[[Vivien Morin continued from Classy, Not Classic]]
Some nights go on forever, and usually that's because your boyfriend just broke up with you or you just got in a fight with your best friend or you failed a test or you wore white out of season and your friends wouldn't talk to you, not so much because you're spending the entire night wandering lost on an island fearing for your life at every moment. That was a pretty unusual experience for anyone, most of all Vivien Morin, who up until this last week had spent exactly zero time running around in the woods. Vivien was not an outdoorsy girl by any stretch of the imagination, and sleeping in the dirt every night (that one night in the sawmill notwithstanding) was absolute hell, or so he had thought until he really experienced absolute hell in the form of a dark, terrifying and depression-fueled all-nighter.
His thoughts were erratic, sparse even, as the majority of his mental energy seemed concentrated on the pain in his feet and shoulders, aching from walking and carrying all the crap that he just refused to give up, because if anything defined him, it was his clothes. He'd sooner die than give them up, though honestly at the rate he was going that seemed like a real possibility.
I knew she was dead. I heard the announcements. I knew! I knew and I still can't get the picture out of my head, can't stop thinking about it, is that what we're all going to end up as? That is SO unattractive, poor girl would be miserable if she could see herself- maybe she can, maybe she's in the afterlife or whatnot mad at me for not burying her...god, I should've done that, we were friends-
He thought for a moment about doubling back, burying her, but he was lost and confused and exhausted and likely physically incapable of digging a grave, and none of that registered with him for about ten minutes as he clumsily circled around and realized that he had no idea what direction he was heading in or indeed where he was. He thought about his map, but checking it told him nothing, considering that all around him was basically grass and more grass. He could see the ferris wheel of the fun fair in the distance, but he had no desire to head there. How much fun could it be, really?
...I probably look like crap right now, what if I die looking like this, the viewing audience is going to remember me as some ugly little cannon-fodder, I can't imagine anything worse...I need to fix my makeup the moment the sun comes out...I need to change. God, Carol...I'm sorry I'm so selfish, angel, I love you. I'm terrible. This is awful, how could I be thinking about myself right now, how could I be thinking about dying, I have a gun, I'll be fine, I will be, at least for a while, yeah...I really do need to do my makeup, though...I'm so glad internal monologues are are internal, Sylvie would think I was such a BITCH right about now...Gotta be good. I need inspiration. "What Would Gracie Wainwright Not Do?" WWGWD. I like it. I'll get it on a t-shirt...
Time passed. A lot of time. The only proof of that was the slowly rising sun and the slowly changing scenery and the slow failure of Vivien's ankles, unable to hold him up anymore. He collapsed beside a tree- there were trees now, when did they happen?- and immediately began digging through his bag for new clothes, eventually settling for a short yellow spaghetti-strap dress. Perfect for summer. Gorgeous as always. And it showed off his legs so well. He was incredibly grateful to find a pair of yellow flats in his bag- he was quite sure heels would kill him- and after quickly changing he returned his old dress and black flats to his bag, digging around for his mascara.
BZZZZZT-
Oh.
"Hey kids, it's Uncle Danya!"
...I don't want to hear this.
He really didn't. He was entirely sure for every name he heard a horribly damaged body would replace that person, their living, breathing self, in his memory, and he didn't want that. He could hardly remember Carol as something other than a corpse anymore and that hurt. He found the mascara, and his compact, and settled into the task of making himself beautiful again- not an easy task, what with the sleep-deprivation variety dark circles that were making themselves known.
"You'll be very happy indeed to hear that in a few short hours, you'll have officially have survived until the halfway mark of the game. That's provided, of course, that you aren't one of the three unlucky souls that have to die for you all to reach that point. Keep it up folks, I can't tell you how proud I am of your spirit."
He tried not to think about how relieved he was by that, how happy he was that over a hundred of his classmates were dead and he wasn't, and concentrated. He really did look like shit- the remnants of his makeup were puddled around his eyes and he had to lick his fingers and pick bits of black off his face. It was the furthest thing from attractive but definitely necessary, and once he had a clear canvas he concentrated on reapplying. It made him feel safer, somehow, more comfortable, more at home, being like this, sitting here putting on makeup, looking at his beautiful face in the mirror- even without the makeup, he was beautiful, that was just obviously so- here he was at home. Even completely deprived of sleep, sitting alone in the woods- he was almost okay. Almost normal. He kind of wanted to drag out the process, make this feeling last longer, but honestly he wasn't sure he co
"-Aislyn McCreery's daddy did not turn up at the eleventh hour to save her from Kimber-"
"OW!"
He shrieked as he stabbed himself in the eye with the mascara wand. His eyes teared up as he furiously wiped away his now utterly-fucked-up mascara, repairing the damage, only slightly aware that the water flowing from his eyes was maybe partially from the pain but mostly from the name that had came out of Danya's mouth and that all efforts made to put his face on now would be utterly invalidated by the saltwater flow. He was doomed to twin black trails down his cheeks and why was he caring about this when Aislyn McCreery was dead.
He was grateful that Danya didn't give any details. His mind didn't know what to picture. He settled for white noise and stumbled back off into the forest.
God, Kimberly?! Kimberly Nguyen?! She was a fucking...fucking creepy little thing but why, why my Aislyn?!
He was crying nonstop and those mascara trails were making themselves known. He sniffled loudly. Cute.
There were woods and there were woods and there were woods. He kept himself moving because as long as he was walking, as long as his brain was distraction by the pain he felt, he didn't have to think about this too much. He could keep pretending that he'd see his friends again and he could keep pretending everything was okay as long as he was still walking, so he walked for an eternity, or more like half an hour. He wasn't really sure- pain has this way of dulling your sense of time, but eventually he saw a clearing in the distance, and that seemed like a logical destination. Honestly "logical destination" right now translated directly to "place to curl into a fetal position", but whatever. Vivien was okay with that. Sometimes you need a good cry even if you're not sure you'd even stop. That was Vivien's logic, anyway. He picked up the pace until
oh.
"Holy crap..."
Bloodgarden
An endless dedication... (CONTENT WARNING)
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Hollyquin†
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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.
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MK Kilmarnock
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Flowers were things that had to be handled with tender and loving care. In Brook's line of work, in his life's calling, he had to train his own hands to resist their own force and grasp with a gardener's precision. Under the care of those hands of his, plants seemed to thrive. He was a nurturer of life, a cultivator of ecology. That was why every time Brook stooped down to coax a flower from its home in order to move it to its far more glorious one, and he saw the dried and caked blood on those hands of his, something felt like it had jarred loose and fallen out of place. How the hell did that blood get there?
Every time this happened, the results were the same. No truly coherent thought sparked in Brook's head, and with a tired sigh, he resumed his duties. For this next trip, three flowers were to be transplanted, but they were not nearly as delicate as the lady slippers. No, if he really had to, these could sit for a little while if he had more important matters to attend to. Not that there was really much of anything more important than what Tiffany was telling him to do. The penance for having failed to save her, but the reward of eternal company. He wouldn't give it up for anything.
Still, his hands... those hands of his, now coated in dirt just as heavily as the blood, but the dirt could not catch up with the stains on the rest of him. Wasn't he supposed to be afraid of the liquid in his duties?
Yes... yes, he was supposed to, and he still was. There should have been no doubt there, of course. But just because he was afraid of it did not mean that he couldn't derive a certain measure of life-giving enjoyment and pleasure from it. In slathering himself in his fear and personally ensuring Tiffany's never-ending survival, he found some self-fulfillment that would release his soul from whatever damage the blood may have been doing to it. Maybe. ... Maybe.
Such existential questions were meaningless to somebody of low importance like Brook, though. Tiffany had blocked him off, chained him to her. Or had he chained himself to her in the creation of the monument as a profession of his love to her, one that he never managed to make when she was awake? It hurt to think about, and in more ways than one. It wasn't hard to tell that he was clearly being punished for something, though. He couldn't have been the good guy... but he wasn't the bad one, right? For him to have been doing th-
Okay, what the fuck was that!?
Something was out there. He definitely heard something, the parting of branches across a path and the yielding of leaves and shrubs alike, as somebody was doubtlessly just prancing through the woods as though it belonged to them. Well, the Mighty Zinnia would speak for the trees if he had to, and it was just as well. The bodies around here weren't.... enough. With Colin having selfishlessly pulled himself somewhere else to die, the only evidence of his death happened to be a disconnected message over the skyward voice (Brook had searched in vain to locate just where the voice had been coming from, finding it to be irritating as hell). There needed to be more vanguards for the mistress of the garden, and if somebody was volunteering... well, that was fine and dandy.
Leaving the few flowers where they lie at the clearing's edge, Brook darted deeper into the woods, finding a few thick budges to excuse his way into and wait for his uninvited guest. It wouldn't take long for them to show up, either, though trees obstructed the mystery meat's person's features from Brook's vantage point, revealing only the most basic of forms. About the most he could determine was that they were human, fair skinned and female. Yeah, very helpful observations. This left him with no other choice than to make the bold approach. Drawing his trusty, gaudy pistol which had helped him so much with his gardening thus far, Brook approached the girl from behind in a manner that he could only wish was perfectly stealthy. He made up for his lacking stealth, however, by the sheer speed at which he approached and made his presence known.
"Hey there! I see you've found my garden... I can give you the tour, if you'd like! You're going to be here a while, after all."
Every time this happened, the results were the same. No truly coherent thought sparked in Brook's head, and with a tired sigh, he resumed his duties. For this next trip, three flowers were to be transplanted, but they were not nearly as delicate as the lady slippers. No, if he really had to, these could sit for a little while if he had more important matters to attend to. Not that there was really much of anything more important than what Tiffany was telling him to do. The penance for having failed to save her, but the reward of eternal company. He wouldn't give it up for anything.
Still, his hands... those hands of his, now coated in dirt just as heavily as the blood, but the dirt could not catch up with the stains on the rest of him. Wasn't he supposed to be afraid of the liquid in his duties?
Yes... yes, he was supposed to, and he still was. There should have been no doubt there, of course. But just because he was afraid of it did not mean that he couldn't derive a certain measure of life-giving enjoyment and pleasure from it. In slathering himself in his fear and personally ensuring Tiffany's never-ending survival, he found some self-fulfillment that would release his soul from whatever damage the blood may have been doing to it. Maybe. ... Maybe.
Such existential questions were meaningless to somebody of low importance like Brook, though. Tiffany had blocked him off, chained him to her. Or had he chained himself to her in the creation of the monument as a profession of his love to her, one that he never managed to make when she was awake? It hurt to think about, and in more ways than one. It wasn't hard to tell that he was clearly being punished for something, though. He couldn't have been the good guy... but he wasn't the bad one, right? For him to have been doing th-
Okay, what the fuck was that!?
Something was out there. He definitely heard something, the parting of branches across a path and the yielding of leaves and shrubs alike, as somebody was doubtlessly just prancing through the woods as though it belonged to them. Well, the Mighty Zinnia would speak for the trees if he had to, and it was just as well. The bodies around here weren't.... enough. With Colin having selfishlessly pulled himself somewhere else to die, the only evidence of his death happened to be a disconnected message over the skyward voice (Brook had searched in vain to locate just where the voice had been coming from, finding it to be irritating as hell). There needed to be more vanguards for the mistress of the garden, and if somebody was volunteering... well, that was fine and dandy.
Leaving the few flowers where they lie at the clearing's edge, Brook darted deeper into the woods, finding a few thick budges to excuse his way into and wait for his uninvited guest. It wouldn't take long for them to show up, either, though trees obstructed the mystery meat's person's features from Brook's vantage point, revealing only the most basic of forms. About the most he could determine was that they were human, fair skinned and female. Yeah, very helpful observations. This left him with no other choice than to make the bold approach. Drawing his trusty, gaudy pistol which had helped him so much with his gardening thus far, Brook approached the girl from behind in a manner that he could only wish was perfectly stealthy. He made up for his lacking stealth, however, by the sheer speed at which he approached and made his presence known.
"Hey there! I see you've found my garden... I can give you the tour, if you'd like! You're going to be here a while, after all."
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Hollyquin†
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White noise. White noise. Dammit, please, white noise.
Vivien's tears dried up almost instantly. Later he'd wonder if that was some sort of reflex, some instinct that told him that his tears would be desperately needed in the near future and shouldn't be wasted on another moment of grief. That grief was forced into a corner of his mind while the white noise flowed through him, preventing any vocal reaction to this...this. He couldn't think of descriptions around the white noise, though names floated through his mind as his eyes unconsciously and unwilling scanned the scene, names like Ridley and Raine, names he knew because he knew all of the names. He really didn't know either of them well, honestly, and now he never would and he felt kind of guilty which was a weird feeling given how it was fighting with other emotions like disgust and fear and white noise which wasn't an emotion but whatever even and those feelings distracted him for the longest time from noticing anything else and
What is this? A...a garden? Who's keeping a garden here? It looks...new. Like someone's still taking care of it. Who the hell- what kind of priorities-
Something else, too. someone else, rather. He could see someone lay farther into the garden, farther than he wanted to walk- he needed to leave this place, his non-white-noise-type instincts were very clear about that- but he couldn't see who it was, if they were alive or dead, even, though anyone who'd lie in peace in a place like this clearly had something very very very wrong with them, and he was kind of too lost, thinking, to really notice that someone was coming up behind him-
"Hey there!"
Vivien shrieked. actually shrieked. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or embarrassed by the sound that come from his mouth, as it meshed nicely with his image of himself as the damsel in distress, but it also completely eliminated whatever remained of his dignity. He whirled around, his finger reflexively pulling the trigger of a gun that was currently sitting pretty in his daypack. He realized exactly how defenseless he was as he stared into the face of
"I see you've found my garden... I can give you the tour, if you'd like! You're going to be here a while, after all."
-Brook. Liam Brooks! Totally inconceivable, that it would be Brook. Again, it wasn't like he knew him particularly well, but he wasn't a bad guy by any means, Vivien knew that much. He was a sweetheart, actually. What he didn't remember was this glint in the boy's eyes, the catch in his voice, and the blood on his hands, all of which screamed danger danger from inside white noise. Wasn't he...Haven't I heard his name? On the announcements? Yeah, yeah I know I have-and up to this moment he wouldn't have been able to say if he'd been killed or a killer, but really, his presence kind of answered that for him.
A lot of words sprung to mind, words like I have a gun and you don't want to do this and please don't hurt me, I didn't even finish my makeup but none of them made it completed the journey from his mind to his vocal cords. His hand wanted for his gun but his limbs were wholly paralyzed by fear. His hand twitched. The other boy's words registered, possibly, at least a little. Danger danger, like he needed another warning. All he really managed was
"Urk."
and he mentally chastised himself for being fucking pathetic.
Vivien's tears dried up almost instantly. Later he'd wonder if that was some sort of reflex, some instinct that told him that his tears would be desperately needed in the near future and shouldn't be wasted on another moment of grief. That grief was forced into a corner of his mind while the white noise flowed through him, preventing any vocal reaction to this...this. He couldn't think of descriptions around the white noise, though names floated through his mind as his eyes unconsciously and unwilling scanned the scene, names like Ridley and Raine, names he knew because he knew all of the names. He really didn't know either of them well, honestly, and now he never would and he felt kind of guilty which was a weird feeling given how it was fighting with other emotions like disgust and fear and white noise which wasn't an emotion but whatever even and those feelings distracted him for the longest time from noticing anything else and
What is this? A...a garden? Who's keeping a garden here? It looks...new. Like someone's still taking care of it. Who the hell- what kind of priorities-
Something else, too. someone else, rather. He could see someone lay farther into the garden, farther than he wanted to walk- he needed to leave this place, his non-white-noise-type instincts were very clear about that- but he couldn't see who it was, if they were alive or dead, even, though anyone who'd lie in peace in a place like this clearly had something very very very wrong with them, and he was kind of too lost, thinking, to really notice that someone was coming up behind him-
"Hey there!"
Vivien shrieked. actually shrieked. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or embarrassed by the sound that come from his mouth, as it meshed nicely with his image of himself as the damsel in distress, but it also completely eliminated whatever remained of his dignity. He whirled around, his finger reflexively pulling the trigger of a gun that was currently sitting pretty in his daypack. He realized exactly how defenseless he was as he stared into the face of
"I see you've found my garden... I can give you the tour, if you'd like! You're going to be here a while, after all."
-Brook. Liam Brooks! Totally inconceivable, that it would be Brook. Again, it wasn't like he knew him particularly well, but he wasn't a bad guy by any means, Vivien knew that much. He was a sweetheart, actually. What he didn't remember was this glint in the boy's eyes, the catch in his voice, and the blood on his hands, all of which screamed danger danger from inside white noise. Wasn't he...Haven't I heard his name? On the announcements? Yeah, yeah I know I have-and up to this moment he wouldn't have been able to say if he'd been killed or a killer, but really, his presence kind of answered that for him.
A lot of words sprung to mind, words like I have a gun and you don't want to do this and please don't hurt me, I didn't even finish my makeup but none of them made it completed the journey from his mind to his vocal cords. His hand wanted for his gun but his limbs were wholly paralyzed by fear. His hand twitched. The other boy's words registered, possibly, at least a little. Danger danger, like he needed another warning. All he really managed was
"Urk."
and he mentally chastised himself for being fucking pathetic.
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.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
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Brook had managed to convince himself that, when it came to his moment-to-moment mannerisms, he just made most of this shit up as he went along. If one put any thought into it, they'd find that's probably how many teenagers do things, no matter their general curriculum of activites: going to school, joining a sports team, eviscerating everything that moves. That implied, of course, that Brook had time to think, however. Just moments ago, the world had a pallete of blue and he only had to focus on doing what was asked of him, in peace with all he took under his care. Now, the world was red once more, and his soul had filled with so much vigor in such a short space of time. He'd be treating this side of his life just as passionate as the side he had led only moments before.
The person before him was just so ambiguous... at least in the sense of who they were, though something felt rather 'ambiguous' in a different manner, but that was neither here nor there. For now, he was just so entertained by the reaction he was getting from his sudden little greeting. Shit, if only Colin had entertained him this much! It was true that his last guest had been a major downer before he left to rudely curl up and die somewhere else, and left him with little to no sense of fun at all. This time, though, he could feel it... it would be different. If Tiffany was already mad at him, he might as well just have the fucking time of his life.
"Hee... not the articulate sort eh, cutie? Well... that's just fine, I suppose. The place speaks for itself! I mean... come on!" Brook gestured back to the wonderful place, which his new toy would be calling home very soon for the rest of her life. ... Her, right? Or... no? He dove through the tattered book of his memory and tried to search for who the hell this person was, but the name was just lost on him for now. I'm sure with a little prying, he'd get it from him/her/it eventually. More pressing was the concern of why this girl had a ridiculously flat chest, and a telling bulge between...
Oh.
Wow... this was good. This was TOO fucking good. A bit confusing for sure, but it wasn't every day that a garden could be adorned by a crossdresser. The benefits of beauty to complement Tiffany, AND she wouldn't be jealous! First, however, he'd have to twist the 'guy's' arm a little to get him to stay. Metaphorically, of course... that wonderful stunt with Leila would just get old if he tried it again. Instead, with the little mousey fidgeting and looking at Brook like some crazed killer, he closed the distance between the two. This person would-
Vivien.
"Vivien! Geez, I almost forgot your name!" Brook chuckled, flicking himself in the temple for having forgotten. The moment of levity over, he resumed removing any distance that may have stood between the two of them. He liked his inductions to be intimate and informative, letting the whole world know just what kind of person would be soaking the plants. Brook wanted to know all about Vivien and his strangeness, inside and out, a notion that he played with in the recesses of his mind as he rubbed the unrifled barrel of the liberator against Vivien's breastbone.
"I always wondered... are those clothes comfortable for you? I wouldn't know, not being a freak..." Brook giggled. "But no, really. I want to know, considering how much time you'll be spending in them!"
Something in his own sentences spurred him onward, pulling at the levers that controlled the floodgates and held everything back. Every time somebody entered this place, for whatever reason, the strain would just grow and grow. So much blood, even behind unbroken skin and coloring the flesh, and it all conspired against him. The fear played its best hands against Brook's lungs, hastening his breathing. His muscles quivered, a few joints cracked.
Get it all out. GET IT ALL OUT.
Before he knew it, his gun arm had flexed its bicep, and his right elbow came flying up at Vivien's chin.
The person before him was just so ambiguous... at least in the sense of who they were, though something felt rather 'ambiguous' in a different manner, but that was neither here nor there. For now, he was just so entertained by the reaction he was getting from his sudden little greeting. Shit, if only Colin had entertained him this much! It was true that his last guest had been a major downer before he left to rudely curl up and die somewhere else, and left him with little to no sense of fun at all. This time, though, he could feel it... it would be different. If Tiffany was already mad at him, he might as well just have the fucking time of his life.
"Hee... not the articulate sort eh, cutie? Well... that's just fine, I suppose. The place speaks for itself! I mean... come on!" Brook gestured back to the wonderful place, which his new toy would be calling home very soon for the rest of her life. ... Her, right? Or... no? He dove through the tattered book of his memory and tried to search for who the hell this person was, but the name was just lost on him for now. I'm sure with a little prying, he'd get it from him/her/it eventually. More pressing was the concern of why this girl had a ridiculously flat chest, and a telling bulge between...
Oh.
Wow... this was good. This was TOO fucking good. A bit confusing for sure, but it wasn't every day that a garden could be adorned by a crossdresser. The benefits of beauty to complement Tiffany, AND she wouldn't be jealous! First, however, he'd have to twist the 'guy's' arm a little to get him to stay. Metaphorically, of course... that wonderful stunt with Leila would just get old if he tried it again. Instead, with the little mousey fidgeting and looking at Brook like some crazed killer, he closed the distance between the two. This person would-
Vivien.
"Vivien! Geez, I almost forgot your name!" Brook chuckled, flicking himself in the temple for having forgotten. The moment of levity over, he resumed removing any distance that may have stood between the two of them. He liked his inductions to be intimate and informative, letting the whole world know just what kind of person would be soaking the plants. Brook wanted to know all about Vivien and his strangeness, inside and out, a notion that he played with in the recesses of his mind as he rubbed the unrifled barrel of the liberator against Vivien's breastbone.
"I always wondered... are those clothes comfortable for you? I wouldn't know, not being a freak..." Brook giggled. "But no, really. I want to know, considering how much time you'll be spending in them!"
Something in his own sentences spurred him onward, pulling at the levers that controlled the floodgates and held everything back. Every time somebody entered this place, for whatever reason, the strain would just grow and grow. So much blood, even behind unbroken skin and coloring the flesh, and it all conspired against him. The fear played its best hands against Brook's lungs, hastening his breathing. His muscles quivered, a few joints cracked.
Get it all out. GET IT ALL OUT.
Before he knew it, his gun arm had flexed its bicep, and his right elbow came flying up at Vivien's chin.
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Hollyquin†
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- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:24 am
"Hee... not the articulate sort eh, cutie?"
Some small, disturbingly unaffected portion of his mind appreciated the compliment. Said portion was small because the rest of his mind was distracted by the white noise with an undercurrent of oh my god I'm going to die and figured the only thing keeping that undercurrent from overwhelming him was some hidden instinct, some deep need to keep a level head. To pretend the last of his dignity hadn't left him when the boy first appeared. To not mess up his makeup any worse than it already was.
Leave a beautiful cor- no no no don't THINK like that. Do that and he's won already. You can't just give up-
He was hardly hearing his own thoughts. Again, it was all white noise. White noise and paralytic terror.
"Well... that's just fine, I suppose. The place speaks for itself! I mean... come on!" It was almost funny how there was absolutely nothing wrong, no fault that could be found with the words themselves, and yet Vivien felt himself shiver. His voice. It was so fucking wrong. And yeah, the place does speak for itself, and it says crazy things. Brook was, like, a fucking gardening freak, right? So this has to be his handiwork. Why would he waste his time...I mean, it could've been pretty, but the bodies are kind of ruining the flow-
An unreasonably optimistic thought occurred to him. Maybe that's why he's so...er, upset? Maybe someone killed people in his garden and he's...upset that it got messed up? He put the memory of the boy on the announcements out of his mind for a moment because denial was considerably less horrifying than the alternative. Yeah, maybe...maybe he just-
It was around then he managed to tear his eyes from Brook's for just long enough to see the gun.
E-eh...
Vivien did not like guns, except when there was only one and it was in his hand. This gun was in the hands of an obvious psycho and, if he was going to be honest with himself for a moment (somehow he figured this was no longer the time for denial), the killer of at least two. None of those details spelled much good for a lot of things, like his manicure (actually apparently that got fucked up days ago...how did I not notice? this is horrible, I should have nail polish, maybe later) or his dress or his heart that was now beating out of control, filling a momentary silence.
Suddenly there was no space in between them and Vivien suddenly became aware of just how tall Liam Brooks was.
"Vivien! Geez, I almost forgot your name!" How does he know my- well, I mean, I guess everyone knows my name, yeah, forgot about that, b- irrelevant, irrelevant, totally irrelevant. Get your head back in this, Vi, you can do this, you can. Just-
The feeling of cold metal pressing against your chest tends to put a damper on your thought process. He considered a lot of possible reactions to this turn of events, like screaming or crying or curling into fetal position, but managed somehow to keep his visible reaction down to a flinch.
"I always wondered... are those clothes comfortable for you? I wouldn't know, not being a freak..."
Vivien's eyes narrowed and at least for a moment he forgot where he was and what was pointed at him.
He was used to this. Of course he was used to it, it was impossible to not be used to the names, the obvious taunts, the faggot and the pussy and the homo and the ever-present freak, but he didn't let it get to him. He couldn't let it get to him. He'd have cracked a long time ago if he had and honestly I'm better than them! Better than that. Better, so why am I upset about it now? Maybe I just don't want to die, like this. Being the freak. Vivien the freak.
Don't think about it too much. As long as he's talking that's good for you. Let him rant, it happens all the time, the villain talks too much and gives the damsel in distress time to...be rescued.
Okay, so it's not a perfect metaphor, but...
His limbs, it seemed, were regaining function. His hand crept towards his bag- it was open, still, he realized, and now it was only a matter of who shot first.
He felt Chicago lyrics running through his mind and wow, that is not normal, Vi.
"But no, really. I want to know, considering how much time you'll be spending in them!"
God, that sounded bad. Really bad. Really very not good at all but Vivien was ready for him as his small hand curled around the pistol's grip, still in his bag.
"Br-"
CRACK.
he buzzed with white noise. his lip split. there goes my face. something'd cracked. what cracked? not a bone. he tasted blood. he'd hit the floor. get up, get up, get up, he's going to kill you, GET UP he lay prone, paralyzed, not because he'd broken anything, not because he couldn't move
because he'd realized that crack was the gun he'd lost grip of.because he'd moved his hand to raise it just at the right time for it to be knocked from his grip. it sailed through the air, hit a rock-
CRACK, and Vivien was not dead, but he might as well be.
he'd been hit before. he'd split lips before.
but he'd never, ever been this afraid.
Some small, disturbingly unaffected portion of his mind appreciated the compliment. Said portion was small because the rest of his mind was distracted by the white noise with an undercurrent of oh my god I'm going to die and figured the only thing keeping that undercurrent from overwhelming him was some hidden instinct, some deep need to keep a level head. To pretend the last of his dignity hadn't left him when the boy first appeared. To not mess up his makeup any worse than it already was.
Leave a beautiful cor- no no no don't THINK like that. Do that and he's won already. You can't just give up-
He was hardly hearing his own thoughts. Again, it was all white noise. White noise and paralytic terror.
"Well... that's just fine, I suppose. The place speaks for itself! I mean... come on!" It was almost funny how there was absolutely nothing wrong, no fault that could be found with the words themselves, and yet Vivien felt himself shiver. His voice. It was so fucking wrong. And yeah, the place does speak for itself, and it says crazy things. Brook was, like, a fucking gardening freak, right? So this has to be his handiwork. Why would he waste his time...I mean, it could've been pretty, but the bodies are kind of ruining the flow-
An unreasonably optimistic thought occurred to him. Maybe that's why he's so...er, upset? Maybe someone killed people in his garden and he's...upset that it got messed up? He put the memory of the boy on the announcements out of his mind for a moment because denial was considerably less horrifying than the alternative. Yeah, maybe...maybe he just-
It was around then he managed to tear his eyes from Brook's for just long enough to see the gun.
E-eh...
Vivien did not like guns, except when there was only one and it was in his hand. This gun was in the hands of an obvious psycho and, if he was going to be honest with himself for a moment (somehow he figured this was no longer the time for denial), the killer of at least two. None of those details spelled much good for a lot of things, like his manicure (actually apparently that got fucked up days ago...how did I not notice? this is horrible, I should have nail polish, maybe later) or his dress or his heart that was now beating out of control, filling a momentary silence.
Suddenly there was no space in between them and Vivien suddenly became aware of just how tall Liam Brooks was.
"Vivien! Geez, I almost forgot your name!" How does he know my- well, I mean, I guess everyone knows my name, yeah, forgot about that, b- irrelevant, irrelevant, totally irrelevant. Get your head back in this, Vi, you can do this, you can. Just-
The feeling of cold metal pressing against your chest tends to put a damper on your thought process. He considered a lot of possible reactions to this turn of events, like screaming or crying or curling into fetal position, but managed somehow to keep his visible reaction down to a flinch.
"I always wondered... are those clothes comfortable for you? I wouldn't know, not being a freak..."
Vivien's eyes narrowed and at least for a moment he forgot where he was and what was pointed at him.
He was used to this. Of course he was used to it, it was impossible to not be used to the names, the obvious taunts, the faggot and the pussy and the homo and the ever-present freak, but he didn't let it get to him. He couldn't let it get to him. He'd have cracked a long time ago if he had and honestly I'm better than them! Better than that. Better, so why am I upset about it now? Maybe I just don't want to die, like this. Being the freak. Vivien the freak.
Don't think about it too much. As long as he's talking that's good for you. Let him rant, it happens all the time, the villain talks too much and gives the damsel in distress time to...be rescued.
Okay, so it's not a perfect metaphor, but...
His limbs, it seemed, were regaining function. His hand crept towards his bag- it was open, still, he realized, and now it was only a matter of who shot first.
He felt Chicago lyrics running through his mind and wow, that is not normal, Vi.
"But no, really. I want to know, considering how much time you'll be spending in them!"
God, that sounded bad. Really bad. Really very not good at all but Vivien was ready for him as his small hand curled around the pistol's grip, still in his bag.
"Br-"
CRACK.
he buzzed with white noise. his lip split. there goes my face. something'd cracked. what cracked? not a bone. he tasted blood. he'd hit the floor. get up, get up, get up, he's going to kill you, GET UP he lay prone, paralyzed, not because he'd broken anything, not because he couldn't move
because he'd realized that crack was the gun he'd lost grip of.because he'd moved his hand to raise it just at the right time for it to be knocked from his grip. it sailed through the air, hit a rock-
CRACK, and Vivien was not dead, but he might as well be.
he'd been hit before. he'd split lips before.
but he'd never, ever been this afraid.
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.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
The resounding, boney smash of his elbow driving into Vivien's face was probably enough to give boners to masochists and sadists alike. Shit, he could still feel that wonderful resonation of pain shooting up through him thanks to the sensitive striking point, but the sheer glee it brought to him was more than enough to make up for it. The only point of confusion came from just what that second noise was. Even as he stared down at the sorry sack of effeminate blood and bones in front of him, he couldn't help but pucker his lips into an expression of innocent thought. Seriously, what the hell was that noise?
Oh well. He could worry about that in a few minutes. For now, his eyes bore a hole through Vivien's mouth, focusing on the divide in his lip from just where the elbow connected. The blood had already begun pouring out, and Brook could have sworn that he could smell it already. The blood-baden breath showered him with a lust that he hadn't felt so strongly in nearly a day. Vivien better enjoy what was about to happen to him, and there was no pity to be found if he didn't; it was his own damn fault for bleeding, anyway. They were all just asking for it.
"Aaaaalright, let's find the perfect place for you, shall we?" Brook sauntered around Vivien to his head and switched the gun from his right hand to his left. His face still had a smile on it as he bent down. His grin was neither malicious nor devious, but non-chalant, as though he were just dragging a bag of mulch from one end of the grounds to another. To Brook, this was just another day in a garden where the mulch was wet and red, and the fertilizer had an annoying tendency to scream. His fingers stretched out wide to grab as much of Vivien's hair as he could, getting a substantial handful. Then Brook straightened up as much as his height would allow, dragging Viven along the ground. The pain was bound to force the boy to cooperate, and cooperation was always a nice thing to have!
"Ugh... let's see. You're too close to Raine if I put you here..." Brook muttered to himself after some dragging. After another two feet or so, however, a delighted chuckle burst from his throat and he let Viven's head drop, moving around to stand at the boy's legs once more. "Heeere we are! Now just to make sure that you don't move around too much and fuck up the arrangement. Don't worry... I do this for a living!" If only he was qualified to say that he was a master gardener, he would have said that too. Alas, he'd have to take a few more classes before he could put himself among the best in terms of his skill. Still this was his livelihood... he'd make it someday, and Tiffany would be so proud! Perhaps even Vivien would be, despite his smaller role in the masterpiece.
There was the messy matter of immobilization to attend to, however, and Brook set right to it. It was a shame kneecaps didn't bleed much, but he got enough when he pressed the barrel of the liberator down to Vivien's left knee and fired point blank. The kick of the gun, as trashy as the thing seemed to be, never ceased to amaze and amuse the gardener, who took great pleasure in seeing just what happened to Colin's knee when it was shot, only this time it was from about an inch away. Made the shattering all that more lovely. In a manner of professionalism, Brook swiftly repeated the feat with Vivien's other kneecap, struggling to keep in the manic giggles that just wanted to come out and party.
How many bullets did this thing even have!?
Oh well. He could worry about that in a few minutes. For now, his eyes bore a hole through Vivien's mouth, focusing on the divide in his lip from just where the elbow connected. The blood had already begun pouring out, and Brook could have sworn that he could smell it already. The blood-baden breath showered him with a lust that he hadn't felt so strongly in nearly a day. Vivien better enjoy what was about to happen to him, and there was no pity to be found if he didn't; it was his own damn fault for bleeding, anyway. They were all just asking for it.
"Aaaaalright, let's find the perfect place for you, shall we?" Brook sauntered around Vivien to his head and switched the gun from his right hand to his left. His face still had a smile on it as he bent down. His grin was neither malicious nor devious, but non-chalant, as though he were just dragging a bag of mulch from one end of the grounds to another. To Brook, this was just another day in a garden where the mulch was wet and red, and the fertilizer had an annoying tendency to scream. His fingers stretched out wide to grab as much of Vivien's hair as he could, getting a substantial handful. Then Brook straightened up as much as his height would allow, dragging Viven along the ground. The pain was bound to force the boy to cooperate, and cooperation was always a nice thing to have!
"Ugh... let's see. You're too close to Raine if I put you here..." Brook muttered to himself after some dragging. After another two feet or so, however, a delighted chuckle burst from his throat and he let Viven's head drop, moving around to stand at the boy's legs once more. "Heeere we are! Now just to make sure that you don't move around too much and fuck up the arrangement. Don't worry... I do this for a living!" If only he was qualified to say that he was a master gardener, he would have said that too. Alas, he'd have to take a few more classes before he could put himself among the best in terms of his skill. Still this was his livelihood... he'd make it someday, and Tiffany would be so proud! Perhaps even Vivien would be, despite his smaller role in the masterpiece.
There was the messy matter of immobilization to attend to, however, and Brook set right to it. It was a shame kneecaps didn't bleed much, but he got enough when he pressed the barrel of the liberator down to Vivien's left knee and fired point blank. The kick of the gun, as trashy as the thing seemed to be, never ceased to amaze and amuse the gardener, who took great pleasure in seeing just what happened to Colin's knee when it was shot, only this time it was from about an inch away. Made the shattering all that more lovely. In a manner of professionalism, Brook swiftly repeated the feat with Vivien's other kneecap, struggling to keep in the manic giggles that just wanted to come out and party.
How many bullets did this thing even have!?
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Hollyquin†
- Posts: 332
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:24 am
He thought about crawling. Not that he thought it was going to get him anywhere, but it was something, something he could probably do, and he felt kind of guilty just lying here. Guilty's the wrong word, but it's the first one to come to mind. Weren't you supposed to run screaming when someone's standing near you- over you, now- with a gun? Wasn't that, like, the right answer? But he wasn't sure his legs would be able to hold him up anymore, and he was pretty sure he'd feel a lethal pain between his shoulder blades if he tried, so- crawling. Crawling seemed like a good compromise, at least it did until Brook took up a fistful of his hair.
"Aaaaalright, let's find the perfect place for you, shall we?"
That...was not encouraging. The expression on the boy's face wasn't helping, either. It was so normal and that's what made it fucking terrifying.
Ow. Ow. Owwwww, this hurt, not in the same way the split lip did. It hurt in a way that made him feel young, like he was in kindergarten with some irritating boy making fun of how long his hair was. Like that, only all encompassing, and he sucked on his split lip to keep a moan of pain from escaping. He figured that'd only encourage him, and he was going to keep on keeping on with that dignity thing for as long as his self-control didn't betray him. Besides, white noise was his best friend, and it let the pain wash over him in waves.
At least he didn't have to move. God, he was tired. Why didn't I sleep last night...? Other than the obvious. Bad decision, Vi, honestly.
"Ugh... let's see. You're too close to Raine if I put you here..."
Some unoccupied part of his brain figured this out. He thinks this is decorative. He thinks this is DECORATIVE! This boy. He has no design sense. None. That hurts me. Hell, quite a few things were hurting him right now. The part of his brain that would be properly horrified by this realization- in a holy shit he's using me as a garden decoration sense rather than a holy shit this is the tackiest thing I have ever seen sense- was too occupied to take notice.
They stopped, and for a moment all Vivien felt was relief.
"Heeere we are! Now just to make sure that you don't move around too much and fuck up the arrangement. Don't worry... I do this for a living!"
What does that even mean? This boy...one-hundred-percent cuckoo bananas. His wit was returning to him. Well...what passed for wit, anyway. That was encouraging, at least, having his brain work at least a little. Maybe, if I could just get keep him talking, maybe I could move really slowly, like they do on TV, yeah? So he doesn't notice I'm- but I don't even know where the gun went, I'm grasping at straws anyway, what can I really do here? What can I even do? At least he's not pulling my h-
He felt the barrel of the gun touch his kneecap, and he never had the chance to react.
There was a gunshot.
There was a scream.
There they were, again.
And Vivien's eyes were squeezed shut as he gave himself over again to nothing, dignity be damned.
"Aaaaalright, let's find the perfect place for you, shall we?"
That...was not encouraging. The expression on the boy's face wasn't helping, either. It was so normal and that's what made it fucking terrifying.
Ow. Ow. Owwwww, this hurt, not in the same way the split lip did. It hurt in a way that made him feel young, like he was in kindergarten with some irritating boy making fun of how long his hair was. Like that, only all encompassing, and he sucked on his split lip to keep a moan of pain from escaping. He figured that'd only encourage him, and he was going to keep on keeping on with that dignity thing for as long as his self-control didn't betray him. Besides, white noise was his best friend, and it let the pain wash over him in waves.
At least he didn't have to move. God, he was tired. Why didn't I sleep last night...? Other than the obvious. Bad decision, Vi, honestly.
"Ugh... let's see. You're too close to Raine if I put you here..."
Some unoccupied part of his brain figured this out. He thinks this is decorative. He thinks this is DECORATIVE! This boy. He has no design sense. None. That hurts me. Hell, quite a few things were hurting him right now. The part of his brain that would be properly horrified by this realization- in a holy shit he's using me as a garden decoration sense rather than a holy shit this is the tackiest thing I have ever seen sense- was too occupied to take notice.
They stopped, and for a moment all Vivien felt was relief.
"Heeere we are! Now just to make sure that you don't move around too much and fuck up the arrangement. Don't worry... I do this for a living!"
What does that even mean? This boy...one-hundred-percent cuckoo bananas. His wit was returning to him. Well...what passed for wit, anyway. That was encouraging, at least, having his brain work at least a little. Maybe, if I could just get keep him talking, maybe I could move really slowly, like they do on TV, yeah? So he doesn't notice I'm- but I don't even know where the gun went, I'm grasping at straws anyway, what can I really do here? What can I even do? At least he's not pulling my h-
He felt the barrel of the gun touch his kneecap, and he never had the chance to react.
There was a gunshot.
There was a scream.
There they were, again.
And Vivien's eyes were squeezed shut as he gave himself over again to nothing, dignity be damned.
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.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
The musty, dirt-reeking air split open to the music of Vivien's throat. It was about time, if one were to ask the eager and anxious gardener who just couldn't wait to continue with the show. If it was anything to Vivien's credit, the feminine male had lasted way longer and had put up with much more than anybody else before finally screaming. However, the bullet won yet again in eliciting responses from their targets, even if that response was sometimes to simply die. Apparently, you couldn't just ignore one of the little fucking things.
"Oh god, FINALLY!" Brook yelled in a strange, energetic version of relief. "I thought you'd never open that whore mouth of yours!" He threw his knees up, running in place as his excitement ran its course. If he didn't have it down pat before, Vivien sure as hell knew his place now! Oh, the ways that hearing a scream could be a bitter but invigorating reminder that you were still alive, still accomplishing something for others who didn't have the same liberty. Of course, you're also accomplishing things for those who will soon lose that priveledge. Not like they'd miss it, given all the fun they were going to have together.
Brook threw himself down at Vivien, getting as close and intimate to the strange boy as he had Colin. His bruised throat throbbed in memory of the ordeal, but it only served to spice up Brook's spirit. "Keep screaming..." He growled, his lower lip quivering from the electricity of the situation. The only thing keeping Brook's body from coming down on Vivien entirely were the two arms firmly pushing against the ground on either side of Vivien's shoulders, and his pointed feet, poised as though he were doing push-ups. "Keep screaming until you're dead! Shit, I'll even scream with you!" Brook rolled off to the right and stood up, making good on his promise. He waved his arms as though he were trying to flag down a plane flying overhead, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Oh god, somebody help us! Oh please help us, he's killing us!"
The strain on his voice was great enough that, after his fits were complete, the 'cries for help' degenerated into coughing and clearing of the throat. This, in turn, evolved into a subdued fit of giggling, which Brook maintained right up until he positioned himself at Vivien's feet once more. All of Brook's smiles, such as the innocent one that hinted at a happier time, the smug smirk that showed just who the dominant person was, and even the manic grin as all the blood came pouring out... all of these were gone.
"But nobody's going to save us, are they, Vivien?" Brook asked, pointing the gun down at the defenseless boy. "Nobody saved her. Nobody saved me. What makes you think anybody's going to save you, huh?" The Minnesotan gardener slowly dropped to his knees, grinding the stained joints of his pants into the dirt and further ruining them. "This... this isn't really much of a game, is it... it's stupid, huh?" He looked up to Vivien's face for a moment, wondering if the guy truly understood what was going on here. He, himself, wasn't even sure if he was positive if he knew if...
"Hey... but that doesn't mean I can't be a nice guy, right?" Brook pushed back the sadness, as there was still much more work to be done. And if Vivien was going to be inducted into the garden, then darn tootin', they were going to do this properly. And if they were going to do this properly, then...
"First thing's first!"
Brook's free hand clamped down onto one of the bloody messes that was once a kneecap, shoving and forcing the leg to open away from its twin. His fingers twitched and fiddled with the gun in his right hand, thirsting for more pain. More something, a dose of any hell in a can just to remind him that they were still going. But of course, there had to be more to it than all of that. After all, he was still performing a favor, wasn't he?
"If you wanted to be a girl, Vivien, you could have just ASKED!"
Brook pulled the trigger again, and shrieked with laughter until his throat hurt as much as his heart.
"Oh god, FINALLY!" Brook yelled in a strange, energetic version of relief. "I thought you'd never open that whore mouth of yours!" He threw his knees up, running in place as his excitement ran its course. If he didn't have it down pat before, Vivien sure as hell knew his place now! Oh, the ways that hearing a scream could be a bitter but invigorating reminder that you were still alive, still accomplishing something for others who didn't have the same liberty. Of course, you're also accomplishing things for those who will soon lose that priveledge. Not like they'd miss it, given all the fun they were going to have together.
Brook threw himself down at Vivien, getting as close and intimate to the strange boy as he had Colin. His bruised throat throbbed in memory of the ordeal, but it only served to spice up Brook's spirit. "Keep screaming..." He growled, his lower lip quivering from the electricity of the situation. The only thing keeping Brook's body from coming down on Vivien entirely were the two arms firmly pushing against the ground on either side of Vivien's shoulders, and his pointed feet, poised as though he were doing push-ups. "Keep screaming until you're dead! Shit, I'll even scream with you!" Brook rolled off to the right and stood up, making good on his promise. He waved his arms as though he were trying to flag down a plane flying overhead, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Oh god, somebody help us! Oh please help us, he's killing us!"
The strain on his voice was great enough that, after his fits were complete, the 'cries for help' degenerated into coughing and clearing of the throat. This, in turn, evolved into a subdued fit of giggling, which Brook maintained right up until he positioned himself at Vivien's feet once more. All of Brook's smiles, such as the innocent one that hinted at a happier time, the smug smirk that showed just who the dominant person was, and even the manic grin as all the blood came pouring out... all of these were gone.
"But nobody's going to save us, are they, Vivien?" Brook asked, pointing the gun down at the defenseless boy. "Nobody saved her. Nobody saved me. What makes you think anybody's going to save you, huh?" The Minnesotan gardener slowly dropped to his knees, grinding the stained joints of his pants into the dirt and further ruining them. "This... this isn't really much of a game, is it... it's stupid, huh?" He looked up to Vivien's face for a moment, wondering if the guy truly understood what was going on here. He, himself, wasn't even sure if he was positive if he knew if...
"Hey... but that doesn't mean I can't be a nice guy, right?" Brook pushed back the sadness, as there was still much more work to be done. And if Vivien was going to be inducted into the garden, then darn tootin', they were going to do this properly. And if they were going to do this properly, then...
"First thing's first!"
Brook's free hand clamped down onto one of the bloody messes that was once a kneecap, shoving and forcing the leg to open away from its twin. His fingers twitched and fiddled with the gun in his right hand, thirsting for more pain. More something, a dose of any hell in a can just to remind him that they were still going. But of course, there had to be more to it than all of that. After all, he was still performing a favor, wasn't he?
"If you wanted to be a girl, Vivien, you could have just ASKED!"
Brook pulled the trigger again, and shrieked with laughter until his throat hurt as much as his heart.
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Hollyquin†
- Posts: 332
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:24 am
There were voices coming from somewhere but where, Vivien couldn't say, because he wasn't there. He was somewhere as far away as possible from that place, lost in a sea of white noise and it was funny because he could hear a voice in his head congratulating him on his strength, for holding on to his dignity, while somewhere else he still heard echoing screams. He couldn't say for sure if they were his but if he let himself out of his mind for long enough to feel he could feel a dull aching in his throat, not that he could do that for very long.
He felt it, somewhere. On some level he was feeling the pain but what little remained of his consciousness had fled somewhere deep inside itself to wait out what he really was going to have to admit to himself would be his final seconds. Was it weird that he found himself at least a little proud that he had the remaining sense of mind to have thoughts like he could at least let me fix my makeup and I really wish I'd fixed my hair when I had the chance rolling through his mind? Stupid, inconsequential, shallow thoughts, but it was nice to having something to cling to that proved he was still himself.
He still heard voices- wait, not voices, it was one voice, one, and it was loud, too loud, too close-
"Keep screaming..."
And then, those words, just those two as though from the other end of a tunnel. Vague, diluted. He was losing blood, he realized dimly, not much blood but enough to make him feel sick, and he wondered why he'd heard those words when he knew he hadn't stopped screaming, his face scrunched up in pain with these lucid thoughts floating elsewhere, lost in a mental abyss. He could reach out and touch the blinding pain in his knees but he didn't want to, he really just wanted to pretend for as long as he could
There was pressure on him now. He could tell what it was if he opened his eyes but if he opened his eyes he'd be back in the garden for real. No turning back.
"But nobody's going to save us, are they, Vivien? Nobody saved her. Nobody saved me. What makes you think anybody's going to save you, huh?"
Damsel-in-distress...heh. I was stupid. I was so stupid. He passed a vague thought as to who "her" was but couldn't find the energy to stay interested.
"This... this isn't really much of a game, is it... it's stupid, huh?"
Something in the voice- and Vivien remembered for the first time since the shots had rung out that it belonged to Brook, Liam Brooks of all people- made him crack open an eye, landing him squarely back in the garden. Ironically, getting a grip on the pain let him finally regain some semblance of self-control, let him at least stop screaming. There was that dignity thing, again. There was something missing in the other boy's eyes, but there was something new there. Something...sad?
"Hey... but that doesn't mean I can't be a nice guy, right?"
Vivien blinked. The voice at the other end of the tunnel was hauntingly real again.
"First thing's first!"
Vivien immediately regretted opening his eyes at all.
He felt a hand touch where the bullets had hit, he felt his legs move apart and he could provide no resistance with his kneecaps gone and the rest of him paralyzed by fear and abortive attempts at maintaining dignity, but there was some instinct, some immediate reaction that knew how, where this was going and he felt himself screaming again before he even knew why but he felt movement and the cold metal touched
no no no no no
no no
no no no
no
NO
"If you wanted to be a girl, Vivien, you could have just ASKED!"
Those words could haunt him forever, if he had the time.
He felt it, somewhere. On some level he was feeling the pain but what little remained of his consciousness had fled somewhere deep inside itself to wait out what he really was going to have to admit to himself would be his final seconds. Was it weird that he found himself at least a little proud that he had the remaining sense of mind to have thoughts like he could at least let me fix my makeup and I really wish I'd fixed my hair when I had the chance rolling through his mind? Stupid, inconsequential, shallow thoughts, but it was nice to having something to cling to that proved he was still himself.
He still heard voices- wait, not voices, it was one voice, one, and it was loud, too loud, too close-
"Keep screaming..."
And then, those words, just those two as though from the other end of a tunnel. Vague, diluted. He was losing blood, he realized dimly, not much blood but enough to make him feel sick, and he wondered why he'd heard those words when he knew he hadn't stopped screaming, his face scrunched up in pain with these lucid thoughts floating elsewhere, lost in a mental abyss. He could reach out and touch the blinding pain in his knees but he didn't want to, he really just wanted to pretend for as long as he could
There was pressure on him now. He could tell what it was if he opened his eyes but if he opened his eyes he'd be back in the garden for real. No turning back.
"But nobody's going to save us, are they, Vivien? Nobody saved her. Nobody saved me. What makes you think anybody's going to save you, huh?"
Damsel-in-distress...heh. I was stupid. I was so stupid. He passed a vague thought as to who "her" was but couldn't find the energy to stay interested.
"This... this isn't really much of a game, is it... it's stupid, huh?"
Something in the voice- and Vivien remembered for the first time since the shots had rung out that it belonged to Brook, Liam Brooks of all people- made him crack open an eye, landing him squarely back in the garden. Ironically, getting a grip on the pain let him finally regain some semblance of self-control, let him at least stop screaming. There was that dignity thing, again. There was something missing in the other boy's eyes, but there was something new there. Something...sad?
"Hey... but that doesn't mean I can't be a nice guy, right?"
Vivien blinked. The voice at the other end of the tunnel was hauntingly real again.
"First thing's first!"
Vivien immediately regretted opening his eyes at all.
He felt a hand touch where the bullets had hit, he felt his legs move apart and he could provide no resistance with his kneecaps gone and the rest of him paralyzed by fear and abortive attempts at maintaining dignity, but there was some instinct, some immediate reaction that knew how, where this was going and he felt himself screaming again before he even knew why but he felt movement and the cold metal touched
no no no no no
no no
no no no
no
NO
"If you wanted to be a girl, Vivien, you could have just ASKED!"
Those words could haunt him forever, if he had the time.
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.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Brook stood up once his handiwork was complete. It wasn't pretty, and with the way Vivien was writhing, neither was was she, but these things weren't to be expected to come early. Beauty, like a fine blossoming saguaro, was one of those things that could only come with time and patience. There was nothing wrong with any of that; a man of his trade would have to facilitate such qualities as patience, precision and attentiveness to detail if he were to have any success at all. He would find success... that, there was no doubt about.
However, this was no time to be fantazising about the future to come. His favor to Vivien was not finished and... frankly, it was the least he could do for the girl who was bleeding so heavily. The poor thing had to lay there in that foul stuff, and that was something Brook wished to free her from. Even he couldn't be so vicious as to subject somebody to the object of his own fears. At that point, death was far sweeter a fate. He was sure Vivien would agree. In order to fulfill this one small favor, though, he'd need the proper tools, and with a bit of luck...
Brook wandered away from the sniveling wreck of a person in search of just where they had left the bags Vivien was carrying. After an odd bit of pacing and wondering aloud to himself just where they might be, the boy amused himself by spotting the distinctive dufflebag near a rock, which in itself was near where Vivien had first entered the garden. "Oh, Brook, you are one blind sunuvabitch", he playfully self-chastised, going so far as to flick himself in the ear as he walked over to the article. He rummaged through it carelessly, pushing aside the clothing and assorted food and water. He was tempted to just cast them across the ground to make his search easier, but that would've been littering.. in his very own garden, to boot, and that's something only a pure monster would do.
Finally, at the bottom, Brook grasped the small makeup kit that he was looking for and correctly assumed Vivien owned. He pulled it out, the thought occurring to him that he didn't exactly know how to use one of these, but there was no better time to learn. Vivien had to be pretty before she died, after all. With the makeup kit in hand, Brook turned himself around to walk back to Vivien when something out of place caught his eye. A spot on another rock just a few yards over seemed a little darker than it should have been, and a detail like that was just begging for attention. Since the newest addition to the garden clearly wasn't going anywhere, Brook merrily walked on over to see what it was, and that's when he saw what the source of that echoed cracking noise was. A gun... a fancy looking one at that, nothing like the bloodthirsty hunk of shit in his hands. Hell, it might've even been nicer than the gun he got from Ridley, but that wasn't the most important point here. Vivien had a gun the entire time, Brook had somehow managed to get it out of her hands before he caught a bullet to the brain.
And that would have just been terrible.
Stashing the liberator into his pocket first, followed up shortly by the new gun being stuffed in the opposite pocket, Brook brought the beauty kit back to the suffering child. He then stepped over Vivien with one foot to straddle him, covering up his own crotch as he went to lower his knees onto Vivien's shoulders so he didn't suffer the same trauma from her that he did from Colin. Some people just never figured out what they wanted until Brook told them, which served as a point of endless irritation. They'd see in death, though... they'd see just what a glorious priveledge this was.
"You've lost so much blood, Vivien..." Brook solemnly stated, fumbling with the makeup kit in order to open it. "I should probably hurry. You must be so weak, practically unable to move. That's okay... I'm going to need you to lay very still for this anyway, kay? I'm not good at this, not one bit, because I've never done it before, but we're gonna spice you up before you go away! ... Well, part of you. Your body is staying riiiiiight here!" Once he finally managed to open the kit up, Brook convulsed in impending joy. His hand had been shaking ever since the last time he fired his weapon, and there was no telling if it was from the excitement of it all, or if his gun kicked just a little harder that time. It could be both... yes, it could be both.
Brook made the selection of his tool with a little hesitation,and even some confusion. All those brushes meant nary a thing to him, the different choices and varieties being conveyed in some girly language he never actually tried to bother with. Tiffany would know for sure... yes, she would, because she was always done up so nicely for everybody. Brook selected the eyeliner, the only thing he could identify without much trouble (it always disturbingly like a pencil to him... who puts one of those near their eye!?), and tried to work without much further thought. His back bent forward in a pained stoop, his fingertips carefully brushing the strange pencil across the edge of Vivien's eyelid.
Tiffany really did always look so nice... didn't she?
His hand trembled slightly as though bothered by the weight of the gun once more, but he managed to control himself.
She tried to look so good for everybody... didn't she? Was it for you, Brook?
The hand shook more. Who wasn't cooperating... himself, or Vivien? 'Stop it', Brook wanted to scream. 'Let me do this!', he would say if he was able. He wasn't able to say it, though. He wasn't able to say or do anything but shake, his temper rising and pushing against a ceiling that was ready to break.
It wasn't. It... was for... she never l... SHE NEVER LOVED...
Too much to bear, too much so fast. Brook's throat opened itself to release a scream of anguish. His hand, now directed only by his mercurial fury, drove the eyeliner down into Vivien's eye. For the first millisecond, it seemed that there was some resistance, only for that to give way to a sickeningly soft popping sound. Then more of the blood oozed out, causing Brook to leap back and off of the girl, his heart racing. All that work and loving care he had put into Vivien had been thrown away, and for what? Who was to blame, because he couldn't bear to point that smoking gun at himself.
"Y-... You could have just cooperated..." Brook stammered, his face growing pale to serve as a contrast against the dark blood still crusted against it. "But no... all of this just wasn't good enough for you, was it!? WAS IT!?" He was no longer addressing anybody or anything in particular as he spouted these random thoughts, pulled straight from a heart wracked with pain and misunderstanding. It had to end somehow... all of it had to end somehow! If he could quickly kill Vivien by kicking her in the head or something similar he'd do it, but that would be far too slow... far too inefficient, and far too intimate with all that disgusting blood that he seemed to have a love/hate relationship with.
There remained a heavy rock at the edge of the clearing opposite to the one Vivien had entered through. While it was a polite enough rock to not bleed all over everything, it always seemed a bit out of place as well, and so Brook intended to remove it. Instead, it would find its purpose as he picked it up, straining his fingertips just to situate the 60-to-70 pound stone in his hands. "V... Vivien..." Brook croaked, shuffling back to the girl who was in the sort of pain that he now envied. "I have a present for you..."
The stone tumbled out of his hands.
However, this was no time to be fantazising about the future to come. His favor to Vivien was not finished and... frankly, it was the least he could do for the girl who was bleeding so heavily. The poor thing had to lay there in that foul stuff, and that was something Brook wished to free her from. Even he couldn't be so vicious as to subject somebody to the object of his own fears. At that point, death was far sweeter a fate. He was sure Vivien would agree. In order to fulfill this one small favor, though, he'd need the proper tools, and with a bit of luck...
Brook wandered away from the sniveling wreck of a person in search of just where they had left the bags Vivien was carrying. After an odd bit of pacing and wondering aloud to himself just where they might be, the boy amused himself by spotting the distinctive dufflebag near a rock, which in itself was near where Vivien had first entered the garden. "Oh, Brook, you are one blind sunuvabitch", he playfully self-chastised, going so far as to flick himself in the ear as he walked over to the article. He rummaged through it carelessly, pushing aside the clothing and assorted food and water. He was tempted to just cast them across the ground to make his search easier, but that would've been littering.. in his very own garden, to boot, and that's something only a pure monster would do.
Finally, at the bottom, Brook grasped the small makeup kit that he was looking for and correctly assumed Vivien owned. He pulled it out, the thought occurring to him that he didn't exactly know how to use one of these, but there was no better time to learn. Vivien had to be pretty before she died, after all. With the makeup kit in hand, Brook turned himself around to walk back to Vivien when something out of place caught his eye. A spot on another rock just a few yards over seemed a little darker than it should have been, and a detail like that was just begging for attention. Since the newest addition to the garden clearly wasn't going anywhere, Brook merrily walked on over to see what it was, and that's when he saw what the source of that echoed cracking noise was. A gun... a fancy looking one at that, nothing like the bloodthirsty hunk of shit in his hands. Hell, it might've even been nicer than the gun he got from Ridley, but that wasn't the most important point here. Vivien had a gun the entire time, Brook had somehow managed to get it out of her hands before he caught a bullet to the brain.
And that would have just been terrible.
Stashing the liberator into his pocket first, followed up shortly by the new gun being stuffed in the opposite pocket, Brook brought the beauty kit back to the suffering child. He then stepped over Vivien with one foot to straddle him, covering up his own crotch as he went to lower his knees onto Vivien's shoulders so he didn't suffer the same trauma from her that he did from Colin. Some people just never figured out what they wanted until Brook told them, which served as a point of endless irritation. They'd see in death, though... they'd see just what a glorious priveledge this was.
"You've lost so much blood, Vivien..." Brook solemnly stated, fumbling with the makeup kit in order to open it. "I should probably hurry. You must be so weak, practically unable to move. That's okay... I'm going to need you to lay very still for this anyway, kay? I'm not good at this, not one bit, because I've never done it before, but we're gonna spice you up before you go away! ... Well, part of you. Your body is staying riiiiiight here!" Once he finally managed to open the kit up, Brook convulsed in impending joy. His hand had been shaking ever since the last time he fired his weapon, and there was no telling if it was from the excitement of it all, or if his gun kicked just a little harder that time. It could be both... yes, it could be both.
Brook made the selection of his tool with a little hesitation,and even some confusion. All those brushes meant nary a thing to him, the different choices and varieties being conveyed in some girly language he never actually tried to bother with. Tiffany would know for sure... yes, she would, because she was always done up so nicely for everybody. Brook selected the eyeliner, the only thing he could identify without much trouble (it always disturbingly like a pencil to him... who puts one of those near their eye!?), and tried to work without much further thought. His back bent forward in a pained stoop, his fingertips carefully brushing the strange pencil across the edge of Vivien's eyelid.
Tiffany really did always look so nice... didn't she?
His hand trembled slightly as though bothered by the weight of the gun once more, but he managed to control himself.
She tried to look so good for everybody... didn't she? Was it for you, Brook?
The hand shook more. Who wasn't cooperating... himself, or Vivien? 'Stop it', Brook wanted to scream. 'Let me do this!', he would say if he was able. He wasn't able to say it, though. He wasn't able to say or do anything but shake, his temper rising and pushing against a ceiling that was ready to break.
It wasn't. It... was for... she never l... SHE NEVER LOVED...
Too much to bear, too much so fast. Brook's throat opened itself to release a scream of anguish. His hand, now directed only by his mercurial fury, drove the eyeliner down into Vivien's eye. For the first millisecond, it seemed that there was some resistance, only for that to give way to a sickeningly soft popping sound. Then more of the blood oozed out, causing Brook to leap back and off of the girl, his heart racing. All that work and loving care he had put into Vivien had been thrown away, and for what? Who was to blame, because he couldn't bear to point that smoking gun at himself.
"Y-... You could have just cooperated..." Brook stammered, his face growing pale to serve as a contrast against the dark blood still crusted against it. "But no... all of this just wasn't good enough for you, was it!? WAS IT!?" He was no longer addressing anybody or anything in particular as he spouted these random thoughts, pulled straight from a heart wracked with pain and misunderstanding. It had to end somehow... all of it had to end somehow! If he could quickly kill Vivien by kicking her in the head or something similar he'd do it, but that would be far too slow... far too inefficient, and far too intimate with all that disgusting blood that he seemed to have a love/hate relationship with.
There remained a heavy rock at the edge of the clearing opposite to the one Vivien had entered through. While it was a polite enough rock to not bleed all over everything, it always seemed a bit out of place as well, and so Brook intended to remove it. Instead, it would find its purpose as he picked it up, straining his fingertips just to situate the 60-to-70 pound stone in his hands. "V... Vivien..." Brook croaked, shuffling back to the girl who was in the sort of pain that he now envied. "I have a present for you..."
The stone tumbled out of his hands.
-
Hollyquin†
- Posts: 332
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:24 am
Somewhere far away, probably, a young woman of twenty-one was screaming her head off so loudly she very nearly missed the ring of her phone. She resolved to ignore it when she chanced to spot the name on the caller ID.
"MAMA!" she shrieked into the phone, not a single decibel lower than she'd been screaming before. Sylvie Morin had a flair for the dramatic much like Vivien himself, and poor mama Marie was momentarily deafened in one ear. Marie Morin did not watch Survival of the Fittest, she refused to bear witness to the depravity of children, but she did call for the occasional update from Sylvie, who wanted to be the first to know if- and if she would admit it to herself, when- she would lose her baby brother. He'd handled most of Survival of the Fittest with a certain self-confidence and panache that most people, including herself, would never manage- particularly with regards to fashion sense. And she was right there with him crying when he'd discovered Carol and found out about Aislyn.
But, this...
"Mama...Vivi, he- no, no, he's not dead, but not- I mean, it can't be much longer, there's so much blood- I CAN'T! No, mama, I can't, I really can't ex- what do you mean, what do you mean? I just said- turn on your TV if you need to know, I really-"
Sylvie was crying again. Sylvie cried a lot, to the point where it almost seemed insulting to be crying over something that seemed to demand something more.
"Mama...no, don't turn on the TV, don't watch, Vivi wouldn't want...No, mama. Yes. Yes, mama, I'll come home. I promise. Just don't- promise me you won't-"
Don't watch this. Please, don't watch this.
There are no words for this.
Vivien couldn't find the words for it either, not like he was thinking in words anymore, not that there was room to think around his writhing body and the shrieks ripping through his throat and the dark, suffocating pain radiating upwards from between his legs. His arms thrashed completely out of his control while he tried to cover himself back up with white noise, absolutely hating himself for his moment of weakness, for allowing himself to come back to the garden just in time for this.
The only words were screaming, mind-numbing agony but that wasn't enough, either.
There's a grief that can't be spoken. There's a pain goes on and on.
A lyric from a song otherwise completely inappropriate for the situation went swirling through his head in a way that made him dizzy. Thinking of musical lyrics at a time like this! He couldn't even remember the next line. It all seemed so wrong in the mind of the person who wasn't, could no longer be Vivien Morin.
"If you wanted to be a girl, Vivien, you could have just ASKED!"
Botched communications. that was what it was, botched communications because Vivien didn't want this. Well, obviously he didn't want to be bleeding out on the dirt ground, but that was so besides the point. Everyone made assumptions about Vivien, his whole life. It was something he knew he'd have to get used to since not even adults who should know better, he thought, would taunt him or make inappropriate remarks or at least not sit next to him on the bus. But honestly, his friends, his sister, his mother, anyone who knew him for real knew the truth.
Vivien didn't want to be a girl. Vivien wanted to be Vivien.
Why was that so difficult for people to understand? He was content. He was happy. He was absolutely different and unusual and unique and beyond anything else, that made him happy. He put up with the taunts, the mocking, the bullshit that came out of it because fuck it, fuck their prejudices and their ignorance and their goddamn stupidity, Vivien Morin was fabulous and utterly, totally himself.
And suddenly he wasn't. Not really.
Fuck you, Liam Brooks. Fuck you for thinking you know what I want. Fuck you for being just like them. Fuck you for all of this.
He wished he could control his flailing arms. He knew his chances of getting out of this alive were beyond zero and his chances of doing any serious injury to Brook were nearly as low, but really one good blow was all he wanted, a solid CRACK that would register as the boy's nose breaking. That would really feel good, right about now, because his overwhelming emotion, for one of the first times in his life, was anger. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair and he wanted Brook to fucking pay for his assumptions and his prejudices and the sick joy he was clearly taking in all of this. Vivien usually took revenge with catty comments but now, for definitely the first time in his life, he wanted someone to hurt.
"You've lost so much blood, Vivien..."
It wasn't that he'd retreated again; he was kept squarely in his place and time by rage, but the other boy's voice still felt far away. He knew why, this time- his consciousness was fading. He felt the blood pooling under him, and he knew it was supposed to be warm but somehow it felt like nothing, like a lukewarm puddle of nothing. His screams were stopping, not because the pain had deadened even the slightest bit but because the constant shrieks were tearing his throat apart- in his final moments he was losing his voice, which was really shitty because Vivien would've loved to give Brook a piece of whatever remained of his mind. His arms had stopped twitching and lay useless at his sides, and he hated this body that had betrayed him, even if it wasn't his to hate anymore.
"I should probably hurry. You must be so weak, practically unable to move. That's okay... I'm going to need you to lay very still for this anyway, kay? I'm not good at this, not one bit, because I've never done it before, but we're gonna spice you up before you go away! ... Well, part of you. Your body is staying riiiiiight here!"
Part of him was more than happy to stay perfectly still. He was getting to be completely exhausted, what with the choking sounds that were all that was left to escape his throat and the rapid blood loss making every breath more and more of an effort. But one arm twitched in a pathetic effort, this need to make him hurt, this need for Brook to bleed and scream and cry, this rage burning through him. It was useless; his arms were as depleted as his legs.
He cracked open an eye- as sure as he was that whatever this was couldn't be good, he was still somewhat curious as to what the fuck Brook was talking about. He was quite surprised to see Brook rifling through his makeup bag. For a short moment all he felt was a quick burst of pleasure, the relieved feeling that maybe he wouldn't go to his death looking like...well, death. That pleasure was quickly dissipated by two thoughts.
Number one, there were things wrong with him that even makeup couldn't fix.
And number two, there was no way Brook had any idea how to put on makeup.
He held completely still. He could at least make this a little easier on the other boy, and though Vivien longed to make more attempts to make those arms that weren't his move, any movement at all would guarantee that he'd go to his death looking like a fucking clown. He did wish Brook hadn't picked eyeliner, though, that wasn't something you wanted in the hands of a beginner, and the boy's shaking hands were not going to make it any better. He tried not to blink- screwing his eyes back shut from pain would guarantee failure and probably piss Brook off, which would be all kinds of not good.
He took a moment to reflect, instead.
Who's going to miss me? Sylvie and Marie, naturally. He was near positive Sylvie would be watching this- she didn't watch it, as a rule, she couldn't stand violence or blood or icky things like that but she did love Vivien more than anything and he was sure she wouldn't miss a moment. Marie, he was less sure- she loved him just as much but she hated Survival of the Fittest. He'd watched it occasionally, mostly with Sylvie, but Marie wouldn't touch it.
He hoped beyond hope that she wasn't watching this right now, watching her little Vivi get turned into a monster. Sylvie could cope, maybe, but mama...
He wondered if they'd miss him at all, now that he wasn't himself.
Brook's hand was shaking more now, not that he really noticed.
That was pretty much it, he realized pathetically. His mama and his sister- he didn't know his extended family well enough to believe they'd give two fucks. And his friends? They were all seniors at Bayview Secondary School. Several of them- his Carol, his Aislyn- they were already dead. Others- Sammy, Sapphire, Claire - they'd be going in the near future, not that he'd be around to see it happen.
Empty chairs at empty tables, now my friends are dead and gone.
Right, that's the next line. How apropos.
Brook was shaking yet more and the look in his eyes suggested some sort of internal struggle. Good. Let him struggle. He wanted to spit in the boy's face, but there was no saliva left in his disturbingly dry mouth and besides, his makeup would be horrific enough as it wpop.
Somewhere far away, probably, a young woman of twenty-one's screams had only gotten louder.
Vivien himself, he could only throw his mouth open, choking and gurgling but unable to scream at the nuclear pain erupting from what was once an eyeball, the intense heat radiating from that spot while the rest of his body'd gone cold.
"Y-... You could have just cooperated..."
He sounded pathetic, pathetic, somewhere far away, the other end of a tunnel again. Something was wrong with him besides the obvious; he was upset for some reason, and there was some clarity about that that struck Vivien as a bad sign, even as the phantom limb of his dull right arm clutched at what was once an eye.
"But no... all of this just wasn't good enough for you, was it!? WAS IT!?"
Who the fuck was he talking to? The boy moved elsewhere, throwing a wave of panic through Vivien, who did not want to be left here alone to wallow in inexplicably cold blood, crying phantom tears and screaming phantom screams now that his body had betrayed him completely. But there was something in Brook's voice besides anger, rage, all of that- there was pain, there was pain there. Faint but there. Present and accounted for. He heard footsteps coming closer, and the smallest wry smile twitched onto his face.
He hadn't quite managed to break Brook's nose, but he'd made him hurt, and that was enough.
Well...not enough, but the best I could do, I think.
"V... Vivien...I have a present for you..."
He would've giggled, he really did have the urge to, but he couldn't get his mouth to make any more sounds. He settled for a silent goodnight, Sylvie as he closed his remaining eye.
And this time when something cracked, it was his face.
RANK 131TH [VIVIEN MORIN] - DEAD
"MAMA!" she shrieked into the phone, not a single decibel lower than she'd been screaming before. Sylvie Morin had a flair for the dramatic much like Vivien himself, and poor mama Marie was momentarily deafened in one ear. Marie Morin did not watch Survival of the Fittest, she refused to bear witness to the depravity of children, but she did call for the occasional update from Sylvie, who wanted to be the first to know if- and if she would admit it to herself, when- she would lose her baby brother. He'd handled most of Survival of the Fittest with a certain self-confidence and panache that most people, including herself, would never manage- particularly with regards to fashion sense. And she was right there with him crying when he'd discovered Carol and found out about Aislyn.
But, this...
"Mama...Vivi, he- no, no, he's not dead, but not- I mean, it can't be much longer, there's so much blood- I CAN'T! No, mama, I can't, I really can't ex- what do you mean, what do you mean? I just said- turn on your TV if you need to know, I really-"
Sylvie was crying again. Sylvie cried a lot, to the point where it almost seemed insulting to be crying over something that seemed to demand something more.
"Mama...no, don't turn on the TV, don't watch, Vivi wouldn't want...No, mama. Yes. Yes, mama, I'll come home. I promise. Just don't- promise me you won't-"
Don't watch this. Please, don't watch this.
There are no words for this.
Vivien couldn't find the words for it either, not like he was thinking in words anymore, not that there was room to think around his writhing body and the shrieks ripping through his throat and the dark, suffocating pain radiating upwards from between his legs. His arms thrashed completely out of his control while he tried to cover himself back up with white noise, absolutely hating himself for his moment of weakness, for allowing himself to come back to the garden just in time for this.
The only words were screaming, mind-numbing agony but that wasn't enough, either.
There's a grief that can't be spoken. There's a pain goes on and on.
A lyric from a song otherwise completely inappropriate for the situation went swirling through his head in a way that made him dizzy. Thinking of musical lyrics at a time like this! He couldn't even remember the next line. It all seemed so wrong in the mind of the person who wasn't, could no longer be Vivien Morin.
"If you wanted to be a girl, Vivien, you could have just ASKED!"
Botched communications. that was what it was, botched communications because Vivien didn't want this. Well, obviously he didn't want to be bleeding out on the dirt ground, but that was so besides the point. Everyone made assumptions about Vivien, his whole life. It was something he knew he'd have to get used to since not even adults who should know better, he thought, would taunt him or make inappropriate remarks or at least not sit next to him on the bus. But honestly, his friends, his sister, his mother, anyone who knew him for real knew the truth.
Vivien didn't want to be a girl. Vivien wanted to be Vivien.
Why was that so difficult for people to understand? He was content. He was happy. He was absolutely different and unusual and unique and beyond anything else, that made him happy. He put up with the taunts, the mocking, the bullshit that came out of it because fuck it, fuck their prejudices and their ignorance and their goddamn stupidity, Vivien Morin was fabulous and utterly, totally himself.
And suddenly he wasn't. Not really.
Fuck you, Liam Brooks. Fuck you for thinking you know what I want. Fuck you for being just like them. Fuck you for all of this.
He wished he could control his flailing arms. He knew his chances of getting out of this alive were beyond zero and his chances of doing any serious injury to Brook were nearly as low, but really one good blow was all he wanted, a solid CRACK that would register as the boy's nose breaking. That would really feel good, right about now, because his overwhelming emotion, for one of the first times in his life, was anger. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair and he wanted Brook to fucking pay for his assumptions and his prejudices and the sick joy he was clearly taking in all of this. Vivien usually took revenge with catty comments but now, for definitely the first time in his life, he wanted someone to hurt.
"You've lost so much blood, Vivien..."
It wasn't that he'd retreated again; he was kept squarely in his place and time by rage, but the other boy's voice still felt far away. He knew why, this time- his consciousness was fading. He felt the blood pooling under him, and he knew it was supposed to be warm but somehow it felt like nothing, like a lukewarm puddle of nothing. His screams were stopping, not because the pain had deadened even the slightest bit but because the constant shrieks were tearing his throat apart- in his final moments he was losing his voice, which was really shitty because Vivien would've loved to give Brook a piece of whatever remained of his mind. His arms had stopped twitching and lay useless at his sides, and he hated this body that had betrayed him, even if it wasn't his to hate anymore.
"I should probably hurry. You must be so weak, practically unable to move. That's okay... I'm going to need you to lay very still for this anyway, kay? I'm not good at this, not one bit, because I've never done it before, but we're gonna spice you up before you go away! ... Well, part of you. Your body is staying riiiiiight here!"
Part of him was more than happy to stay perfectly still. He was getting to be completely exhausted, what with the choking sounds that were all that was left to escape his throat and the rapid blood loss making every breath more and more of an effort. But one arm twitched in a pathetic effort, this need to make him hurt, this need for Brook to bleed and scream and cry, this rage burning through him. It was useless; his arms were as depleted as his legs.
He cracked open an eye- as sure as he was that whatever this was couldn't be good, he was still somewhat curious as to what the fuck Brook was talking about. He was quite surprised to see Brook rifling through his makeup bag. For a short moment all he felt was a quick burst of pleasure, the relieved feeling that maybe he wouldn't go to his death looking like...well, death. That pleasure was quickly dissipated by two thoughts.
Number one, there were things wrong with him that even makeup couldn't fix.
And number two, there was no way Brook had any idea how to put on makeup.
He held completely still. He could at least make this a little easier on the other boy, and though Vivien longed to make more attempts to make those arms that weren't his move, any movement at all would guarantee that he'd go to his death looking like a fucking clown. He did wish Brook hadn't picked eyeliner, though, that wasn't something you wanted in the hands of a beginner, and the boy's shaking hands were not going to make it any better. He tried not to blink- screwing his eyes back shut from pain would guarantee failure and probably piss Brook off, which would be all kinds of not good.
He took a moment to reflect, instead.
Who's going to miss me? Sylvie and Marie, naturally. He was near positive Sylvie would be watching this- she didn't watch it, as a rule, she couldn't stand violence or blood or icky things like that but she did love Vivien more than anything and he was sure she wouldn't miss a moment. Marie, he was less sure- she loved him just as much but she hated Survival of the Fittest. He'd watched it occasionally, mostly with Sylvie, but Marie wouldn't touch it.
He hoped beyond hope that she wasn't watching this right now, watching her little Vivi get turned into a monster. Sylvie could cope, maybe, but mama...
He wondered if they'd miss him at all, now that he wasn't himself.
Brook's hand was shaking more now, not that he really noticed.
That was pretty much it, he realized pathetically. His mama and his sister- he didn't know his extended family well enough to believe they'd give two fucks. And his friends? They were all seniors at Bayview Secondary School. Several of them- his Carol, his Aislyn- they were already dead. Others- Sammy, Sapphire, Claire - they'd be going in the near future, not that he'd be around to see it happen.
Empty chairs at empty tables, now my friends are dead and gone.
Right, that's the next line. How apropos.
Brook was shaking yet more and the look in his eyes suggested some sort of internal struggle. Good. Let him struggle. He wanted to spit in the boy's face, but there was no saliva left in his disturbingly dry mouth and besides, his makeup would be horrific enough as it wpop.
Somewhere far away, probably, a young woman of twenty-one's screams had only gotten louder.
Vivien himself, he could only throw his mouth open, choking and gurgling but unable to scream at the nuclear pain erupting from what was once an eyeball, the intense heat radiating from that spot while the rest of his body'd gone cold.
"Y-... You could have just cooperated..."
He sounded pathetic, pathetic, somewhere far away, the other end of a tunnel again. Something was wrong with him besides the obvious; he was upset for some reason, and there was some clarity about that that struck Vivien as a bad sign, even as the phantom limb of his dull right arm clutched at what was once an eye.
"But no... all of this just wasn't good enough for you, was it!? WAS IT!?"
Who the fuck was he talking to? The boy moved elsewhere, throwing a wave of panic through Vivien, who did not want to be left here alone to wallow in inexplicably cold blood, crying phantom tears and screaming phantom screams now that his body had betrayed him completely. But there was something in Brook's voice besides anger, rage, all of that- there was pain, there was pain there. Faint but there. Present and accounted for. He heard footsteps coming closer, and the smallest wry smile twitched onto his face.
He hadn't quite managed to break Brook's nose, but he'd made him hurt, and that was enough.
Well...not enough, but the best I could do, I think.
"V... Vivien...I have a present for you..."
He would've giggled, he really did have the urge to, but he couldn't get his mouth to make any more sounds. He settled for a silent goodnight, Sylvie as he closed his remaining eye.
And this time when something cracked, it was his face.
RANK 131TH [VIVIEN MORIN] - DEAD
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.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Why couldn't he feel any happiness? The garden seemed devoid of joy, having received nothing from the brutal event when that should have restored a spark of giddiness. Yet, Brook had received nothing from that, and left the job at that. Vivien was now dead, fit and prepared to join the garden. So why did he feel so terrible, knowing he had done what he was supposed to do?
None of this was pity for Vivien, or any of the other members of the garden for that matter. He did consider the option, albeit briefly. After all, any person with the opportunity to join such a prestigious organization would have to be absolutely insane to complain or attempt to refuse, and thus unworthy of any significant attention, much less pity. More than one person had been foolish enough to deny themselves this honor before, but Vivien could now count herself amongst the lucky.
And still, Brook found himself in great pain. He had no serious injuries to speak of on his body, and the bruises from Colin and Ridley were well on the way to healing fully, but he still found himself in immense pain. The affliction gripped at his chest, trying to wrench his heart free from its cage. He never looked back at the broken face of the broken mess he had just inducted into the garden, freeing her blood from the now-useless husk. He did not turn to Tiffany this time, however. She currently could not offer the guidance that Brook sought.
The garden was safe, at least for the time being, and perhaps if he were to relieve himself of his duties for a while, perhaps even relieve his bladder in the fringe of the trees (never on sacred ground, of course), then the weight over his soul would be lifted. Limping for a few steps in order to wake up his reluctant legs, Brook ventured off into the woods until he could just barely see the light from the clearing. The subdued shriek from his zipper and the all-too-satisfying rush of micturation were, for a while, the only sounds he could hear. That was just fine; the quieter his cemetery of life and beauty remained, the better. When the boy finished shaking himself free of those last few, pesky droplets, he squared himself away and set about marching around the perimeter of the garden.
The forest being the untamed place that it was, 'marching' probably wasn't the best way to describe the plodding, unstealthy gait the boy used, but it was at least how he thought of it. This was just another manifestation of his duties, after all. His haven would be safe, yes... Tiffany would be well served, yes... but in all honesty, Brook wasn't sure just how long he could keep this up.
None of this was pity for Vivien, or any of the other members of the garden for that matter. He did consider the option, albeit briefly. After all, any person with the opportunity to join such a prestigious organization would have to be absolutely insane to complain or attempt to refuse, and thus unworthy of any significant attention, much less pity. More than one person had been foolish enough to deny themselves this honor before, but Vivien could now count herself amongst the lucky.
And still, Brook found himself in great pain. He had no serious injuries to speak of on his body, and the bruises from Colin and Ridley were well on the way to healing fully, but he still found himself in immense pain. The affliction gripped at his chest, trying to wrench his heart free from its cage. He never looked back at the broken face of the broken mess he had just inducted into the garden, freeing her blood from the now-useless husk. He did not turn to Tiffany this time, however. She currently could not offer the guidance that Brook sought.
The garden was safe, at least for the time being, and perhaps if he were to relieve himself of his duties for a while, perhaps even relieve his bladder in the fringe of the trees (never on sacred ground, of course), then the weight over his soul would be lifted. Limping for a few steps in order to wake up his reluctant legs, Brook ventured off into the woods until he could just barely see the light from the clearing. The subdued shriek from his zipper and the all-too-satisfying rush of micturation were, for a while, the only sounds he could hear. That was just fine; the quieter his cemetery of life and beauty remained, the better. When the boy finished shaking himself free of those last few, pesky droplets, he squared himself away and set about marching around the perimeter of the garden.
The forest being the untamed place that it was, 'marching' probably wasn't the best way to describe the plodding, unstealthy gait the boy used, but it was at least how he thought of it. This was just another manifestation of his duties, after all. His haven would be safe, yes... Tiffany would be well served, yes... but in all honesty, Brook wasn't sure just how long he could keep this up.
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Little Boy†
- Posts: 256
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 4:47 am
((Dutchy continues from Streita))
Dutchy weaved his way through the woods, cautiously shuffling from tree to tree. He was by no means quiet, snapping quite a few branches along the way, but for what it was worth he was trying. Without Roland around for company, Dutchy had finally realized just how vulnerable he was. If anyone wanted too, they could kill him in seconds. In Roland's shadow he'd been safe. Out of it, the forest took on a whole new level of menace.
But that's why I left. I can't stand behind him.
He continued on his way, stopping briefly near a stream, struggling to scrub off some of the now stained puke from his shirt. A deep shame had filled him since his 'incident', as he was now calling it. A suicide attempt in truth and a near success had it not been for a timely gunshot. His throat was still burning from the acidic puke, and his forehead was still throbbing from smashing it earlier... Constant cruel reminders of what his life had become. There were no attempts to hide it now.
Dutchy needed to die.
Some students had become monsters, done unspeakable things he couldn't believe they were capable of, not in his wildest dreams. There was no hope for any of them, for as long as they'd live, Survival of the Fittest would be with them, tearing them apart from the inside out. The game was like a slow and fatal cancer, burning in his guts. Dutchy knew there was no life for him passed the game. Death would be his only escape, and better to take the plunge sooner rather then later. With time came fear, and with fear came hesitation. The thought of dying in terror, struggling in vain to escape his demise... That wasn't what he wanted. Last words, prayers, and his friends far away... As painless as possible, as quickly as possible. Dutchy had fallen quickly, and his wounds were a testament to that. Any longer and well...
If he wasn't Dutchy any longer, what could he possibly become given a day or two?
Dutchy shivered, picking up the pace. There was a clearing nearby; the trees began to thin out. He couldn't see clearly enough, but there looked to be more then the usual green foliage. The gunman? He walked forward, his heart beating skittishly in his chest.
Why am I doing this? It won't solve anything.
He wished he knew the answer to the question. If it hadn't been for the noise, he'd be dead by now, just another body in the forest. Instead, the most violent noise he could imagine had indeed saved his life, if only for the time being. It was a disturbing thought, and Dutchy felt sickened even thinking it. It wasn't like him, and he felt ashamed.
If I find them, maybe they'll shoot me. Maybe that's why I'm walking.
The bushes began to clear up ahead. He still wasn't quite sure what he was looking at, but it looked to be a camp ground of some sort. Perhaps a group had banded together, set up in the woods? His pace quickened as he approached, anticipation rising up, pushing aside his dismal thoughts, if only for the second. Someone was moving, doing what Dutchy wasn't exactly sure. Another student wearing a long sleeved red shirt, with reddish hair and crimson...
Dutchy stepped into the clearing, and his heart stopped beating. He could feel a tremble begin to build through his body, starting in his legs and soon spreading throughout his tiny frame. His eyes went wide, taking in the horrors around him and his lip began to tremble, his mouth stuck half-way open. Somewhere he knew Danya was watching the proceedings, laughing with crazed glee. The figure turned toward him. Dutchy fell to his knees, letting out an anguished moan.
"Hvaða hafa þú?"
Dutchy had just wanted to die. Locking eyes with Liam Brooks, he knew his prayers would soon be answered.
Dutchy weaved his way through the woods, cautiously shuffling from tree to tree. He was by no means quiet, snapping quite a few branches along the way, but for what it was worth he was trying. Without Roland around for company, Dutchy had finally realized just how vulnerable he was. If anyone wanted too, they could kill him in seconds. In Roland's shadow he'd been safe. Out of it, the forest took on a whole new level of menace.
But that's why I left. I can't stand behind him.
He continued on his way, stopping briefly near a stream, struggling to scrub off some of the now stained puke from his shirt. A deep shame had filled him since his 'incident', as he was now calling it. A suicide attempt in truth and a near success had it not been for a timely gunshot. His throat was still burning from the acidic puke, and his forehead was still throbbing from smashing it earlier... Constant cruel reminders of what his life had become. There were no attempts to hide it now.
Dutchy needed to die.
Some students had become monsters, done unspeakable things he couldn't believe they were capable of, not in his wildest dreams. There was no hope for any of them, for as long as they'd live, Survival of the Fittest would be with them, tearing them apart from the inside out. The game was like a slow and fatal cancer, burning in his guts. Dutchy knew there was no life for him passed the game. Death would be his only escape, and better to take the plunge sooner rather then later. With time came fear, and with fear came hesitation. The thought of dying in terror, struggling in vain to escape his demise... That wasn't what he wanted. Last words, prayers, and his friends far away... As painless as possible, as quickly as possible. Dutchy had fallen quickly, and his wounds were a testament to that. Any longer and well...
If he wasn't Dutchy any longer, what could he possibly become given a day or two?
Dutchy shivered, picking up the pace. There was a clearing nearby; the trees began to thin out. He couldn't see clearly enough, but there looked to be more then the usual green foliage. The gunman? He walked forward, his heart beating skittishly in his chest.
Why am I doing this? It won't solve anything.
He wished he knew the answer to the question. If it hadn't been for the noise, he'd be dead by now, just another body in the forest. Instead, the most violent noise he could imagine had indeed saved his life, if only for the time being. It was a disturbing thought, and Dutchy felt sickened even thinking it. It wasn't like him, and he felt ashamed.
If I find them, maybe they'll shoot me. Maybe that's why I'm walking.
The bushes began to clear up ahead. He still wasn't quite sure what he was looking at, but it looked to be a camp ground of some sort. Perhaps a group had banded together, set up in the woods? His pace quickened as he approached, anticipation rising up, pushing aside his dismal thoughts, if only for the second. Someone was moving, doing what Dutchy wasn't exactly sure. Another student wearing a long sleeved red shirt, with reddish hair and crimson...
Dutchy stepped into the clearing, and his heart stopped beating. He could feel a tremble begin to build through his body, starting in his legs and soon spreading throughout his tiny frame. His eyes went wide, taking in the horrors around him and his lip began to tremble, his mouth stuck half-way open. Somewhere he knew Danya was watching the proceedings, laughing with crazed glee. The figure turned toward him. Dutchy fell to his knees, letting out an anguished moan.
"Hvaða hafa þú?"
Dutchy had just wanted to die. Locking eyes with Liam Brooks, he knew his prayers would soon be answered.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Little Boy. 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.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Somebody had spoken, but the words meant nothing to him. An indicator of just how important his project had become to him, maybe? The most unfortunate part of the affliction that Brook suffered through was that was now aware of it, realizing his garden caused him to become disconnected from everything else. That being said, this wasn't entirely a bad thing if the rest of the world would leave him alone once in a while. Yet, that little wish wasn't going to be coming true any time soon.
Brook calmly turned around to face the person who had addressed him. Or maybe he was just mentioning how he admired the garden, but whatever he said, the pale-skinned Irishman missed it this time around. "Um... could you come again? I didn't quite catch that," Brook said with a smile. He felt so tuckered out from before, but here was a matter of intrigue. Not only did he not know whatever the fuck the kid had said, but he didn't even know the boy was approaching until he spoke up. This led to one of several conclusions: Either his glorious garden of blood was now being attacked by ninjas, Brook was losing his hearing, this kid was just really, really sneaky, or he was losing his grip on others.
How to address each of these problems? He felt his hearing was fine, though he had fired off quite a few of those easy-peasy gunshots without proper ear protection. You were supposed to use proper ear protection, right? Still, he heard all the birds around the garden just fine, and screams and annoying cries made themselves regrettably audible. If this person had been attempting to sneak up on him, then why wasn't there a weapon pointed at his face right now? Hell, since he hadn't been paying attention, Brook understood that somebody could have been a complete twat and shot him right then and there, putting an end to the glorious Bloodgarden. So, this person obviously wasn't here to do that.
This left him to reconsider the probability that maybe he just was becoming a little too disconnected, and this could mean a failure of passion in his work. There was always the ninja theory still, but if ninjas were really attacking, then... well, he was simply fucked. He'd go with a lack of passion for now, but how to fix that? Brook looked the intruder up and down, giving a grin that finally deviated from his purely friendly one, the one that always lifted his face in the past.
"... Hey, bandaid guy! It's you, isn't it?" Brook laughed. "You had the funniest name in school, but I just can't remember... um, help me out here. What was it, again?"
Brook calmly turned around to face the person who had addressed him. Or maybe he was just mentioning how he admired the garden, but whatever he said, the pale-skinned Irishman missed it this time around. "Um... could you come again? I didn't quite catch that," Brook said with a smile. He felt so tuckered out from before, but here was a matter of intrigue. Not only did he not know whatever the fuck the kid had said, but he didn't even know the boy was approaching until he spoke up. This led to one of several conclusions: Either his glorious garden of blood was now being attacked by ninjas, Brook was losing his hearing, this kid was just really, really sneaky, or he was losing his grip on others.
How to address each of these problems? He felt his hearing was fine, though he had fired off quite a few of those easy-peasy gunshots without proper ear protection. You were supposed to use proper ear protection, right? Still, he heard all the birds around the garden just fine, and screams and annoying cries made themselves regrettably audible. If this person had been attempting to sneak up on him, then why wasn't there a weapon pointed at his face right now? Hell, since he hadn't been paying attention, Brook understood that somebody could have been a complete twat and shot him right then and there, putting an end to the glorious Bloodgarden. So, this person obviously wasn't here to do that.
This left him to reconsider the probability that maybe he just was becoming a little too disconnected, and this could mean a failure of passion in his work. There was always the ninja theory still, but if ninjas were really attacking, then... well, he was simply fucked. He'd go with a lack of passion for now, but how to fix that? Brook looked the intruder up and down, giving a grin that finally deviated from his purely friendly one, the one that always lifted his face in the past.
"... Hey, bandaid guy! It's you, isn't it?" Brook laughed. "You had the funniest name in school, but I just can't remember... um, help me out here. What was it, again?"
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Little Boy†
- Posts: 256
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 4:47 am
"You had the funniest name in school, but I just can't remember... um, help me out here. What was it, again?"
He couldn't stop shaking. The figure stood in the middle of the clearing, drenched in gore. Dutchy wanted to throw up at the sight, and his throat felt uncomfortably numb. His teeth chattering, refusing to work. He couldn't move. He couldn't breath. He couldn't for the life of him understand why. Bodies. There were bodies, the first time he'd seen someone dead on the island. Despite the terrifying sight right in front of him, the boy obviously out for blood, for the first few moments he couldn't remove his eyes from the bodies. And then it had hit him, like a ton of bricks right into his gut.
Vivien Morin. Or... what was left of him. Dutchy let out a harsh choking sob, his hands coming up and grabbing at his mouth, his eyes wide with fright. He hadn't stopped shaking, and the boy in front of him took a step forward, seemingly immune to the terror ripping through the small Icelandic boy.
What have you done...? Oh God, oh God, what have you done?
"M- my name. My name is Örn. But- but people like to call me Dutchy." He stammered after a long pause, his eyes wide and red rimmed, tears streaking down his cheeks.
"Do you- Do you- What happened...? Why- why-" He said, his words dying in his throat. He already knew the answer. Vivien Morin's killer stood right in front of him.
His heart beat faster in his chest, realizing the terrifying implications. His eyes darted back and forth between the boy and Vivien's fallen form, frantically, white hot terror building up through his bones. Images of Vivien filled his mind. Funny and bold, with passion in everything he took part in. A caring family, caring friends... He'd lent him a Superman comic once. Viv had talked on about fashion and an upcoming swim meet, but he'd promised to give it a read in his spare time, if only humor Dutchy.
And now the boy lay in the dirt, his eyes staring vacantly up towards the sky, his body broken, soaked in gore... He couldn't stop shaking. His stomach wouldn't stop tossing, his heart wouldn't stop pounding. This was it. This was the end.
"Viv. Why is... why'd you hurt Vivi?" He managed to say, his words coming out in choking sobs now.
The entire clearing suddenly felt very cool, the clouds above obscuring the sun from view. Standing in the shadows, the boy didn't resemble a human at all- his cheerful face, drenched in blood... He wasn't a classmate. A demon from the depths of hell, obscuring any last hope. Dutchy clasped his jittering hands together, running through his mind in search of a prayer.
He couldn't stop shaking. The figure stood in the middle of the clearing, drenched in gore. Dutchy wanted to throw up at the sight, and his throat felt uncomfortably numb. His teeth chattering, refusing to work. He couldn't move. He couldn't breath. He couldn't for the life of him understand why. Bodies. There were bodies, the first time he'd seen someone dead on the island. Despite the terrifying sight right in front of him, the boy obviously out for blood, for the first few moments he couldn't remove his eyes from the bodies. And then it had hit him, like a ton of bricks right into his gut.
Vivien Morin. Or... what was left of him. Dutchy let out a harsh choking sob, his hands coming up and grabbing at his mouth, his eyes wide with fright. He hadn't stopped shaking, and the boy in front of him took a step forward, seemingly immune to the terror ripping through the small Icelandic boy.
What have you done...? Oh God, oh God, what have you done?
"M- my name. My name is Örn. But- but people like to call me Dutchy." He stammered after a long pause, his eyes wide and red rimmed, tears streaking down his cheeks.
"Do you- Do you- What happened...? Why- why-" He said, his words dying in his throat. He already knew the answer. Vivien Morin's killer stood right in front of him.
His heart beat faster in his chest, realizing the terrifying implications. His eyes darted back and forth between the boy and Vivien's fallen form, frantically, white hot terror building up through his bones. Images of Vivien filled his mind. Funny and bold, with passion in everything he took part in. A caring family, caring friends... He'd lent him a Superman comic once. Viv had talked on about fashion and an upcoming swim meet, but he'd promised to give it a read in his spare time, if only humor Dutchy.
And now the boy lay in the dirt, his eyes staring vacantly up towards the sky, his body broken, soaked in gore... He couldn't stop shaking. His stomach wouldn't stop tossing, his heart wouldn't stop pounding. This was it. This was the end.
"Viv. Why is... why'd you hurt Vivi?" He managed to say, his words coming out in choking sobs now.
The entire clearing suddenly felt very cool, the clouds above obscuring the sun from view. Standing in the shadows, the boy didn't resemble a human at all- his cheerful face, drenched in blood... He wasn't a classmate. A demon from the depths of hell, obscuring any last hope. Dutchy clasped his jittering hands together, running through his mind in search of a prayer.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Little Boy. 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.