Cracking
Posted: Tue Apr 12, 2011 7:16 am
((Aston Bennett continues from No Such Thing as a Perfect Plan))
A pair of knuckles flexed and cracked, before Aston kicked at the sand in frustration. She slung her bag to the ground beside her, and tried to get it through her head.
Her rightful kill had been taken from her. Tiffany Chanders, one of the people responsible for killing Josh, had her beautiful blonde head shot off by a Felicia Carmichael. Felicia Carmichael stole something from Aston, one of the only two things she rightfully had left here.
It was only a few minutes ago, nay, probably only seconds ago since she met that group of 4. 4 losers. 4 people who she couldn't fathom why they made it when everyone else stronger than them had failed. 4 people deserved to live over them, 4 people who should be living now. No Aaron Hughes, just Ben Powell. No Aileen Borden, just Superbitch. No Milo Taylor, just Joshua. No Charlotte DuClare, just Robert. Jacob. Lowe.
What kind of god of randomness decreed that those four deserved to live over everyone she'd ever met?
And it really was that kind of reality. Except for only a few people, everyone she'd ever met so far had died. Marion, Katelyn, Marty, Josh, Michelle, Robert, all those people were dead. That goth girl, Josh's killers, and that stupid Japanese girl were all still alive. Those people who all followed Aaron were still alive, even though they should have been long dead. This was just a screwed up place.
Understatement of the fucking century right there.
So there really was only one reason she was fighting to survive here, and that was to see Quincy Jones die by her hands.
It was her only short-term goal, and considering that the game could probably end in just under 3 days, she really didn't have much time to fulfil it. It wouldn't be that hard, once she was given the opportunity. Point and shoot. If he could find it so easy, then what was stopping her? She could do better than that, no sweat.
...no sweat.
But there was the here and now to focus on. Here she was, sitting on a log on a partially abandoned beach, all to keep her company were the random corpses. Now she had nothing. No allies, nowhere to go, and not a single lead. Not to mention the 15 bullets only that remained. So she was alone now. It was all heaped upon Aston's shoulders to take down a killer. Her and her alone.
Or at least until she did another glance around the area, and had a slight rejig of where she lay.
To her south lay a church, somewhere she had never been before. Parents weren't religious, so why bother going to church? Part of her mind nudged her towards that location, but she knew all to well why her feet didn't lift and hover her right over there. Danger zone. It was only a danger zone so the recipient of a certain contest could come collect it unhindered.
...but said recipient was outside right now, looking at her.
She turned her head and faced the girl, one whose name escaped her. Funny how all you really had to think about was the little things and little things such as someone's little name couldn't even grace one's lips. But if memory served her correctly, not from school but from the only recent announcements...Alice Boucher. French girl, killed one of the early killers. Something like that was likely to get attention, even from the wrong kinds of people.
So...would Aston be the wrong kind of person?
She was staring at the girl, and the girl seemed to notice this, so...it was time to see.
Aston stood up straight, cracked her neck of all its little cricks, and decided what she was going to do. Her steps brought her forward towards the perimetre of the beach, right towards the girl holding her own gun. Aston only remembered in those fleeting few moments that her own gun was still clenched in her hands. Should she have let it dow-
Beep.
Just a warning beep, Aston had overstepped her boundaries. She quickly stepped backwards to rid herself of that danger, and her eyes met the girl once more.
"...hello."
Her voice was cold, and it was now where to see what kind of person really had the guts to make it as a killer among the best. Who was Alice Boucher, really?
A pair of knuckles flexed and cracked, before Aston kicked at the sand in frustration. She slung her bag to the ground beside her, and tried to get it through her head.
Her rightful kill had been taken from her. Tiffany Chanders, one of the people responsible for killing Josh, had her beautiful blonde head shot off by a Felicia Carmichael. Felicia Carmichael stole something from Aston, one of the only two things she rightfully had left here.
It was only a few minutes ago, nay, probably only seconds ago since she met that group of 4. 4 losers. 4 people who she couldn't fathom why they made it when everyone else stronger than them had failed. 4 people deserved to live over them, 4 people who should be living now. No Aaron Hughes, just Ben Powell. No Aileen Borden, just Superbitch. No Milo Taylor, just Joshua. No Charlotte DuClare, just Robert. Jacob. Lowe.
What kind of god of randomness decreed that those four deserved to live over everyone she'd ever met?
And it really was that kind of reality. Except for only a few people, everyone she'd ever met so far had died. Marion, Katelyn, Marty, Josh, Michelle, Robert, all those people were dead. That goth girl, Josh's killers, and that stupid Japanese girl were all still alive. Those people who all followed Aaron were still alive, even though they should have been long dead. This was just a screwed up place.
Understatement of the fucking century right there.
So there really was only one reason she was fighting to survive here, and that was to see Quincy Jones die by her hands.
It was her only short-term goal, and considering that the game could probably end in just under 3 days, she really didn't have much time to fulfil it. It wouldn't be that hard, once she was given the opportunity. Point and shoot. If he could find it so easy, then what was stopping her? She could do better than that, no sweat.
...no sweat.
But there was the here and now to focus on. Here she was, sitting on a log on a partially abandoned beach, all to keep her company were the random corpses. Now she had nothing. No allies, nowhere to go, and not a single lead. Not to mention the 15 bullets only that remained. So she was alone now. It was all heaped upon Aston's shoulders to take down a killer. Her and her alone.
Or at least until she did another glance around the area, and had a slight rejig of where she lay.
To her south lay a church, somewhere she had never been before. Parents weren't religious, so why bother going to church? Part of her mind nudged her towards that location, but she knew all to well why her feet didn't lift and hover her right over there. Danger zone. It was only a danger zone so the recipient of a certain contest could come collect it unhindered.
...but said recipient was outside right now, looking at her.
She turned her head and faced the girl, one whose name escaped her. Funny how all you really had to think about was the little things and little things such as someone's little name couldn't even grace one's lips. But if memory served her correctly, not from school but from the only recent announcements...Alice Boucher. French girl, killed one of the early killers. Something like that was likely to get attention, even from the wrong kinds of people.
So...would Aston be the wrong kind of person?
She was staring at the girl, and the girl seemed to notice this, so...it was time to see.
Aston stood up straight, cracked her neck of all its little cricks, and decided what she was going to do. Her steps brought her forward towards the perimetre of the beach, right towards the girl holding her own gun. Aston only remembered in those fleeting few moments that her own gun was still clenched in her hands. Should she have let it dow-
Beep.
Just a warning beep, Aston had overstepped her boundaries. She quickly stepped backwards to rid herself of that danger, and her eyes met the girl once more.
"...hello."
Her voice was cold, and it was now where to see what kind of person really had the guts to make it as a killer among the best. Who was Alice Boucher, really?