
"Fuck off, Mirabelle. I don't need your fucking pity. And if you came to gloat, don't bother. You got lucky last time, bullet wounds or not, I could fuckin'...take you on..."
It was an empty threat and they both knew it. He was barely clinging to consciousness as the blood continued to flow freely from his wounds, and words were traveling from his brain to his mouth with difficulty. His eyes fluttered closed, then open again.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I-if it's okay, I'd like to help anyway."
Garrett's first reaction was to curse her out again, but he realized there was no way he could refuse the offer. Pride goes before the fall, and he wasn't gonna get a chance to fall much farther than this. Or something. Garrett wasn't good with words, particularly when he was very possibly bleeding to death.
Fucking...cocksucking...shit. Never gonna live this one down. Getting help from a girl...
Even so, it was better than dying, and for that reason only he grunted something like assent and allowed the girl to check his wounds. His eyes closed again, as he fought to remain consciousness, and he spoke only to himself, hardly aware that he was making sounds at all.
"Gotta...gotta get out of here, gotta find...find Liz Polanski...gotta escape..."
No. Fuck, no. This day sucks enough already. First I get shot at, now I'm bleeding out in the goddamn dirt and now this. Why didn't that sniper faggot just waste me when he had the chance?
Of course he recognized the voice immediately. How could he not? Garrett was intensely familiar with hatred, and he knew that the voice of your enemy was just as clearly burned in memory as the voice of your friend. He could remember his friends voices- Edward Sweet's voice- his dad's voice, and he could remember Mirabelle Fucking Nesa's voice just as well. So he was growling when he looked up, not at all surprised to see her face staring back at him.
There was something unfamiliar about her voice. Maybe it was that, for once, it wasn't dripping with open hostility?
Whatever.
"Fuck off, Mirabelle. I don't need your fucking pity. And if you came to gloat, don't bother. You got lucky last time, bullet wounds or not, I could fuckin'...take you on..."
It was an empty threat and they both knew it. He was barely clinging to consciousness as the blood continued to flow freely from his wounds, and words were traveling from his brain to his mouth with difficulty. His eyes fluttered closed, then open again.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I-if it's okay, I'd like to help anyway."
Garrett's first reaction was to curse her out again, but he realized there was no way he could refuse the offer. Pride goes before the fall, and he wasn't gonna get a chance to fall much farther than this. Or something. Garrett wasn't good with words, particularly when he was very possibly bleeding to death.
Fucking...cocksucking...shit. Never gonna live this one down. Getting help from a girl...
Even so, it was better than dying, and for that reason only he grunted something like assent and allowed the girl to check his wounds. His eyes closed again, as he fought to remain consciousness, and he spoke only to himself, hardly aware that he was making sounds at all.
"Gotta...gotta get out of here, gotta find...find Liz Polanski...gotta escape..."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hollyquin. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
"Fuck off, Mirabelle."
"Would, if I could find a place to," she said, amused. Wasn't true, of course--there was nothing on this island that even remotely made her want to get off. Still, the words came naturally enough, and she let them flow.
She didn't even bother to respond to his empty boasts.
"Sorry for sneaking up, Madeline," she said, not wanting to antagonize the girl with the gun. "Just wanted to stop by and talk to this dumb sonofabitch for a bit."
She sat down next to him, crossing her legs underneath her and relaxing her hands upon her knees. She reached for he bag and slung it around in front of her, listening to his unsettled mutterings. She caught only one part of it. A name.
Liz Polanski.
She considered carefully. Liz Polanski. She'd earned herself a bounty from the bastard whose voice mocked them every morning, and Belle wasn't going to argue with someone who got that kind of shit done.
Garrett, whatever else he was, had always been one to fuck with the system.
She found what she was looking for and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. "Turkish Silvers," she said, offering him one.
Liz Polanksi. Now there was a thought.
"Would, if I could find a place to," she said, amused. Wasn't true, of course--there was nothing on this island that even remotely made her want to get off. Still, the words came naturally enough, and she let them flow.
She didn't even bother to respond to his empty boasts.
"Sorry for sneaking up, Madeline," she said, not wanting to antagonize the girl with the gun. "Just wanted to stop by and talk to this dumb sonofabitch for a bit."
She sat down next to him, crossing her legs underneath her and relaxing her hands upon her knees. She reached for he bag and slung it around in front of her, listening to his unsettled mutterings. She caught only one part of it. A name.
Liz Polanski.
She considered carefully. Liz Polanski. She'd earned herself a bounty from the bastard whose voice mocked them every morning, and Belle wasn't going to argue with someone who got that kind of shit done.
Garrett, whatever else he was, had always been one to fuck with the system.
She found what she was looking for and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. "Turkish Silvers," she said, offering him one.
Liz Polanksi. Now there was a thought.
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.”
Once she had Garrett's permission, Maddy went to work. First order of business, she figured, was to stop the bleeding so that the fellow didn't die. That seemed like a sensible plan of action. Although the fellow would probably want to disinfect it somewhat as well. Checking in her kit, Maddy noticed a small bottle of something with peroxide in the name. Given her limited knowledge of medicine, she supposed that this would work, but it would also probably sting. She hoped the fellow wouldn't mind if she used it.
First things first though. Finding the spot where the blood was pouring out, she moved the man's pant leg out of the way and pressed her gauze against the skin, and then pressed another gauze on top of that when it had soaked through. What was important, she knew, was keeping the pressure on, making certain that the pressure did not let off until the bleeding had stopped. She was pressing so hard against the wound that her hands were beginning to get stained with blood as well, but that wasn't important, so she paid it no heed.
So focused was Madeleine on her task that she didn't notice Mirabelle walking up until she had spoken to her. Giving her a shrug when she explained her reason for being there, the artist continued with her attempt to save the man's life. The name Liz Polanski had come up in conversation somehow, and Madeleine halfway listened to it. Admittedly, if either of these people had some information about Liz, such as what she looked like, it would improve Maddy's chances of finding her as well. But that could wait until after this was finished.
"Umm..." she said to Mirabelle, "c-could you help me with this?" She gestured at the roll of bandages, which she'd left on the ground. "He's dying here, you know." The fact that Mirabelle could stand by so casually and watch Garrett bleed out through his leg made Madeleine uneasy. She'd been immediately bothered by the sight, but here was this other girl, pulling out a cigarette calmly as could be. Was she just more used to blood than her, or had something on this island made her jaded about it? Either possibility was best not to explore much further, as the imagination could very easily wander.
First things first though. Finding the spot where the blood was pouring out, she moved the man's pant leg out of the way and pressed her gauze against the skin, and then pressed another gauze on top of that when it had soaked through. What was important, she knew, was keeping the pressure on, making certain that the pressure did not let off until the bleeding had stopped. She was pressing so hard against the wound that her hands were beginning to get stained with blood as well, but that wasn't important, so she paid it no heed.
So focused was Madeleine on her task that she didn't notice Mirabelle walking up until she had spoken to her. Giving her a shrug when she explained her reason for being there, the artist continued with her attempt to save the man's life. The name Liz Polanski had come up in conversation somehow, and Madeleine halfway listened to it. Admittedly, if either of these people had some information about Liz, such as what she looked like, it would improve Maddy's chances of finding her as well. But that could wait until after this was finished.
"Umm..." she said to Mirabelle, "c-could you help me with this?" She gestured at the roll of bandages, which she'd left on the ground. "He's dying here, you know." The fact that Mirabelle could stand by so casually and watch Garrett bleed out through his leg made Madeleine uneasy. She'd been immediately bothered by the sight, but here was this other girl, pulling out a cigarette calmly as could be. Was she just more used to blood than her, or had something on this island made her jaded about it? Either possibility was best not to explore much further, as the imagination could very easily wander.
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Hollyquin†
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Garrett felt like he was underwater. Or at least under heavy sedation. He'd been under heavy sedation once before, once upon a time in Fight Club, when he'd been beaten so throughly that he had to actually be taken to the hospital. His father had lectured him for so long that he'd almost thought he was more angry than upset, but then the man broke down into tears for the first and only time Garrett had ever seen. Samuel Hunter was a tough guy, much like Garrett himself, but he broke down at the thought of losing his son. Garrett had had to go into surgery, he didn't remember exactly what they'd had to repair, but he remembered that he couldn't fight for weeks. He ignored that stipulation about two days after leaving the hospital and ended up breaking his stitches. He ended up out of school for two weeks, trapped in a hospital...
He really was losing grip.
Mirabelle was handing him something. "Turkish Silvers," she said. A cigarette? Garrett didn't smoke much, except when he was exceptionally stressed, and this seemed like an exceptionally stressful moment. Not to mention it was an odd show of solidarity from Mirabelle of all people. He didn't really mind. He took it with an increasingly shaky hand, waiting for her to light it for him.
My last cigarette was-
his eyes fluttered closed for a moment
-was the week before this trip. There was a fight, a big one, and I lost. It was my last fight with Fight Club, I was supposed to pick who the new leader would be, but I lost. There were freshmen making fun of me, saying I'd lost my touch, I was getting too old, but they didn't know. I didn't...I wasn't thinking about the fight. I wonder who the leader's going to be now? I wonder if they're all watching this? Making fun of me? I got beaten by a girl...fuck if she isn't strong for a girl, though. That was a great cigarette. That one two weeks ago. What kind was it? Don't remember. I...
his eyes fluttered back open.
He'd been out for less than a second. His cigarette was lit. He took the longest pull his current lung capacity could manage and breathed it back out.
"...Mi," he eked out the syllable with difficulty. "He's dying here, you know," he heard the other girl's voice say, but somehow he knew that wasn't true. He knew he wasn't going to hang onto consciousness much longer, probably, not without a lot of effort, anyway. But he wasn't going to die. He knew enough about wounds that this one wasn't enough to kill him. He'd have a hell of a time walking, but he'd live, assuming these girls figured out this whole bandage thing.
"Mira?" he tried again. "Mira...belle?"
"I..." He coughed. He wasn't coughing up blood, which made him feel way better. That time in Fight Club he was coughing up blood. He'd gone unconscious. That was worse than this.
His brain was still swirly, though. Like he was sedated, or maybe drunk. That's how he took a long pull of his cigarette and managed to say something he'd never say otherwise.
"...don't h...hate you."
He really was losing grip.
Mirabelle was handing him something. "Turkish Silvers," she said. A cigarette? Garrett didn't smoke much, except when he was exceptionally stressed, and this seemed like an exceptionally stressful moment. Not to mention it was an odd show of solidarity from Mirabelle of all people. He didn't really mind. He took it with an increasingly shaky hand, waiting for her to light it for him.
My last cigarette was-
his eyes fluttered closed for a moment
-was the week before this trip. There was a fight, a big one, and I lost. It was my last fight with Fight Club, I was supposed to pick who the new leader would be, but I lost. There were freshmen making fun of me, saying I'd lost my touch, I was getting too old, but they didn't know. I didn't...I wasn't thinking about the fight. I wonder who the leader's going to be now? I wonder if they're all watching this? Making fun of me? I got beaten by a girl...fuck if she isn't strong for a girl, though. That was a great cigarette. That one two weeks ago. What kind was it? Don't remember. I...
his eyes fluttered back open.
He'd been out for less than a second. His cigarette was lit. He took the longest pull his current lung capacity could manage and breathed it back out.
"...Mi," he eked out the syllable with difficulty. "He's dying here, you know," he heard the other girl's voice say, but somehow he knew that wasn't true. He knew he wasn't going to hang onto consciousness much longer, probably, not without a lot of effort, anyway. But he wasn't going to die. He knew enough about wounds that this one wasn't enough to kill him. He'd have a hell of a time walking, but he'd live, assuming these girls figured out this whole bandage thing.
"Mira?" he tried again. "Mira...belle?"
"I..." He coughed. He wasn't coughing up blood, which made him feel way better. That time in Fight Club he was coughing up blood. He'd gone unconscious. That was worse than this.
His brain was still swirly, though. Like he was sedated, or maybe drunk. That's how he took a long pull of his cigarette and managed to say something he'd never say otherwise.
"...don't h...hate you."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hollyquin. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
He took one with shaking fingers. She pretended not to notice, and following his trembling lips as best she could, lighting his before she did her own.
They were quiet for a little while. He didn't bother to remove the cigarette from his lips after he inahled, and his eyes fluttered to a close. For a while, Mirabelle simply watched Madeleine tend to him until the girl lifted her head and asked for help.
"Of course," she said softly, rising up a little and moving to her side (and, in the process, missing Garrett's first syllable). "You just wish for me to wrap the wound, yes?" She grabbed the bandages and set to work. "I apologize for not offering at once," she said. "I have...there are..." She trailed off. "I have some things on my mind, you see."
She had felt so good, when she had beaten Garrett. She had felt strong, confident, as though there were nothing in the world she could not accomplish. She had felt as though her fists could cleave through stone and her kicks snap men in half, she had felt as though she were invincible and she had done away with all doubt, because she had beaten Garrett--Garrett, who loomed like a giant in her head, the face of the fear of loss that lurked in her and which she never liked to admit to.
Except beating Garrett hadn't helped her notice Jackie, and it hadn't helped her make any more sense of what Samantha was doing.
"Mira..." he started weakly, and this time she heard him. She looked up. "Mira...belle," he continued. "I..." He trailed off into a cough, and she watched anxiously for signs of blood. He was clean--the damage was just to his leg, and she returned her focus to it.
"Yeah?" she said softly, finishing the (admittedly poor) job she had done of wrapping his leg.
"...don't h...hate you."
She looked up at him in surprise. Her mouth opening a little. The cigarette dropped away, and with a gasp Belle made to catch it. The lit end hit her fingers, scattering ash over her palm; she winced but held herself steady, to avoid letting it hit his leg. With a grimace, she slapped her hand into the dirt, let the earth smother the embers and her pain.
"I thought I hated you," she answered, almost without thinking. "Until I came here."
I disliked you, still do. I wanted you to hurt. I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you beaten and humiliated.
But hate?
"There are things to hate here," she said softly. "And you don't get angry, with hate. You get miserable with it." She lifted her hand and stared at the burn marks. "All you ever did was scratch my surface," she said, eying her skin. "This place goes deeper than that."
Liz Polanski.
"I don't hate you, Garrett," she said, smiling. "I hate this place and I hate the people who put us here." She got to her feet, wiped the blood off on the pants of her (now quite filthy) black gi. It occurred to her now that she should have cleaned her hands, but she wasn't sure she'd ever actually touched the wound--only wrapped bandages around it. This blood was what had poured from it.
"You can't follow me like this," she said, staring at the wound. "You won't be able to keep up, and you need to rest." She got to her feet and smiled at him. "I've got to be at the Sawmill tomorrow," Belle said. "I...I have an appointment to keep." She looked at him a moment longer. "Get healthy," she said quietly. "Be there. We're going to..."
She trailed off. Do what? And why did she want Garrett there? Had she forgotten what kind of mean sonofabitch he was? Had she forgotten-?
When there are people like Samantha Ridley, murdering for faux-mercy; when there are all those killers, giving in because they fear these miserable collars; when there are people like Danya, trapping them all and forcing them to their extremes; when there are those kinds of crimes, what do the little wrongs Garret and I did to each other matter?
Danya. Danya and the killers. And while we've been struggling and flailing, someone struck and blow and made it stick. Someone shook them from their throne and made them recognize they cannot confine us here below. Someone...
"We're going to shake them off their asses," Belle said. "And bash their heads into the ground until they can never do this again."
She turned, slipped her lighter and her cigarettes back into her bag. "Take care of him, will you?" she said softly. "I may need his help." Her stomach growled; she would make a quick stop at the Sawmill to gather up food and water from the bags of the dead. They didn't need them; Belle did. And when she had what she needed...
Liz Polanski.
She set off down the road without looking back.
(Mirabelle Nesa continued in Blackout)
They were quiet for a little while. He didn't bother to remove the cigarette from his lips after he inahled, and his eyes fluttered to a close. For a while, Mirabelle simply watched Madeleine tend to him until the girl lifted her head and asked for help.
"Of course," she said softly, rising up a little and moving to her side (and, in the process, missing Garrett's first syllable). "You just wish for me to wrap the wound, yes?" She grabbed the bandages and set to work. "I apologize for not offering at once," she said. "I have...there are..." She trailed off. "I have some things on my mind, you see."
She had felt so good, when she had beaten Garrett. She had felt strong, confident, as though there were nothing in the world she could not accomplish. She had felt as though her fists could cleave through stone and her kicks snap men in half, she had felt as though she were invincible and she had done away with all doubt, because she had beaten Garrett--Garrett, who loomed like a giant in her head, the face of the fear of loss that lurked in her and which she never liked to admit to.
Except beating Garrett hadn't helped her notice Jackie, and it hadn't helped her make any more sense of what Samantha was doing.
"Mira..." he started weakly, and this time she heard him. She looked up. "Mira...belle," he continued. "I..." He trailed off into a cough, and she watched anxiously for signs of blood. He was clean--the damage was just to his leg, and she returned her focus to it.
"Yeah?" she said softly, finishing the (admittedly poor) job she had done of wrapping his leg.
"...don't h...hate you."
She looked up at him in surprise. Her mouth opening a little. The cigarette dropped away, and with a gasp Belle made to catch it. The lit end hit her fingers, scattering ash over her palm; she winced but held herself steady, to avoid letting it hit his leg. With a grimace, she slapped her hand into the dirt, let the earth smother the embers and her pain.
"I thought I hated you," she answered, almost without thinking. "Until I came here."
I disliked you, still do. I wanted you to hurt. I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you beaten and humiliated.
But hate?
"There are things to hate here," she said softly. "And you don't get angry, with hate. You get miserable with it." She lifted her hand and stared at the burn marks. "All you ever did was scratch my surface," she said, eying her skin. "This place goes deeper than that."
Liz Polanski.
"I don't hate you, Garrett," she said, smiling. "I hate this place and I hate the people who put us here." She got to her feet, wiped the blood off on the pants of her (now quite filthy) black gi. It occurred to her now that she should have cleaned her hands, but she wasn't sure she'd ever actually touched the wound--only wrapped bandages around it. This blood was what had poured from it.
"You can't follow me like this," she said, staring at the wound. "You won't be able to keep up, and you need to rest." She got to her feet and smiled at him. "I've got to be at the Sawmill tomorrow," Belle said. "I...I have an appointment to keep." She looked at him a moment longer. "Get healthy," she said quietly. "Be there. We're going to..."
She trailed off. Do what? And why did she want Garrett there? Had she forgotten what kind of mean sonofabitch he was? Had she forgotten-?
When there are people like Samantha Ridley, murdering for faux-mercy; when there are all those killers, giving in because they fear these miserable collars; when there are people like Danya, trapping them all and forcing them to their extremes; when there are those kinds of crimes, what do the little wrongs Garret and I did to each other matter?
Danya. Danya and the killers. And while we've been struggling and flailing, someone struck and blow and made it stick. Someone shook them from their throne and made them recognize they cannot confine us here below. Someone...
"We're going to shake them off their asses," Belle said. "And bash their heads into the ground until they can never do this again."
She turned, slipped her lighter and her cigarettes back into her bag. "Take care of him, will you?" she said softly. "I may need his help." Her stomach growled; she would make a quick stop at the Sawmill to gather up food and water from the bags of the dead. They didn't need them; Belle did. And when she had what she needed...
Liz Polanski.
She set off down the road without looking back.
(Mirabelle Nesa continued in Blackout)
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.”
Madeleine was rather surprised that the two of them were so comfortable talking about their feelings towards one another in front of her. Was the matter simply so urgent that it had to be said that instant, or were they unashamed of discussing private matters? The artist wasn't usually one to pry, but the peculiarity (to her at least) of having people talk about such things as whether or not they liked one another was hard to ignore. Thankfully though, it wasn't distracting enough to take her attention off the man's wounds, and with Mirabelle's help, the blood was clotted and a bandage was tied around the gauze dressings.
Aside from possibly washing the wound and applying disinfectant, there really wasn't much that a few kids with hardly any medical expertise could do. At the very least, Garrett would live for now. Mirabelle probably knew this as well as Maddy did, and that was probably why she had left him in her care. All the same, Maddy was a little nervous. Sure, she had a gun, but keeping someone safe for a day required more than just strength of arms. She would also probably have to help him to the Sawmill if he was having trouble moving himself, and the thought of supporting at least 150 pounds of weight made Madeleine uneasy.
"'Take care of him,'" she muttered to herself, sitting down and taking a water bottle out of her bag. "I'm having enough fun taking care of myself." She didn't know why it was that she was okay talking to herself, but was incapable of talking to other people without making herself sound like a fool. It probably had something to do with some sort of fear of people or something of that sort, but she really did not care to confront the problem at this time. She was busy enough these days without also attempting to fix her speech problems.
As she took a sip of water, it occurred to Maddy that her new charge probably hadn't had any in a long time. "Oh, uh..." she said, handing a spare water bottle to Garrett, "you should probably drink something." She was going to have a long day.
Aside from possibly washing the wound and applying disinfectant, there really wasn't much that a few kids with hardly any medical expertise could do. At the very least, Garrett would live for now. Mirabelle probably knew this as well as Maddy did, and that was probably why she had left him in her care. All the same, Maddy was a little nervous. Sure, she had a gun, but keeping someone safe for a day required more than just strength of arms. She would also probably have to help him to the Sawmill if he was having trouble moving himself, and the thought of supporting at least 150 pounds of weight made Madeleine uneasy.
"'Take care of him,'" she muttered to herself, sitting down and taking a water bottle out of her bag. "I'm having enough fun taking care of myself." She didn't know why it was that she was okay talking to herself, but was incapable of talking to other people without making herself sound like a fool. It probably had something to do with some sort of fear of people or something of that sort, but she really did not care to confront the problem at this time. She was busy enough these days without also attempting to fix her speech problems.
As she took a sip of water, it occurred to Maddy that her new charge probably hadn't had any in a long time. "Oh, uh..." she said, handing a spare water bottle to Garrett, "you should probably drink something." She was going to have a long day.
-
Hollyquin†
- Posts: 332
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:24 am
And then, suddenly, she was gone. Mirabelle Nesa was gone and Garrett couldn't really remember why he'd hated her in the first place. Her words now, though- he clung to those like life preservers, his last hope in this goddamn game. Liz Polanski, he tried to keep that name in his memory. It was important. She was important. Once this haze cleared, once he could think straight and his leg stopped hurting, he was going to find her. Hopefully he'd be with Mirabelle, and they could work together, and they could well and truly fuck this game up.
And it would be awesome.
"Oh, uh...you should probably drink something."
He looked up, blearily, at the other girl. What was her name? He didn't even know. Why was he so mean to her before? She was being nice, taking care of his leg and shit. He really needed to stop being such a dick. He managed to focus his vision just enough to see the water bottle she was holding out, and took it with a shaking hand and an equally shaky "thanks". He took a long drink, spilling a decent amount of it on himself as he did so.
"Ah...shit," he mumbled, handing it back to her. His cigarette had long burnt out, forgotten. He almost dropped it, but then, thinking better of it, he tucked it behind his ear. He could get a lighter off someone to finish it later. After a moment of silence, he opened his eyes, focused on this girl. This other girl. He wanted her to see the truth in his words.
"Hey...er...I'm g-going to be fine. You don't have...to...stay here. I just n-need...rest..." He coughed another thankfully dry cough. "G-go somewhere safe, alright?"
His eyes fluttered closed again.
This time, his head fell back onto the road.
Garrett Hunter was well and truly out.
[[Garrett Hunter continued after a long journey to The Beggar King]]
And it would be awesome.
"Oh, uh...you should probably drink something."
He looked up, blearily, at the other girl. What was her name? He didn't even know. Why was he so mean to her before? She was being nice, taking care of his leg and shit. He really needed to stop being such a dick. He managed to focus his vision just enough to see the water bottle she was holding out, and took it with a shaking hand and an equally shaky "thanks". He took a long drink, spilling a decent amount of it on himself as he did so.
"Ah...shit," he mumbled, handing it back to her. His cigarette had long burnt out, forgotten. He almost dropped it, but then, thinking better of it, he tucked it behind his ear. He could get a lighter off someone to finish it later. After a moment of silence, he opened his eyes, focused on this girl. This other girl. He wanted her to see the truth in his words.
"Hey...er...I'm g-going to be fine. You don't have...to...stay here. I just n-need...rest..." He coughed another thankfully dry cough. "G-go somewhere safe, alright?"
His eyes fluttered closed again.
This time, his head fell back onto the road.
Garrett Hunter was well and truly out.
[[Garrett Hunter continued after a long journey to The Beggar King]]
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hollyquin. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
It figured, really. The fellow who Madeleine was supposed to take care of now wanted her to take care of herself. But how could she do that with a clear conscience? The man was passed out, alone on the road. Anyone could walk up and just slit his throat while he was out. No, the only option was to watch over him until he woke up. It was the only thing that seemed right to Maddy at the time, even if it wasn't much good for herself. Besides, the two of them knew something about Liz Polanski. Perhaps they could lead her to Liz, and then...
Then what? Perhaps they were allies of Liz. Could Madeleine really bring herself to shoot them if they wanted to protect her? Already, she was running the risk of having to conflict with Violet. How many more people would she have to go through before she could take Liz down? How would she be able to justify it to herself if this pattern kept up?
Oh well, such thoughts could wait for tomorrow. In the meantime, seeing as nobody was watching, Madeleine pulled her SMG out of her bag and sat next to Garrett's prone body. Draping a couple shirts over him to keep him warm for the coming of nightfall, she found a soft patch of dirt and began scanning and forth. Watching and waiting for anyone to dare to come near.
She would be waiting all night.
(Madeleine Smith continued in The Beggar King)
Then what? Perhaps they were allies of Liz. Could Madeleine really bring herself to shoot them if they wanted to protect her? Already, she was running the risk of having to conflict with Violet. How many more people would she have to go through before she could take Liz down? How would she be able to justify it to herself if this pattern kept up?
Oh well, such thoughts could wait for tomorrow. In the meantime, seeing as nobody was watching, Madeleine pulled her SMG out of her bag and sat next to Garrett's prone body. Draping a couple shirts over him to keep him warm for the coming of nightfall, she found a soft patch of dirt and began scanning and forth. Watching and waiting for anyone to dare to come near.
She would be waiting all night.
(Madeleine Smith continued in The Beggar King)