Rhory wasn't sure when she'd started screaming. It must have been somewhere between grabbing clawfuls of the front of the dead boy's jacket and burying her shoulders and head into his chest. She thought briefly of Kurt and doing the same to him on his bed. Fully clothed, entirely drunk. Inhaling sweat and cologne then when now she only choked on the dull sulfur and heavy copper that came with the first shot.
The boy rattled against her but she pushed against the impact. He shuddered a second time. She was dully aware of mirror shattering above her head and tearing into the back of her neck. A third jolt and something wet and hot smacked the top of her scalp. She felt the boy's weight start to pull against her grip. She released him and he spun, giving her a full view of his twisted expression and then the knotted gore on his back before she turned and ran.
She felt her heel slam down into a thick and pulpy mass that she only registered as Evelyn when an errant shot sprayed whatever of the girl's corpse she'd missed on the backs of her legs. Was she still screaming? She couldn't tell. For all she knew and felt her vocal cords could have torn themselves out and shot from her throat and she couldn't have even seen them in the storm of glass splinters and gore that she stumbled through. Her arms covered her face, blinding her so the shards wouldn't, and she felt her way down the hall as yet another shot ripped through the wall of glass she'd been against just moments ago. For a delirious half-second she imagined herself as Rita Hayworth in The Lady from Shanghai. She leapt to the side and slammed her left shoulder into one of the mirrors. She felt it crack under her weight and a nauseating ache shot through her. She stumbled further through her pain-haze, barely registering a yell from behind her as she threw herself through a gap and began to sprint recklessly towards a metal stairwell at the center of this new antechamber.
There was a bit of flesh still stuck to her shoe as she stomped down on the first step and it sent her flying forward into the rest. She caught herself at the last second and began frantically climbing up on all fours. She barely had time to comprehend the wreckage of the second floor before she heard the footsteps and yells roaring up behind her. In the center of her vision here the twisted ruins of a dividing wall of mirrors, flecked with dried bits of what the last few minutes told her could only be one thing. She made a rabid dash for the twisted supports. The layer of discarded mirror made a continuous thunderous crunching as she dove through into the mauled skeleton, balling herself into a pitch-dark alcove and making herself invisible.
She stopped breathing. She waited.
Laisse tomber les filles
non je ne pleurerai pas
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler nope. 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.
Marion swallowed as a girl appeared at the top of the stairs. Two gunshots followed her, scattering the wood doorframe across the room as the rounds impacted. Marion flinched as a boy followed, with a shotgun in his hand. It took her a moment to identify Rhory and Bill. He looked determined and Marion made a split second decision to intervene on Rhory's behalf.
"What are you doing waving that gun around? There aren't any bullets left in it?" she stated confidently.
Bill turned to look at her momentarily confused by the appearance of another person. "What?"
"You don't have any shells left, you've fired eight already," Marion said stepping forward. She raised her hand and raised her fingers as she talked. "There were three in the first volley, then a pause and another three. Then there were two as Rhory came up the stairs. That's three plus three plus two, for a total of eight. You're out."
Marion wasn't exactly sure how many bullets or shots or whatever it was his gun held, but it seemed to have stopped him in his tracks, so she did her best not to look at all intimidated by the gun.
"No, there were only two shots in the second volley," Bill said. "So that makes the count seven. Three plus two plus two."
Marion bit her lip as she considered his math. "No, you're wrong it was definitely eight. Three and three and then two."
Bill seemed to consider this for a moment and then to Marion's surprise turned the gun on her and fired.
"See," Bill said smugly. "I told you it was only seven. Three plus TWO plus two...plus one."
Marion didn't hear the last comment or even live long enough to realize that she was wrong. The shot tore through her heart, killing her instantly. Her body collapsed to the ground, her face frozen in surprise.
Girl 074 Marion Summers deceased
"What are you doing waving that gun around? There aren't any bullets left in it?" she stated confidently.
Bill turned to look at her momentarily confused by the appearance of another person. "What?"
"You don't have any shells left, you've fired eight already," Marion said stepping forward. She raised her hand and raised her fingers as she talked. "There were three in the first volley, then a pause and another three. Then there were two as Rhory came up the stairs. That's three plus three plus two, for a total of eight. You're out."
Marion wasn't exactly sure how many bullets or shots or whatever it was his gun held, but it seemed to have stopped him in his tracks, so she did her best not to look at all intimidated by the gun.
"No, there were only two shots in the second volley," Bill said. "So that makes the count seven. Three plus two plus two."
Marion bit her lip as she considered his math. "No, you're wrong it was definitely eight. Three and three and then two."
Bill seemed to consider this for a moment and then to Marion's surprise turned the gun on her and fired.
"See," Bill said smugly. "I told you it was only seven. Three plus TWO plus two...plus one."
Marion didn't hear the last comment or even live long enough to realize that she was wrong. The shot tore through her heart, killing her instantly. Her body collapsed to the ground, her face frozen in surprise.
Girl 074 Marion Summers deceased
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Arscapi. 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.
Bill had stormed up the stairs, not knowing who (or what) he was going to run into. All in all, this was not going well. A few minutes earlier, he'd accidentally put three blasts of shot into his partner-in-stopping-crime. On the bright side, by the time he'd gotten over to Logan, Logan was already so far gone that there was nothing he could have done. Checking Logan's pulse was entirely irrelevant: He had so many holes in his chest that if he wasn't dead, he would be soon.
Sorry, bud. I didn't plan on this.
Storming up the stairs, he'd discharged two more rounds at what he thought was his nemesis...only to run into someone who started blathering about someone else being in the building...
...and, to make things worse, telling him he was out of ammo.
Are math classes really that bad these days?
"No, there were only two shots in the second volley," Bill said. "So that makes the count seven. Three plus two plus two."
"No, you're wrong it was definitely eight. Three and three and then two."
BLAM!
"See," Bill said smugly. "I told you it was only seven. Three plus TWO plus two...plus one."
As Marion collapsed, Bill shook his head as he looked down at the killer he'd caught.
"Nice try, but I'm not stupid."
Bill had the foresight to check Marion's pulse, and finding none, he took a step back, looking at a camera for a moment.
"Nobody take me for an idiot. If you're "playing" this game..." Bill put finger quotes up as he said playing, just for emphasis. He had the room to himself, and was feeling rather triumphant, even if his words were outpacing his thoughts. "...then I will track you down and...stop you." A smug grin grew on his face as he said this, feeling useful for once on the island.
Sorry, bud. I didn't plan on this.
Storming up the stairs, he'd discharged two more rounds at what he thought was his nemesis...only to run into someone who started blathering about someone else being in the building...
...and, to make things worse, telling him he was out of ammo.
Are math classes really that bad these days?
"No, there were only two shots in the second volley," Bill said. "So that makes the count seven. Three plus two plus two."
"No, you're wrong it was definitely eight. Three and three and then two."
BLAM!
"See," Bill said smugly. "I told you it was only seven. Three plus TWO plus two...plus one."
As Marion collapsed, Bill shook his head as he looked down at the killer he'd caught.
"Nice try, but I'm not stupid."
Bill had the foresight to check Marion's pulse, and finding none, he took a step back, looking at a camera for a moment.
"Nobody take me for an idiot. If you're "playing" this game..." Bill put finger quotes up as he said playing, just for emphasis. He had the room to himself, and was feeling rather triumphant, even if his words were outpacing his thoughts. "...then I will track you down and...stop you." A smug grin grew on his face as he said this, feeling useful for once on the island.
Rhory would have screamed at the girl if she could find her voice. Instead, Marion Summers (sophomore year, Computer Applications with Mrs. Rosenberg, make-up garish then but completely absent now) whisked herself out from some unknown corner and haughtily confronted The Murderer while Rhory sat scared and silent. She knew by the way he held his gun that Marion was full of shit. There was ammo to spare, and it was all meant for Rhory. But not for Marion. Why was she dicking around with this lunatic? She needed to run. Why wasn't she running? Get the fuck out, Rhory managed to stop herself from shouting, get the fuck-
The girl stood rigid for several fractions of a second before falling in slow motion. Broken mirror crackled under her dead weight. Shot number eight. The head lolled towards Rhory and she could see it was already dead. The second one to take the shots meant for her.
She saw the killer turn his back to her.
It might have been then that she inflicted the first gash on her right palm. She wouldn't have felt it. She couldn't even recall picking up the wicked-looking piece of glass, or silently crawling out of her wreckage cave until she was close enough to the new corpse to smell the blood and shit and piss. Close enough, too, to the corpse's maker. She was present enough in her trance to look at the camera's lens and see the reflection of the boy's face. She saw his accomplished expression. She felt something burst behind her eyes.
She realized she could scream again as she leapt at the boy's back and drove the shard around into his throat.
The girl stood rigid for several fractions of a second before falling in slow motion. Broken mirror crackled under her dead weight. Shot number eight. The head lolled towards Rhory and she could see it was already dead. The second one to take the shots meant for her.
She saw the killer turn his back to her.
It might have been then that she inflicted the first gash on her right palm. She wouldn't have felt it. She couldn't even recall picking up the wicked-looking piece of glass, or silently crawling out of her wreckage cave until she was close enough to the new corpse to smell the blood and shit and piss. Close enough, too, to the corpse's maker. She was present enough in her trance to look at the camera's lens and see the reflection of the boy's face. She saw his accomplished expression. She felt something burst behind her eyes.
She realized she could scream again as she leapt at the boy's back and drove the shard around into his throat.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler nope. 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.
((All GMing approved by karsk))
Bill had no sooner finished giving his spiel to the camera when he heard a scream come from behind him and felt a sudden, painful pressure in the side of his neck. His eyes went wide by surprise as Rhory suddenly forced the shard of broken glass into him, and he let out an involuntary shout of pain.
...where did she come from?
Tumbling over as Rhory jammed the glass into his jugular, pinning the side of his hoodie to his neck, Bill nearly dropped his gun. Nearly...but not quite. Though it was empty, Bill didn't dare let it drop, and in spite of a half-dozen shards on the ground embedding themselves in his clothes or, in at least one case, planting itself firmly in his back as he went down. As soon as he hit the ground, Bill's hand was in his pocket, fumbling for the remaining bullets...
C'mon, c'mon, where are you?
The pain was extreme, but somehow not blinding as Bill's body surged with adrenaline. He finally got hold of two of the bullets in spite of the distraction of blood running down his neck, of one side of his body being on fire, and of the girl slamming into him. Moving quickly to jam them in the gun and fire, Bill looked up at Rhory with an angry, wicked grin.
Yeah, I got the wrong person. Again. Whoops. But I'm still going to get you.
As Bill fumbled with the bullets, he felt a sharp kick to his head as Rhory opted to kick him rather than using her hands, which had been scarred as she first drove the glass into his neck. The kick knocked his head to one side and drove the glass shard all the way into his neck. In spite of the fact that the hood of his sweatshirt was pinned to the side of the neck, he felt it slip part of the way off as the glass cut into it on the other side of his neck, and at the point where the glass met his neck, he felt something come undone.
The resulting spray of blood from Bill's carotid went all over the hall they were in, actually blocking the view of at least one camera with a coating of fresh, warm O-. Bill finally dropped the gun, both hands going to try and hold his sweatshirt onto the wound and at least slow the bleeding, but doing so only drove the glass around within his neck, cutting it worse, while absorbing cuts of their own. His hands recoiled at the pain, and more screaming followed, somewhat muffled as the glass partly blocked his windpipe.
That Rhory had nailed both his carotid and his jugular was perhaps the cruelest part of his death: His heart kept beating, trying to keep up the flow of blood to his brain, and once the blood had deposited the oxygen and nutrients it carried with that particular organ, and the cut to his carotid was not so devasating to divert all of the blood from his brain to the gap. Enough of it continued on to his brain before flowing out the rip in the side of his neck that he remained fully conscious throughout the whole process. Trying instinctively to stanch the bleeding, Bill flailed about, spraying a fair amount of the resulting blood flow around, while the rest of it poured onto his clothes in a warm, sticky, and eventually oddly firm reddish flow.
I'm dead. How did this happen? How did I let this happen?
As he ran out of blood to release onto the floor, Bill's movements slowed as his heartbeat eventually did. His eyes glazed over as his breaths slowed down, turning into desperate gasps as his strength left his body.
I was supposed to stop all of those killers running around the island.
Slowly, Bill's field of view narrowed as the supply of blood to his brain finally ran out, so much of it spread all over the floor, walls, and Bill's clothes.
This...sucks.
With that, Bill lost consciousness. His body was still twitching slightly in the pool of blood and broken glass on the floor from random synapses firing in his slowly dying brain, but his pulse finally stopped registering on his collar.
B110 - DAVIS, WILLIAM "BILL" - DECEASED
Bill had no sooner finished giving his spiel to the camera when he heard a scream come from behind him and felt a sudden, painful pressure in the side of his neck. His eyes went wide by surprise as Rhory suddenly forced the shard of broken glass into him, and he let out an involuntary shout of pain.
...where did she come from?
Tumbling over as Rhory jammed the glass into his jugular, pinning the side of his hoodie to his neck, Bill nearly dropped his gun. Nearly...but not quite. Though it was empty, Bill didn't dare let it drop, and in spite of a half-dozen shards on the ground embedding themselves in his clothes or, in at least one case, planting itself firmly in his back as he went down. As soon as he hit the ground, Bill's hand was in his pocket, fumbling for the remaining bullets...
C'mon, c'mon, where are you?
The pain was extreme, but somehow not blinding as Bill's body surged with adrenaline. He finally got hold of two of the bullets in spite of the distraction of blood running down his neck, of one side of his body being on fire, and of the girl slamming into him. Moving quickly to jam them in the gun and fire, Bill looked up at Rhory with an angry, wicked grin.
Yeah, I got the wrong person. Again. Whoops. But I'm still going to get you.
As Bill fumbled with the bullets, he felt a sharp kick to his head as Rhory opted to kick him rather than using her hands, which had been scarred as she first drove the glass into his neck. The kick knocked his head to one side and drove the glass shard all the way into his neck. In spite of the fact that the hood of his sweatshirt was pinned to the side of the neck, he felt it slip part of the way off as the glass cut into it on the other side of his neck, and at the point where the glass met his neck, he felt something come undone.
The resulting spray of blood from Bill's carotid went all over the hall they were in, actually blocking the view of at least one camera with a coating of fresh, warm O-. Bill finally dropped the gun, both hands going to try and hold his sweatshirt onto the wound and at least slow the bleeding, but doing so only drove the glass around within his neck, cutting it worse, while absorbing cuts of their own. His hands recoiled at the pain, and more screaming followed, somewhat muffled as the glass partly blocked his windpipe.
That Rhory had nailed both his carotid and his jugular was perhaps the cruelest part of his death: His heart kept beating, trying to keep up the flow of blood to his brain, and once the blood had deposited the oxygen and nutrients it carried with that particular organ, and the cut to his carotid was not so devasating to divert all of the blood from his brain to the gap. Enough of it continued on to his brain before flowing out the rip in the side of his neck that he remained fully conscious throughout the whole process. Trying instinctively to stanch the bleeding, Bill flailed about, spraying a fair amount of the resulting blood flow around, while the rest of it poured onto his clothes in a warm, sticky, and eventually oddly firm reddish flow.
I'm dead. How did this happen? How did I let this happen?
As he ran out of blood to release onto the floor, Bill's movements slowed as his heartbeat eventually did. His eyes glazed over as his breaths slowed down, turning into desperate gasps as his strength left his body.
I was supposed to stop all of those killers running around the island.
Slowly, Bill's field of view narrowed as the supply of blood to his brain finally ran out, so much of it spread all over the floor, walls, and Bill's clothes.
This...sucks.
With that, Bill lost consciousness. His body was still twitching slightly in the pool of blood and broken glass on the floor from random synapses firing in his slowly dying brain, but his pulse finally stopped registering on his collar.
B110 - DAVIS, WILLIAM "BILL" - DECEASED
Her screaming did little to cover the sounds of unzipping skin. She gripped the shard tightly as she drove it in and dully felt it ruin her own palm. Her skin came more undone with every push. She only pushed harder. She pushed until the glass found absolute resistance. It wasn't enough. She wanted to cut deeper. She wanted to tear his throat out with her teeth. She wanted to break his skull between her thighs and to rip his spine out. She wanted to fucking devour him.
She twisted the glass as she pulled it out. The tip broke off, lodged in something hard and wet. She felt a viscid flood run against the back of her hand. She brought the shard down again. It caught fabric but ripped through it easily, slashing through intact neck-flesh and widening the ragged maw that was vomiting thick blood out of Bill's throat. His screams became awful and wet as his flailing became heavier. He pushed against her and slipped through her arms, collapsing hard on a sheet of glass debris. A scythe of it made a damp sucking sound as it sliced through his back. He gurgle-screamed. Blood flecked across the barrel of his gun. She thought of jamming it in his mouth and splashing his head across the room as she slowly crushed over the littered floor towards him.
The boy made sloshing gasps as he right-handedly fumbled in his dampening hoodie. His left side cradled the shotgun. To their right, a recently-opened Marion was still churning out dead blood from the holes that gun had made. She kicked at the boy's side. He groaned, but it wasn't the sopping, defeated sound she thirsted for. She watched him lift the gun. She let him reload, reversing towards his head as she watched him struggle pathetically with the shells. She watched his face. Blood babbled out from the corners of his mouth as he stretched it open. She savored it for a moment.
His cheekbone surrendered easily against her heel. The crack was satisfying. She wanted more. He needed to scream louder.
She nearly brought her leg up for a second descent before she noticed the sheath of blood that now covered the back of it.
Any appetite she'd had was suddenly replaced by shock. Then, nausea. Blood fountained cartoonishly from the meaty crevice in his neck. The front of his collar edged into the wound and rocked slightly against the spewing pressure. The sight was ridiculous. He brought the neckline of his hoodie against the erupting cleave and desperately tried to push against the flow. His legs kicked and dragged against the floor, grinding the scattered mirror under them to a harsh snow. The sounds of ripping wet garbage filled the room from his flooding mouth.
Rhory took slow steps backwards. A flail of his arm sent the blood-dotted gun skittering across the floor. Her back stopped against an intact mirror pane and she slid rigidly down it as she watched the boy's body cast itself in its own blood. She clutched her bleeding hand to her sweater. Hour-long minutes of pulpy groans passed.
The room filled with a coppery fog.
She began to notice her own sick sobs as the body's noise stopped.
She wondered how long she'd been crying.
Her sobbing slowly melted to heavy breaths. She stared dimly past the two sopping piles of meat. She was still for hours or minutes. The difference didn't seem to matter. The only thing to mark the time was the slow invasion of flies
and a spreading feeling of warmth at her side.
Blood from her hand saturated the thin fistful of her sweater and began to moisten her skin inside. A weak jolt of adrenaline focused her eyes. Creeping panic formed in her chest. She moved her hand away. Peeling thin clots and a flap of palm and worsening the bleeding. Her ring finger clung helplessly to the fabric as she tried and failed to move it. She brought a shaky left hand up to the blood-soaked crippled digit. Tried to press it against the palm. It crumpled against it. She couldn't feel it. She stared at her mangled half-numb hand until her blood began to drum against the floor. There was so much. So bright, so fast. She needed to keep it in. She desperately whirled her eyes around the flotsam. Looking for a dam.
She looked across the room and swallowed hard.
The straps of her pilfered property swung against her shoulder as she stepped over Logan. She expected some feeling of regret, some sting of guilt. She had killed him. She had put him in front of a gun. All that came as her other foot reached across his gutted back was a distant sense of nausea.
The air was heavier there. The top floor had been humid with fresh gore, moist and somehow light. It was a more solid stench down here. Flies caked every edible surface. They had wormed their way in through passages light failed to reach. A family of them sucked at the blood hardening her ruined jacket. She knelt by them. A heavily bandaged hand irritated them as it dug into a pocket. It gingerly extracted a pack of Camel Lights and a small black Zippo lighter. The flies resumed their feasting as she lit the tip of one of the cigarettes with her unbutchered hand. The rest went into a back pocket as she lifted herself. She caught her reflection. She stared at it for several long moments. She took a long drag and blew smoke out at the mirror.
She adjusted the straps that weren't hers and placed the cigarette back between her lips and made slow steps forward.
((Rhory Anne Broderick continued in ✝))
She twisted the glass as she pulled it out. The tip broke off, lodged in something hard and wet. She felt a viscid flood run against the back of her hand. She brought the shard down again. It caught fabric but ripped through it easily, slashing through intact neck-flesh and widening the ragged maw that was vomiting thick blood out of Bill's throat. His screams became awful and wet as his flailing became heavier. He pushed against her and slipped through her arms, collapsing hard on a sheet of glass debris. A scythe of it made a damp sucking sound as it sliced through his back. He gurgle-screamed. Blood flecked across the barrel of his gun. She thought of jamming it in his mouth and splashing his head across the room as she slowly crushed over the littered floor towards him.
The boy made sloshing gasps as he right-handedly fumbled in his dampening hoodie. His left side cradled the shotgun. To their right, a recently-opened Marion was still churning out dead blood from the holes that gun had made. She kicked at the boy's side. He groaned, but it wasn't the sopping, defeated sound she thirsted for. She watched him lift the gun. She let him reload, reversing towards his head as she watched him struggle pathetically with the shells. She watched his face. Blood babbled out from the corners of his mouth as he stretched it open. She savored it for a moment.
His cheekbone surrendered easily against her heel. The crack was satisfying. She wanted more. He needed to scream louder.
She nearly brought her leg up for a second descent before she noticed the sheath of blood that now covered the back of it.
Any appetite she'd had was suddenly replaced by shock. Then, nausea. Blood fountained cartoonishly from the meaty crevice in his neck. The front of his collar edged into the wound and rocked slightly against the spewing pressure. The sight was ridiculous. He brought the neckline of his hoodie against the erupting cleave and desperately tried to push against the flow. His legs kicked and dragged against the floor, grinding the scattered mirror under them to a harsh snow. The sounds of ripping wet garbage filled the room from his flooding mouth.
Rhory took slow steps backwards. A flail of his arm sent the blood-dotted gun skittering across the floor. Her back stopped against an intact mirror pane and she slid rigidly down it as she watched the boy's body cast itself in its own blood. She clutched her bleeding hand to her sweater. Hour-long minutes of pulpy groans passed.
The room filled with a coppery fog.
She began to notice her own sick sobs as the body's noise stopped.
She wondered how long she'd been crying.
Her sobbing slowly melted to heavy breaths. She stared dimly past the two sopping piles of meat. She was still for hours or minutes. The difference didn't seem to matter. The only thing to mark the time was the slow invasion of flies
and a spreading feeling of warmth at her side.
Blood from her hand saturated the thin fistful of her sweater and began to moisten her skin inside. A weak jolt of adrenaline focused her eyes. Creeping panic formed in her chest. She moved her hand away. Peeling thin clots and a flap of palm and worsening the bleeding. Her ring finger clung helplessly to the fabric as she tried and failed to move it. She brought a shaky left hand up to the blood-soaked crippled digit. Tried to press it against the palm. It crumpled against it. She couldn't feel it. She stared at her mangled half-numb hand until her blood began to drum against the floor. There was so much. So bright, so fast. She needed to keep it in. She desperately whirled her eyes around the flotsam. Looking for a dam.
She looked across the room and swallowed hard.
The straps of her pilfered property swung against her shoulder as she stepped over Logan. She expected some feeling of regret, some sting of guilt. She had killed him. She had put him in front of a gun. All that came as her other foot reached across his gutted back was a distant sense of nausea.
The air was heavier there. The top floor had been humid with fresh gore, moist and somehow light. It was a more solid stench down here. Flies caked every edible surface. They had wormed their way in through passages light failed to reach. A family of them sucked at the blood hardening her ruined jacket. She knelt by them. A heavily bandaged hand irritated them as it dug into a pocket. It gingerly extracted a pack of Camel Lights and a small black Zippo lighter. The flies resumed their feasting as she lit the tip of one of the cigarettes with her unbutchered hand. The rest went into a back pocket as she lifted herself. She caught her reflection. She stared at it for several long moments. She took a long drag and blew smoke out at the mirror.
She adjusted the straps that weren't hers and placed the cigarette back between her lips and made slow steps forward.
((Rhory Anne Broderick continued in ✝))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler nope. 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.