You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Raidon tensed, axe in hand, eyes fixed on Peter Siu, at the gun. He had reasoned that with the island's population so reduced they were bound to be hiding out in small clumps; he'd gone to the Parish operating on the assumption that he'd have plenty of warning of anyone coming (unlike the mayhem that had broken out in the Residential District). And yet again he'd been ambushed, caught off-guard.
So few people on the island. How do we keep finding each other?
Could he take the gun? Could he move that fast? He doubted it; even with both arms fully functional he'd never been the pinnacle of physical strength, and with only one arm left-
He was on his knees.
Wait.
Pain reached up from his guts and gnawed at his insides, burned inside him like a sun had been placed into his bowls, slowly scorching him alive.
W-wait, what?
"Where from?" he heard, tinny with distance. Where what? What was he asking? What had-
Gunshots. A blow like a stiff punch to the stomach. Pain.
No.
He knew this pain with the instinct of a desperate animal, knew it not in the deep, agonized way of a child but with a force as powerful as revelation, as prophecy, as insight. He knew it without fear, without exaggeration.
This is going to kill me.
The axe dropped from his hands, which moved slowly to the wound in his stomach oozing his life's blood.
I...I don't want to...
Dead-End Scenario
Open
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
-
JamesRenard†
- Posts: 238
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 4:55 am
Saul stared at the bleak night sky. It stared back at him, pitch black, as if he was lying right at the boundary between life and death. The only way he knew he wasn't dead yet was the fact his leg still fucking hurt.
Something landed on the ground next to him. For a terrifying moment, Saul thought someone had thrown a grenade his way, primed to explode and end his life in a brutal and gory fashion. 'Just like what happened to Garry.' He just laid there and waited. What was the point of trying to escape? He knew he wouldn't be able to get out of the blast zone in time, even if he hobbled away as fast he could. He waited, waited some more, but no explosion occurred. He blinked, still only able to see blackness. He was still alive, the wound in his shin still burning and throbbing away.
More gunshots, much more closer this time, and then silence reigned again apart from the ringing in his ears. He turned his head round to Peter, at least, who he thought was Peter. In the dim light from the flashlight, he could see the boy slump to the floor and lay there, unmoving.
"Peter..." Saul gasped, crying out as he rolled over onto his stomach, his leg protesting at the sudden movement. He shook Peter's shoulder, trying to rouse him, but to no avail. He was non-responsive, dead to the world. "Fuck..."
Not just dead to the world, flat-out dead. They'd killed him.
Saul collapsed back onto his stomach and stretched his arm out. His fingertips came into contact with cold metal, Saul pushing himself up to get a clearer view of what was lying on the ground within his reach.
His gun; he'd dropped it when he was shot. He didn't hesitate in grabbing it. All at once, the feeling of helplessness evaporated into thin air, a sense of empowerment flooding his body. 'You bastard, you shot me, you actually fucking shot me. And you're still out there, aren't you? Planning your next move, watching and waiting to strike, waiting to finish me off, huh? Well I can't let you do that, Star Fox.'
Saul briefly wondered why he thought up that last line. Must've heard it from Garry at some point. Whatever, he had someone extremely dangerous to deal with. He aimed the gun at where he thought the original gunshots had originated from. The dim moonlight offered very little light to go on, but Saul no longer cared.
"Fuck you, you bastard!" he roared, pulling the trigger over and over.
Five shots rang out, followed by some clicks.
Something landed on the ground next to him. For a terrifying moment, Saul thought someone had thrown a grenade his way, primed to explode and end his life in a brutal and gory fashion. 'Just like what happened to Garry.' He just laid there and waited. What was the point of trying to escape? He knew he wouldn't be able to get out of the blast zone in time, even if he hobbled away as fast he could. He waited, waited some more, but no explosion occurred. He blinked, still only able to see blackness. He was still alive, the wound in his shin still burning and throbbing away.
More gunshots, much more closer this time, and then silence reigned again apart from the ringing in his ears. He turned his head round to Peter, at least, who he thought was Peter. In the dim light from the flashlight, he could see the boy slump to the floor and lay there, unmoving.
"Peter..." Saul gasped, crying out as he rolled over onto his stomach, his leg protesting at the sudden movement. He shook Peter's shoulder, trying to rouse him, but to no avail. He was non-responsive, dead to the world. "Fuck..."
Not just dead to the world, flat-out dead. They'd killed him.
Saul collapsed back onto his stomach and stretched his arm out. His fingertips came into contact with cold metal, Saul pushing himself up to get a clearer view of what was lying on the ground within his reach.
His gun; he'd dropped it when he was shot. He didn't hesitate in grabbing it. All at once, the feeling of helplessness evaporated into thin air, a sense of empowerment flooding his body. 'You bastard, you shot me, you actually fucking shot me. And you're still out there, aren't you? Planning your next move, watching and waiting to strike, waiting to finish me off, huh? Well I can't let you do that, Star Fox.'
Saul briefly wondered why he thought up that last line. Must've heard it from Garry at some point. Whatever, he had someone extremely dangerous to deal with. He aimed the gun at where he thought the original gunshots had originated from. The dim moonlight offered very little light to go on, but Saul no longer cared.
"Fuck you, you bastard!" he roared, pulling the trigger over and over.
Five shots rang out, followed by some clicks.
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Luck, it seemed, favoured Ema that night. From behind the cover of her tree, she was pretty sure she saw all three of them go down. No wait, there were four, right? Or was that the one that'd been inside? Fuck, might even have been five. It was dark and she didn't trust her capacity to have counted everyone, or not to have counted some roughly man-sized objects as people. Point was, she saw people fall. If anyone else was up, they'd probably be all shock-and-awed, easy pickings.
So she bent low to the ground, dropped her daypack at her feet, stowed the empty guns inside and grabbed the first loaded one she found. "Vera..." she muttered, trailing off as soon as the word had left her mouth. Where'd that come from? Why 'Vera'? Because this is her gun, and she called it Vera. Guess it's, or, she's, called that then. Ema thrust Vera into her pocket, and pulled her shiny new katana out as well. Lighter than the falcata, and infinitely cooler, too. It'd do quite nicely for finishing off anyone that down but not out.
Cover-based shooting and plenty of executions? Oh man, I'm Marcus. It's me. Wait, wasn't I Price earlier? Fuck knows, just get it over with.
With a gun in her pocket and a katana in her hand, the flat of the blade resting across her shoulder in a suitably cool-looking manner, the redhead vacated her makeshift cover, and made to close the distance between herself and the group at the church. By the time she realised there was someone still fit to retaliate, his movement rendered pretty much imperceptible by the darkness, it was much too late.
Five shots, ironically Ema could count those well enough. Five shots broke the near-silence of the evening, and before she even had time to order herself to do a barrel roll and avoid the oncoming gunfire, at least one of them had gone into her shin, and from the feel of it, out the other side. Whilst the would-be killer wasn't very familiar with the sensation of being shot, the blood running down both the front and back of her left leg made the truth quite obvious after a while.
Naturally, she fell. It was painful, of course it was painful. Someone had just drilled a neat round hole straight through her leg, how could that not hurt? Ema landed on her left knee, screaming aloud from the intense, impossible pain. Forget how it could not hurt, how could anything possibly be as painful as this? The comparative scratch she'd received to her shoulder days before did not do justice to the agony of a real bullet wound.
Wait a second. Have you come so far, to let it end like this?
Whose voice was that? It was wholly unrecognisable, and yet so familiar... and it had a point. Twelve days. Four, maybe even six by now, kills. A lot to answer for, with survival as her only excuse. She'd come incredibly far, more than anybody would've reasonably expected of her. And now it was going to end because of a single bullet, physically capable of doing little worse than giving her a limp?
This is the challenge. Get back up.
No more shots were forthcoming, maybe it had just been a dying attempt at revenge. And Ema herself certainly wasn't dead. She was in a lot of pain, she'd just now realised that her face was streaked with the tears it had brought about, and she'd probably never walk the same again, but she wasn't dead.
I dare you. What are you so afraid of?
Funny, the inflection on "afraid" sounded a lot like her dad. Come to think of it, "up" had an inflection awfully similar to how Hayley said it. No, silly, frivolous thoughts. Maybe they were thinking of her, one way or another, but that was all. It was her own mind telling her to get up. That voice of hopeful optimism that had been so absent, for so many months now.
Ema decided to honour its return, and she forced herself up onto her feet. The pain that met the motion was astonishing, and for a moment, she had to lean on the katana to stay upright. It passed, she took a tentative step. Every time her left foot met ground, lightning bolts of pain shot through her entire leg, fizzling out around the hip. But she kept going. I see you... but I'm not afraid of you.
First stop, then, the Asian-looking guy closest to her. Step by lip-biting step, she approached. Still no more gunfire in her direction.
She had nothing to be afraid of.
She, Ema Ryan, improbable and immortal.
Right?
So she bent low to the ground, dropped her daypack at her feet, stowed the empty guns inside and grabbed the first loaded one she found. "Vera..." she muttered, trailing off as soon as the word had left her mouth. Where'd that come from? Why 'Vera'? Because this is her gun, and she called it Vera. Guess it's, or, she's, called that then. Ema thrust Vera into her pocket, and pulled her shiny new katana out as well. Lighter than the falcata, and infinitely cooler, too. It'd do quite nicely for finishing off anyone that down but not out.
Cover-based shooting and plenty of executions? Oh man, I'm Marcus. It's me. Wait, wasn't I Price earlier? Fuck knows, just get it over with.
With a gun in her pocket and a katana in her hand, the flat of the blade resting across her shoulder in a suitably cool-looking manner, the redhead vacated her makeshift cover, and made to close the distance between herself and the group at the church. By the time she realised there was someone still fit to retaliate, his movement rendered pretty much imperceptible by the darkness, it was much too late.
Five shots, ironically Ema could count those well enough. Five shots broke the near-silence of the evening, and before she even had time to order herself to do a barrel roll and avoid the oncoming gunfire, at least one of them had gone into her shin, and from the feel of it, out the other side. Whilst the would-be killer wasn't very familiar with the sensation of being shot, the blood running down both the front and back of her left leg made the truth quite obvious after a while.
Naturally, she fell. It was painful, of course it was painful. Someone had just drilled a neat round hole straight through her leg, how could that not hurt? Ema landed on her left knee, screaming aloud from the intense, impossible pain. Forget how it could not hurt, how could anything possibly be as painful as this? The comparative scratch she'd received to her shoulder days before did not do justice to the agony of a real bullet wound.
Wait a second. Have you come so far, to let it end like this?
Whose voice was that? It was wholly unrecognisable, and yet so familiar... and it had a point. Twelve days. Four, maybe even six by now, kills. A lot to answer for, with survival as her only excuse. She'd come incredibly far, more than anybody would've reasonably expected of her. And now it was going to end because of a single bullet, physically capable of doing little worse than giving her a limp?
This is the challenge. Get back up.
No more shots were forthcoming, maybe it had just been a dying attempt at revenge. And Ema herself certainly wasn't dead. She was in a lot of pain, she'd just now realised that her face was streaked with the tears it had brought about, and she'd probably never walk the same again, but she wasn't dead.
I dare you. What are you so afraid of?
Funny, the inflection on "afraid" sounded a lot like her dad. Come to think of it, "up" had an inflection awfully similar to how Hayley said it. No, silly, frivolous thoughts. Maybe they were thinking of her, one way or another, but that was all. It was her own mind telling her to get up. That voice of hopeful optimism that had been so absent, for so many months now.
Ema decided to honour its return, and she forced herself up onto her feet. The pain that met the motion was astonishing, and for a moment, she had to lean on the katana to stay upright. It passed, she took a tentative step. Every time her left foot met ground, lightning bolts of pain shot through her entire leg, fizzling out around the hip. But she kept going. I see you... but I'm not afraid of you.
First stop, then, the Asian-looking guy closest to her. Step by lip-biting step, she approached. Still no more gunfire in her direction.
She had nothing to be afraid of.
She, Ema Ryan, improbable and immortal.
Right?
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(Gm allowed.)
Fucking. Wrong.
You see. The best part about being a coward was that you didn't get hurt. In Survival in the Fittest, the scared mice are the pain virgins. They don't have to worry about getting shot, unless the tree trunk they're hiding in grows arms and finds a shotgun. Getting shot still hurt. The first time always hurts. Just a matter of how long you can put it off.
Zach used to think he was a scared mouse, both in school and on the island. But he wasn't a scared mouse. No. Now he knew the truth.
Zach got to his feet. Bitch didn't notice.
Just. Who. The fuck. Does this bitch think she is?
Did she know who she was fucking with?? Did. She. Know. Who he was?
He was Zach Motherfucking Jamis! He was so fucking great that he didn't have to lift a finger to get where he was!
"Oh, killing people is cool, so why don't I go kill as many people as I can! That would be soooo cool! I am soooo amazing! People will remember me!" Fuck you. Fuck everything about you. Do you know how many people that he could have killed? Zach could have killed everyone with his bare hands! He was a powerhouse! You? You're just a scared mouse!
You know why he didn't kill anyone? Because he didn't want to. That's not what Zach would ever do. Zach Jamis did what Zach Jamis wanted to do. Always.
Ginger was wrong. He wasn't a coward, or weak. Quite the contrary. Zach was the strongest person on this island. This proved it.
It was funny, how she thought she was relevant. Like people liked little bland mice. So fucking funny. He started laughing.
Ha ha ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Then he stopped. It was hard to breathe, took him a second. Then. He turned to the girl, brushed the hair out of his eyes.
"Hey Mizore." Zach grinned. "Hey, I know you're still alive - didn't waste my time saving your ass just to die on me - Got a last request."
He took a step back. He found it hard to keep his balance.
"You get back to the mainland, there's a chick named Lacy. Lacy Goodnoe - just call her Lacy - you find her, cuz I'd never have the nerve, you find her and you tell that bitch I love her! You do that and we're even!"
He reached into his pocket.
"You better fucking do it - or I'll never forgive you - "
Bitch attacked before he could pull his hand back out. But it didn't matter. Zach got her to turn around. That's all he wanted. He couldn't even kill her. His gun was elsewhere.
The gun in his hand wasn't lethal. Because it wasn't really a gun. Because it was just his hand, pointing in her face. Like a gun.
Bang. You're dead.
Zach Jamis wanted to go out as Zach Jamis. So, really, even though he was good as deas, Zach was the only winner in this fight.
One last time. For the road.
Inhale. Exhale.
Then.
Fucking. Wrong.
You see. The best part about being a coward was that you didn't get hurt. In Survival in the Fittest, the scared mice are the pain virgins. They don't have to worry about getting shot, unless the tree trunk they're hiding in grows arms and finds a shotgun. Getting shot still hurt. The first time always hurts. Just a matter of how long you can put it off.
Zach used to think he was a scared mouse, both in school and on the island. But he wasn't a scared mouse. No. Now he knew the truth.
Zach got to his feet. Bitch didn't notice.
Just. Who. The fuck. Does this bitch think she is?
Did she know who she was fucking with?? Did. She. Know. Who he was?
He was Zach Motherfucking Jamis! He was so fucking great that he didn't have to lift a finger to get where he was!
"Oh, killing people is cool, so why don't I go kill as many people as I can! That would be soooo cool! I am soooo amazing! People will remember me!" Fuck you. Fuck everything about you. Do you know how many people that he could have killed? Zach could have killed everyone with his bare hands! He was a powerhouse! You? You're just a scared mouse!
You know why he didn't kill anyone? Because he didn't want to. That's not what Zach would ever do. Zach Jamis did what Zach Jamis wanted to do. Always.
Ginger was wrong. He wasn't a coward, or weak. Quite the contrary. Zach was the strongest person on this island. This proved it.
It was funny, how she thought she was relevant. Like people liked little bland mice. So fucking funny. He started laughing.
Ha ha ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Then he stopped. It was hard to breathe, took him a second. Then. He turned to the girl, brushed the hair out of his eyes.
"Hey Mizore." Zach grinned. "Hey, I know you're still alive - didn't waste my time saving your ass just to die on me - Got a last request."
He took a step back. He found it hard to keep his balance.
"You get back to the mainland, there's a chick named Lacy. Lacy Goodnoe - just call her Lacy - you find her, cuz I'd never have the nerve, you find her and you tell that bitch I love her! You do that and we're even!"
He reached into his pocket.
"You better fucking do it - or I'll never forgive you - "
Bitch attacked before he could pull his hand back out. But it didn't matter. Zach got her to turn around. That's all he wanted. He couldn't even kill her. His gun was elsewhere.
The gun in his hand wasn't lethal. Because it wasn't really a gun. Because it was just his hand, pointing in her face. Like a gun.
Bang. You're dead.
Zach Jamis wanted to go out as Zach Jamis. So, really, even though he was good as deas, Zach was the only winner in this fight.
One last time. For the road.
Inhale. Exhale.
Then.
B101, Zach Jamis : Deceased
15 Students Left
15 Students Left
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[Likewise on the GMing. And breaking order for the sake of flow, and getting this done on time.]
Alright, this shit is on. Japanese guy was the guy I kept hearing on the announcements, right? Raidon? Rai-something, at least. This is probably him. Never heard he died.
Katana gleaming in the moonlight, Ema strode forwards, as quickly as her short legs would carry her, silhouetted body and deadly weapon making her as intimidating as a five foot waif of a girl could possibly be.
Never heard he was dead, yeah, that's about to change.
But then something else happened. Maybe Raidon had the most kills. Maybe he was her primary concern, until now. Maybe he still ought to have been. But someone that should've been dead getting up and yelling makes a pretty good distraction from priorities, when one's prioritising who to kill. The one that's still mobile is the most dangerous by default. Worse still, the sarcastic fucker was mocking her. As if Ema was concerned with being cool, or being memorable.
"How about fuck you? I'm not going home cool, I'm just going there alive."
Except she didn't actually say that, not aloud. She thought she did, but in truth, thought it was all she did. Her mouth didn't have time for words, only to break into just the slightest hint of a sneer. The boy was laughing at her. He saw his doom approaching him, and he was laughing at it. Maybe she envied him a little for that, being able to accept his fate with a grin. She probably wouldn't be able to. What she didn't envy, naturally, was the fate in question. He'd thought it was a good idea to mock her. Her, Ema bloody Ryan, by now quite truly a bona-fide serial killer and self-declared winner of version four.
Oh no, you get to suffer for that.
So the girl kept moving. Her left hand, previously hovering by her pocket, her gun, wandered up to the hilt of her weapon. She'd carved Ma'afu up pretty easily before, and if popular culture was to be believed, well, katanas are just better. Maybe she wouldn't black out this time, either. Maybe she'd get to revel in it, enjoy the godlike power to sculpt flesh, to end life. Yeah, maybe that would be a fun thing to experience. And as she walked, her new target started monologuing. Before the word Mizore, she almost thought he was addressing her. Nope, just something to someone who had apparently escaped, something about a girl he liked. Well fuck him, the escapees were dead, just like her Hayley. Or maybe they weren't dead, maybe this Lacy would get to watch him die, right after that touching little confession. Heh, I almost hope she does. Could only be fairer if she got to pull the proverbial trigger herself. Bitch. Here, let me make him smile for the cameras...
"You better fucking do it - or I'll never forgive you - "
Shit. He was going for something in his pocket. A gun? Why hadn't Ema thought of that? She had a gun, what was to say he didn't? Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckbollockshitfuckcrap. Lots of other assorted curses. She wanted to close the gap now, sprint to the cunning little bastard, but as soon as her left foot fell, the jolt of pain, and the pitiful cry that followed, reminded the girl why she hadn't been hurrying to begin with. No matter. She could reach him quickly enough, her katana was long enough, he wouldn't be able to shoot her. No, no way, not now, not after all she'd done to get here. So, when she was sure she was close enough, Ema let go with her left hand. Let it drop.
She shifted all of her weight onto her right foot, turned her body around with it.
She thrust forwards with her right arm, swinging with all the momentum her small could give.
And her blade struck true, piercing the boy's throat.
Looking down, before the blood obscured her vision, she realised too late - for all the difference that it made - that all Zach had pulled on her was a gun made of his own hand. Index- and middle-finger for the barrel, ring- and little-finger for the grip. Even had his thumb outstretched to serve as the hammer. And then the blood did obscure her vision. And how. The movies and games didn't exaggerate all that much, when it came to the amount of mess a cut jugular could make. Even a whole sword's length away, her already-ruined shoes managed to receive a fair quantity of it, even the lower half of her jeans. Reflexively, she stepped back, pulling the blade free of his flesh. Sorry Lacy, looks like I got away with bringing a knife to a gun-fight. My bad. The girl couldn't hold back a rather sadistic chuckle at the bad joke there.
And then she turned around. That wasn't her first mistake.
Her first mistake had been taking her eyes off of Raidon for so long.
She should've known, if Zach wasn't dead, he might not have been either.
Alright, this shit is on. Japanese guy was the guy I kept hearing on the announcements, right? Raidon? Rai-something, at least. This is probably him. Never heard he died.
Katana gleaming in the moonlight, Ema strode forwards, as quickly as her short legs would carry her, silhouetted body and deadly weapon making her as intimidating as a five foot waif of a girl could possibly be.
Never heard he was dead, yeah, that's about to change.
But then something else happened. Maybe Raidon had the most kills. Maybe he was her primary concern, until now. Maybe he still ought to have been. But someone that should've been dead getting up and yelling makes a pretty good distraction from priorities, when one's prioritising who to kill. The one that's still mobile is the most dangerous by default. Worse still, the sarcastic fucker was mocking her. As if Ema was concerned with being cool, or being memorable.
"How about fuck you? I'm not going home cool, I'm just going there alive."
Except she didn't actually say that, not aloud. She thought she did, but in truth, thought it was all she did. Her mouth didn't have time for words, only to break into just the slightest hint of a sneer. The boy was laughing at her. He saw his doom approaching him, and he was laughing at it. Maybe she envied him a little for that, being able to accept his fate with a grin. She probably wouldn't be able to. What she didn't envy, naturally, was the fate in question. He'd thought it was a good idea to mock her. Her, Ema bloody Ryan, by now quite truly a bona-fide serial killer and self-declared winner of version four.
Oh no, you get to suffer for that.
So the girl kept moving. Her left hand, previously hovering by her pocket, her gun, wandered up to the hilt of her weapon. She'd carved Ma'afu up pretty easily before, and if popular culture was to be believed, well, katanas are just better. Maybe she wouldn't black out this time, either. Maybe she'd get to revel in it, enjoy the godlike power to sculpt flesh, to end life. Yeah, maybe that would be a fun thing to experience. And as she walked, her new target started monologuing. Before the word Mizore, she almost thought he was addressing her. Nope, just something to someone who had apparently escaped, something about a girl he liked. Well fuck him, the escapees were dead, just like her Hayley. Or maybe they weren't dead, maybe this Lacy would get to watch him die, right after that touching little confession. Heh, I almost hope she does. Could only be fairer if she got to pull the proverbial trigger herself. Bitch. Here, let me make him smile for the cameras...
"You better fucking do it - or I'll never forgive you - "
Shit. He was going for something in his pocket. A gun? Why hadn't Ema thought of that? She had a gun, what was to say he didn't? Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckbollockshitfuckcrap. Lots of other assorted curses. She wanted to close the gap now, sprint to the cunning little bastard, but as soon as her left foot fell, the jolt of pain, and the pitiful cry that followed, reminded the girl why she hadn't been hurrying to begin with. No matter. She could reach him quickly enough, her katana was long enough, he wouldn't be able to shoot her. No, no way, not now, not after all she'd done to get here. So, when she was sure she was close enough, Ema let go with her left hand. Let it drop.
She shifted all of her weight onto her right foot, turned her body around with it.
She thrust forwards with her right arm, swinging with all the momentum her small could give.
And her blade struck true, piercing the boy's throat.
Looking down, before the blood obscured her vision, she realised too late - for all the difference that it made - that all Zach had pulled on her was a gun made of his own hand. Index- and middle-finger for the barrel, ring- and little-finger for the grip. Even had his thumb outstretched to serve as the hammer. And then the blood did obscure her vision. And how. The movies and games didn't exaggerate all that much, when it came to the amount of mess a cut jugular could make. Even a whole sword's length away, her already-ruined shoes managed to receive a fair quantity of it, even the lower half of her jeans. Reflexively, she stepped back, pulling the blade free of his flesh. Sorry Lacy, looks like I got away with bringing a knife to a gun-fight. My bad. The girl couldn't hold back a rather sadistic chuckle at the bad joke there.
And then she turned around. That wasn't her first mistake.
Her first mistake had been taking her eyes off of Raidon for so long.
She should've known, if Zach wasn't dead, he might not have been either.
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Face slumped into the dirty, dusty floor of the Parish. When had that happened? When had he...
Does it matter? Feel that warmth in your hands. Feel that weakness in your stomach.
I tried. So hard.
Lost a finger. Got strangled. Stabbed. Beaten. Fell off a goddamn cliff. Lived through all that. Kept fighting. Kept moving.
So fuckin' frail.
Oh, does it matter?
Footsteps, walking towards him, slow and steady. The killer. The one who'd put an end to them.
All my cold logic and my choices and my-
Stop bitching. Game's over. Let it end.
"Oh, killing people is cool, so why don't I go kill as many people as I can!"
It intruded on his thoughts--on his quiet, belabored agony. He looked up, blinking. That's not fair, he thought dumbly. I didn't want to do it like that. I didn't want to-
"That would be soooo cool! I am soooo amazing! People will remember me!"
I-it wasn't about that! It was about--come on, I just wanted to live and...
"Hey, Mizore."
Clarity. Clarity that did not banish the pain but banished the darkness around it. Clarity that burned inside his mind, burned through the tired words he was trying to smother himself with.
"Hey, I know you're still alive."
He didn't hear the rest, but he knew the voice now. Zach. Zach Jamis. The stranger who owed him nothing, the stranger who'd helped him save the girl who deserved it more than anybody. He was still a stranger, even now, as they'd walked together. Raidon should have talked to him, learned about him, learned about this towering good form trapped inside this stranger's body but he'd been so fucking hurt. Charlie, man, she hadn't deserved it, and he'd killed her casually, accidentally, without malice.
"Alison," he mumbled under his breath. "Scott."
He didn't want to befriend another dying soul. He didn't want another Julian Avery.
A single quick whisk, something swift parting the air. The quiet, mushy hiss of a blade slipping into meat. Another body slumped to the ground. Zach Jamis didn't speak anymore.
I'm a scared rat, backed into a corner, lashing out blindly at anything that comes near.
Well, so be it. Even for a rat, he'd had a good run.
The girl turned around, droplets of blood slinking to the floor. Raidon was on his feet again, hands clenched around his axe. He pulled back, putting both shoulders--even the injured one--into the effort.
He swung.
Does it matter? Feel that warmth in your hands. Feel that weakness in your stomach.
I tried. So hard.
Lost a finger. Got strangled. Stabbed. Beaten. Fell off a goddamn cliff. Lived through all that. Kept fighting. Kept moving.
So fuckin' frail.
Oh, does it matter?
Footsteps, walking towards him, slow and steady. The killer. The one who'd put an end to them.
All my cold logic and my choices and my-
Stop bitching. Game's over. Let it end.
"Oh, killing people is cool, so why don't I go kill as many people as I can!"
It intruded on his thoughts--on his quiet, belabored agony. He looked up, blinking. That's not fair, he thought dumbly. I didn't want to do it like that. I didn't want to-
"That would be soooo cool! I am soooo amazing! People will remember me!"
I-it wasn't about that! It was about--come on, I just wanted to live and...
"Hey, Mizore."
Clarity. Clarity that did not banish the pain but banished the darkness around it. Clarity that burned inside his mind, burned through the tired words he was trying to smother himself with.
"Hey, I know you're still alive."
He didn't hear the rest, but he knew the voice now. Zach. Zach Jamis. The stranger who owed him nothing, the stranger who'd helped him save the girl who deserved it more than anybody. He was still a stranger, even now, as they'd walked together. Raidon should have talked to him, learned about him, learned about this towering good form trapped inside this stranger's body but he'd been so fucking hurt. Charlie, man, she hadn't deserved it, and he'd killed her casually, accidentally, without malice.
"Alison," he mumbled under his breath. "Scott."
He didn't want to befriend another dying soul. He didn't want another Julian Avery.
A single quick whisk, something swift parting the air. The quiet, mushy hiss of a blade slipping into meat. Another body slumped to the ground. Zach Jamis didn't speak anymore.
I'm a scared rat, backed into a corner, lashing out blindly at anything that comes near.
Well, so be it. Even for a rat, he'd had a good run.
The girl turned around, droplets of blood slinking to the floor. Raidon was on his feet again, hands clenched around his axe. He pulled back, putting both shoulders--even the injured one--into the effort.
He swung.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
[One last breach of order, getting out of dodge so the others can finish up before deadlines hit and such.]
It all seemed to be going so well. Ema's blade came free of the boy's neck quite easily, spewing another gout of his blood onto the ground. He fell forwards, quite clearly lifeless. Rapid exsanguination tends to kill, after all. Two down, then, assuming the motionless body was dead too. Two to go, in that case. Two bodies that didn't look quite dead yet. Then whoever was indoors, if they hadn't already fled or hidden. As she turned to face Raidon, the girl had no reason to expect what was awaiting her. No, she was thinking how she really didn't want to have to hunt down the Parish's occupant before she could get to sleep. How it was late, and she really needed to bandage her shin. And hope there were painkillers in the first aid kit; even with adrenaline running strong, it hurt like a bitch.
It couldn't compare to the pain that'd come next.
Because when she turned around to kill her next target, she found him standing. On his feet, even slouching, the boy easily had half a foot on her, and... well, almost everybody in the school was more muscular than Ema Ryan. It was more the proximity that lent him such an intimidating air. That and the darkness, and the axe he was putting all he had into swinging for her head. Actually, it was mostly the axe.
Had she not turned, the girl would probably be dead. The axe would've smashed through the top of her skull, and either killed her outright, or rendered her quite incapable of defending herself from a following attack. But she was lucky. Perhaps the several years prior, enduring so many small misfortunes, had been building up to this absurdly fortunate moment. Maybe the "luck of the Irish" was on her side, for once in her life. Because Ema saw the attack coming just about early enough to jerk her upper body away, rendering the impact less than fatal.
A wordless cry split the stillness of the night.
Less than fatal. Marginally. There were no words for the agony Ema Ryan was experiencing in that moment, no curse, no exclamation of anything could possibly measure up to the feeling of Raidon's axe biting into the flesh of the redhead's face, cleaving through the soft, pale skin and into the blood and muscle below. A clean, straight cut was left as she fell away, and from the lack of any vision in it, even any irritation from the blood that was surely flooding it, she knew her left eye was lost. She didn't quite comprehend it, though, only recognised that there was something wrong with her sight. That boy, that boy that ought to be dead, he'd taken something of great importance away from her. It was all she knew. There was room only for pain, and unbridled hatred, not just hatred, fear. Fear of this... this nameless monster that had permanently maimed her.
There was only one physical reaction. In her haste to pull away, to swat the axe away from her flesh, Ema stumbled back on her wounded leg, flailed her arms weakly, dropping her katana somewhere behind where her body came to land on the ground below. Was this how she'd appeared to all the people she'd killed? A nameless, horrible creature, a bringer of nothing but pain and then death? A force that could be neither reasoned with nor stopped?
...was this it?
No, no, she was Ema Ryan. Ema motherfucking Ryan, the immortal badass and future winner. So he'd wounded her, so she'd never get her left eye back, big deal. She didn't need both, she could carry on. She just needed to survive this, somehow. That's the thing about real life, though, you can't load up a save from just before you fucked up, do it over without making the mistakes again. You have to roll with what you're saddled with, do the best you can with what you have. And when what you have is a deep wound running the length of your face, and a hole running right through your leg, rolling with it isn't easy. There was really only one thing she could do, in fact. Remember the ace in the hole that she still possessed. A gun in her pocket. Not just any gun. Vera.
She couldn't say how long it was between falling, writhing in pain on the floor, and gaining the lucidity to come to that realisation. It could've been seconds, could've been minutes. All she knew was, by the time she'd wrenched Vera out of her jeans pocket and taken very shaky aim at Raidon, he hadn't killed her, but in the blur of blood and sweat and pain, he was holding something that was probably a gun as well. Parlay? No. It was down to the wire, less than 20, maybe even less than 15, people left. Every kid for themselves, kill or be killed. No more time for alliances, or truces... nor mercy, or hesitation.
Ema pulled the trigger as many times as she was able. Her ears told her it had been three times. The sounds were answered in kind, and by now it was easy enough to distinguish between the familiar register of the Taurus and the foreign sound of whatever it was the boy was firing at her. Miraculously, as she rolled over to her knees, scrambled up to her feet, the girl wasn't hit. Maybe she'd hit him, thrown off his aim. Hard to say. It was barely possible to tell he'd been aiming anything at her at all. It didn't matter, either. Even after he'd gotten up to retaliate, Ema had been able to tell it was a dying attempt at revenge. He was already finished, he just didn't realise it yet. Her first priority had to be surviving to take the credit for it. Forget the other boy, forget the chapel's occupant, Ema needed to escape, needed to treat her wounds.
She needed to survive, that's what it was all about.
All it had ever been about.
...okay, maybe there was a little bit of looking cool, too, and after shoving Vera unceremoniously back into her pocket, Ema couldn't resist flipping Raidon the bird as she staggered away into the night.
[Ema Ryan --> Used to be a sweet girl...]
It all seemed to be going so well. Ema's blade came free of the boy's neck quite easily, spewing another gout of his blood onto the ground. He fell forwards, quite clearly lifeless. Rapid exsanguination tends to kill, after all. Two down, then, assuming the motionless body was dead too. Two to go, in that case. Two bodies that didn't look quite dead yet. Then whoever was indoors, if they hadn't already fled or hidden. As she turned to face Raidon, the girl had no reason to expect what was awaiting her. No, she was thinking how she really didn't want to have to hunt down the Parish's occupant before she could get to sleep. How it was late, and she really needed to bandage her shin. And hope there were painkillers in the first aid kit; even with adrenaline running strong, it hurt like a bitch.
It couldn't compare to the pain that'd come next.
Because when she turned around to kill her next target, she found him standing. On his feet, even slouching, the boy easily had half a foot on her, and... well, almost everybody in the school was more muscular than Ema Ryan. It was more the proximity that lent him such an intimidating air. That and the darkness, and the axe he was putting all he had into swinging for her head. Actually, it was mostly the axe.
Had she not turned, the girl would probably be dead. The axe would've smashed through the top of her skull, and either killed her outright, or rendered her quite incapable of defending herself from a following attack. But she was lucky. Perhaps the several years prior, enduring so many small misfortunes, had been building up to this absurdly fortunate moment. Maybe the "luck of the Irish" was on her side, for once in her life. Because Ema saw the attack coming just about early enough to jerk her upper body away, rendering the impact less than fatal.
A wordless cry split the stillness of the night.
Less than fatal. Marginally. There were no words for the agony Ema Ryan was experiencing in that moment, no curse, no exclamation of anything could possibly measure up to the feeling of Raidon's axe biting into the flesh of the redhead's face, cleaving through the soft, pale skin and into the blood and muscle below. A clean, straight cut was left as she fell away, and from the lack of any vision in it, even any irritation from the blood that was surely flooding it, she knew her left eye was lost. She didn't quite comprehend it, though, only recognised that there was something wrong with her sight. That boy, that boy that ought to be dead, he'd taken something of great importance away from her. It was all she knew. There was room only for pain, and unbridled hatred, not just hatred, fear. Fear of this... this nameless monster that had permanently maimed her.
There was only one physical reaction. In her haste to pull away, to swat the axe away from her flesh, Ema stumbled back on her wounded leg, flailed her arms weakly, dropping her katana somewhere behind where her body came to land on the ground below. Was this how she'd appeared to all the people she'd killed? A nameless, horrible creature, a bringer of nothing but pain and then death? A force that could be neither reasoned with nor stopped?
...was this it?
No, no, she was Ema Ryan. Ema motherfucking Ryan, the immortal badass and future winner. So he'd wounded her, so she'd never get her left eye back, big deal. She didn't need both, she could carry on. She just needed to survive this, somehow. That's the thing about real life, though, you can't load up a save from just before you fucked up, do it over without making the mistakes again. You have to roll with what you're saddled with, do the best you can with what you have. And when what you have is a deep wound running the length of your face, and a hole running right through your leg, rolling with it isn't easy. There was really only one thing she could do, in fact. Remember the ace in the hole that she still possessed. A gun in her pocket. Not just any gun. Vera.
She couldn't say how long it was between falling, writhing in pain on the floor, and gaining the lucidity to come to that realisation. It could've been seconds, could've been minutes. All she knew was, by the time she'd wrenched Vera out of her jeans pocket and taken very shaky aim at Raidon, he hadn't killed her, but in the blur of blood and sweat and pain, he was holding something that was probably a gun as well. Parlay? No. It was down to the wire, less than 20, maybe even less than 15, people left. Every kid for themselves, kill or be killed. No more time for alliances, or truces... nor mercy, or hesitation.
Ema pulled the trigger as many times as she was able. Her ears told her it had been three times. The sounds were answered in kind, and by now it was easy enough to distinguish between the familiar register of the Taurus and the foreign sound of whatever it was the boy was firing at her. Miraculously, as she rolled over to her knees, scrambled up to her feet, the girl wasn't hit. Maybe she'd hit him, thrown off his aim. Hard to say. It was barely possible to tell he'd been aiming anything at her at all. It didn't matter, either. Even after he'd gotten up to retaliate, Ema had been able to tell it was a dying attempt at revenge. He was already finished, he just didn't realise it yet. Her first priority had to be surviving to take the credit for it. Forget the other boy, forget the chapel's occupant, Ema needed to escape, needed to treat her wounds.
She needed to survive, that's what it was all about.
All it had ever been about.
...okay, maybe there was a little bit of looking cool, too, and after shoving Vera unceremoniously back into her pocket, Ema couldn't resist flipping Raidon the bird as she staggered away into the night.
[Ema Ryan --> Used to be a sweet girl...]
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Chib. 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.
The blade tore straight through--clean, bloody, beautiful. But she had moved back, he felt the heft of his blade cleave through, too shallow (should have been harder, shit) and she was staggering back and reaching for her pocket and
Oh fuck, she had a gun.
Raidon let the axe fly, hurtling off into the dark, and threw himself backwards, to slide alongside Peter Siu. The gun was still in his hands; he grabbed, it, fired, heard dry clicks, shit I'm gonna-
And then he saw the magazine in his pocket; his eyes flashed wide, he grabbed for it and staggered to one side, as bullets raced out over him. Clumsy, slow, desperate, but he got the magazine in and turned the gun back the way he'd come, firing one shot, two shots, three. There followed a brief shower of bullets, scorching through the air, taunting them both with their capacity for fatality.
He fired until his gun went dry and then he tossed the rifle aside. There was no time for anything else, no time for thought, no time for plans; a crescendo had swept him to his feet, hardened his mind with pain until it had obtained diamond toughness. He had no time left for this mysterious, brutal girl, who'd fallen upon them like a falcon and torn them to shreds. It was time to leave.
Scared little rat left a mark, heh.
(Naoko Raidon concluded in Rapture)
Oh fuck, she had a gun.
Raidon let the axe fly, hurtling off into the dark, and threw himself backwards, to slide alongside Peter Siu. The gun was still in his hands; he grabbed, it, fired, heard dry clicks, shit I'm gonna-
And then he saw the magazine in his pocket; his eyes flashed wide, he grabbed for it and staggered to one side, as bullets raced out over him. Clumsy, slow, desperate, but he got the magazine in and turned the gun back the way he'd come, firing one shot, two shots, three. There followed a brief shower of bullets, scorching through the air, taunting them both with their capacity for fatality.
He fired until his gun went dry and then he tossed the rifle aside. There was no time for anything else, no time for thought, no time for plans; a crescendo had swept him to his feet, hardened his mind with pain until it had obtained diamond toughness. He had no time left for this mysterious, brutal girl, who'd fallen upon them like a falcon and torn them to shreds. It was time to leave.
Scared little rat left a mark, heh.
(Naoko Raidon concluded in Rapture)
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
-
JamesRenard†
- Posts: 238
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 4:55 am
Saul had actually quite surprised when he heard the screaming in the near distance. Not only because he must've managed to hit the unseen target with a lucky shot out of the five, but also because the person had been a female. 'Well how about that, was expecting that to be a guy.' He waited there, hardly moving a muscle and wondering if the shot had been fatal. He briefly wondered if his wound was fatal.
One of the other guys nearby began shouting out at the killer. Saul would have told him to shut up, but a: it would have been too late anyway, and b: The person out there could be dead anyway, so the guy's raising of his voice wouldn't have mattered much anyway.
Except she wasn't completely dead. Saul could heard her approaching. 'Oh God you moron, you absolute fucking moron!' Saul angrily thought, trying to keep as still as a statue as she neared the fallen boys. 'This is it, she's going to kill us all because you just had to open your big fat mouth.' Saul had Garry's gun in his bag, but the girl would have buried a bullet in his skull before he'd have been able to unzip the bag, let alone acquire the gun and fire it. There was the unmistakeable sound of flesh being sliced into, the boy's shouting coming to a halt as he became the girl's second victim. Saul waited, eyes scrunched shut, awaiting the same fate to befall him. A lone tear trickled down his face.
There was another sound of skin and muscle being cut open.
It wasn't his, though.
The same female scream pierced the night, only a lot, lot louder. A heavy weight fell to to ground, and then there were more gunshots, too many for the scared male sprawled on the grass to count. He cried out, but his voice was thankfully drowned out by the deafening noises that came from just yards away. 'I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die,' he thought over and over. All it would take was one errant round to end it all, for it all to be over.
And then it was all over, not in the way Saul had been expecting.
The girl ran off, as well as the person she'd been exchanging gunshots with. They were gone, taking their fight away from the church. Away from him.
Saul slowly extended an arm along the ground and reached for his bag that lay just a yard or two away from him. He pulled it towards him, unzipped it and rummaged through it for the Smith & Wesson that had belonged to Garry. Saul sat up, looked over past the bag and saw the first aid kit that Peter had thrown to him shortly before his demise. Snatching it up and practically ripping it open, he grabbed a handful of bandages. He began to tend to his wound as best he could, pulling his jeans up and wrapping the bandage around the injury. 'I am one lucky mother, just to get shot in the leg, that's for sure. Could have been a lot worse-'
An excruciating pain suddenly flared up in his upper body, like someone had speared him right through the back, striking his right shoulder blade. For the briefest moment, Saul actually attempted to shrug the sudden pain off and continue wrapping his leg up in bandages. But then the sound of the gunshot finally reached his ears, a gunshot that had originated from right behind him. It took him several seconds to realize that he'd just been shot in the back, the bullet punching through his right lung and out the other side of his body.
'Oh...'
Saul stopped moving, stopped tending to his leg wound and just froze in position, feeling a warmth spreading over the right side of his chest.
'So... after all that, I get... shot in the fucking back? This... this isn't fair!'
He stared right ahead, his eyes unfocused. The gun lay by his side, having been placed there while he was bandaging his leg. Had Saul any remaining strength in his arms, he would have fired it back at his attacker. 'Who was it, who shot me? Peter's dead, the other guy's dead, those other two ran off. There was no one else-Oh... Oh Saul, you idiot.'
The girl, the girl that Peter had been conversing with when he arrived. He'd completely forgotten all about her in the ensuing fracas, and that lapse in his memory had come back to bite him squarely in the ass. He slumped over onto his left side and just lay there, finding it harder to breathe with each inhalation he made. A bandage was still gripped in his hand, stained red by the blood that slowly spilled from his leg. More blood flowed from his back and chest at a faster rate. 'It really is all over... guess I'll see you soon, Garry,'
Saul's senses dulled one by one, quickly sending the teen into unconsciousness. Right as he passed on, he swore he heard one last sound. It wasn't a final gunshot, another scream, or one final heartbeat.
It was the howling of a wolf.
B141: SAUL FETTERALF - DECEASED
14 STUDENTS REMAINING
One of the other guys nearby began shouting out at the killer. Saul would have told him to shut up, but a: it would have been too late anyway, and b: The person out there could be dead anyway, so the guy's raising of his voice wouldn't have mattered much anyway.
Except she wasn't completely dead. Saul could heard her approaching. 'Oh God you moron, you absolute fucking moron!' Saul angrily thought, trying to keep as still as a statue as she neared the fallen boys. 'This is it, she's going to kill us all because you just had to open your big fat mouth.' Saul had Garry's gun in his bag, but the girl would have buried a bullet in his skull before he'd have been able to unzip the bag, let alone acquire the gun and fire it. There was the unmistakeable sound of flesh being sliced into, the boy's shouting coming to a halt as he became the girl's second victim. Saul waited, eyes scrunched shut, awaiting the same fate to befall him. A lone tear trickled down his face.
There was another sound of skin and muscle being cut open.
It wasn't his, though.
The same female scream pierced the night, only a lot, lot louder. A heavy weight fell to to ground, and then there were more gunshots, too many for the scared male sprawled on the grass to count. He cried out, but his voice was thankfully drowned out by the deafening noises that came from just yards away. 'I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die,' he thought over and over. All it would take was one errant round to end it all, for it all to be over.
And then it was all over, not in the way Saul had been expecting.
The girl ran off, as well as the person she'd been exchanging gunshots with. They were gone, taking their fight away from the church. Away from him.
Saul slowly extended an arm along the ground and reached for his bag that lay just a yard or two away from him. He pulled it towards him, unzipped it and rummaged through it for the Smith & Wesson that had belonged to Garry. Saul sat up, looked over past the bag and saw the first aid kit that Peter had thrown to him shortly before his demise. Snatching it up and practically ripping it open, he grabbed a handful of bandages. He began to tend to his wound as best he could, pulling his jeans up and wrapping the bandage around the injury. 'I am one lucky mother, just to get shot in the leg, that's for sure. Could have been a lot worse-'
An excruciating pain suddenly flared up in his upper body, like someone had speared him right through the back, striking his right shoulder blade. For the briefest moment, Saul actually attempted to shrug the sudden pain off and continue wrapping his leg up in bandages. But then the sound of the gunshot finally reached his ears, a gunshot that had originated from right behind him. It took him several seconds to realize that he'd just been shot in the back, the bullet punching through his right lung and out the other side of his body.
'Oh...'
Saul stopped moving, stopped tending to his leg wound and just froze in position, feeling a warmth spreading over the right side of his chest.
'So... after all that, I get... shot in the fucking back? This... this isn't fair!'
He stared right ahead, his eyes unfocused. The gun lay by his side, having been placed there while he was bandaging his leg. Had Saul any remaining strength in his arms, he would have fired it back at his attacker. 'Who was it, who shot me? Peter's dead, the other guy's dead, those other two ran off. There was no one else-Oh... Oh Saul, you idiot.'
The girl, the girl that Peter had been conversing with when he arrived. He'd completely forgotten all about her in the ensuing fracas, and that lapse in his memory had come back to bite him squarely in the ass. He slumped over onto his left side and just lay there, finding it harder to breathe with each inhalation he made. A bandage was still gripped in his hand, stained red by the blood that slowly spilled from his leg. More blood flowed from his back and chest at a faster rate. 'It really is all over... guess I'll see you soon, Garry,'
Saul's senses dulled one by one, quickly sending the teen into unconsciousness. Right as he passed on, he swore he heard one last sound. It wasn't a final gunshot, another scream, or one final heartbeat.
It was the howling of a wolf.
B141: SAUL FETTERALF - DECEASED
14 STUDENTS REMAINING
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler JamesRenard. 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.
Aston Bennett was sure. She did not want to know the reasons why. A waste of a bullet, yet again. It must have been that slim shred of pity that wiggled it's way out from her iron cage that forced her to shoot. Who knows.
All she knew was that Aston wasn't a complete monster. That was for damn sure.
To say that Aston had seen everything would be an understatement. She was practically there, only inches away from the mayhem. She tried to talk herself into going out. Held herself back. Would do her no good. Best to stay out of it. She was glad for it.
And to think. It took a slaughter for her to realize the piles of bodies that had been there for days.
Was she daydreaming when she came to the Parish? Was she still in that dream, just more self-aware?
. . . she didn't have the answer to that. Couldn't even guess.
Aston hated sleep, especially here. She couldn't tell her dreams from her nightmares.
The field, a sickly shade of green, covered in blood. Aston did not sneak out. She waited until she couldn't take the silence anymore. The door was open, silent and unnerving, eyes studying the layout. Her Mosin-Nagant was back in her hands. She had her things, prepared for a fight.
She never found that fight. Instead she found the boy.
A wounded boy who was not at all dead. Aston was surprised. Wasn't he supposed to be dead? How the hell could he still be alive, after all of that?
She reached her hand out
Only a few inches away.
Pulled the trigger once.
Didn't need a second.
Aston Bennett tried to convince herself that putting a bullet in his back was the biggest favor she could have given him. She knew that wasn't her reason why. She tried not to think of the real reason. She was afraid that there was no reason. The thought, the idea, the concept of her going off the cuff and killing anyone scared her deeply.
There was a reason, but again it scared her to consider it.
She didn't want to trust this one, just to end up killing him anyway. Would hurt too much. And she wasn't sure whether he would kill her if she made herself known. Too much of a risk. Had to be the reason. Had to.
No. Aston. Don't think about it.
It was the best decision. At the time.
... Besides, what the hell was she supposed to do? Patch him up? Carry him around? Craft a makeshift wheelchair out of treebark? Become a protector? A savior? A hero? He would have nothing to give her. He wasn't a friend, a sibling, a lover. Nothing to her. He had to prove himself in order to gain her trust. No rewards other than decreasing her odds of winning and a brief feeling of pride. Aston Bennett was many things, but she wasn't a good-doer boy scout who got off for helping old women across streets. She was not evil either. No joy from killing him. No one had the right to judge her. She wanted to do good.
She closed her eyes.
So just because he was still alive did not mean she had to let him live. Her mind went numb just thinking about it. She couldn't have let him live. What if he survived until the end? What was she supposed to do then? Kill him? What if she couldn't bring herself to kill him? If she hesitated? If she held back What then? What if he started crying and begged for her to let him live?! What then?! Was she supposed to feel remorse?! Take pity on the weakling, who she didn't even talk to in school?! Was she just supposed to let the wounded motherfucker win after she lost so much?! Or was she supposed to turn into a monster and cut the ties?! At least the fucking monster gets to live!
Gasping like a fish out of water. Held her hand against her heart. Calmed herself.
There were no signs of anyone else in the area. She waited anyway, just to get a grip on things. Then she did the only thing that made sense, at the time.
She started looking through the leftovers.
The same twinge of guilt that struck her as she robbed Joe. Made her feel like coughing up. She killed it as fast as she killed the crippled boy. It did no good. She shut that part of her out.
Food. Water. Med kits.
Most importantly, there were guns and other weapons. Plenty.
The boy she had killed had one, she pocketed it. It was small, but it was a gun. He had a magic 8 ball and a sledgehammer too. No way in hell she was taking a chance on those pieces of crap. She turned to the boy with the opened up throat and found two more guns. One was a revolver. She liked the look of it. Holding it made her feel like a hero. It had no bullets in it, and Aston had to spend a minute reloading it. She kept that out, weighing the Mosin-Nagant in the crook of her arm. The other was a machine gun. It was empty. This one was a strange one, keeping two empty guns on him. Maybe he expected to bash someone's head open. Or maybe he didn't plan on killing anyone. Just like her. Lot of good that did her, keeping that mindset.
The last had a gun too. Put that one in her bag. Aston figured he was the one who spoke to her. She recognized him, but she couldn't recall his name. At least she would have made his death quick, if the circumstances were right. His gun was okay. Found a sword too. She fashioned it next to her Naginata. It was heavy, but it fit in with the makeshift sword. It worked.
That's when she saw it. Saw 'it'. At first she had no idea what it was. It looked like a gun. She wasn't sure of that. Could be a toy, for all she knew. Regardless, she let her other rifle lay on the ground and picked up the new one. It was big enough to fit in both of her hands, at the very least. She studied it for a moment. Regarded the big shoulder, the small barrel. Looked through the sight. A sniper rifle? A machine gun? Both? She hoped it was both.
Aston told herself to cut off her emotions a million times over. Despite that, she couldn't help grinning. This. This was why she held back. It was badass. The gun looked nasty, like it was made to kill people. She was Rambo, drilling bullets into countless enemy soldiers. She didn't want to do that. Wanted to kill as few people as possible. However, the gun felt great to hold in her hands. It was a gift, to her, for being so dedicated. The powers that be (if they even existed) were behind her. Aston had a chance.
Then she pulled the trigger. Empty.
Fuck.
She found the other magazine in the boy's pocket. She reloaded, clicked the safety on just in case she accidentally fired. She looked down at her other rifle. She didn't want to leave it, just in case someone came along and took it. Aston couldn't have that. It could end up being used on her. A little extra weight wouldn't kill her, for now.
She thought that. Until she found the katana.
It was the same one that cut open the boy's neck. She was certain.
Aston was confused. This was the attacker's sword, right? Why would they leave it behind? She didn't ask questions. She picked it up, weighed it in her hands. She decided she was keeping it. She dropped the scythe, put the other sword in there. Now she had the katana and Joe's sword, so Joe could fight with her.
Joe would want this, she promised herself. They all would. You weren't a hero, or a saint, you're doing bad things to people. But at the expense of your own soul, you can make the souls of the dead rest easy. She made a promise to them too. Joshua, Alice, Joe and the three dead boys. When she saw the girl with the cut in her face, she would make sure to lance something off. Maybe more than one body part. Who knows? Aston found the thought perfectly rational and not at all crazed. Sounded perfectly understandable. An eye for an eye... Well, she could worry about that monster after she found the girl who killed Joe and made her suffer. Other girl should be glad she wasn't the bitch who killed Joe, damn glad that she was getting better treatment. Her death would be a night at the Marriott in comparison.
Not that revenge was the biggest thing on her plate.
It was all about survival, she reminded herself.
Scolded herself for thinking otherwise.
Fucking idiot.
Revolver in one pocket, Bersa Thunder in the other. Swords behind her, bloodstained and ready. Two pistols in her bag, a rifle and a sword with a curve. And lastly was the rifle. She would make sure to read the documentation. Use every bullet wisely. Like each one was the last one.
Three down. Plenty to go.
Aston Bennett was close. Close wasn't going to cut it. Perhaps with this rifle, the odds were in her favor. She figured. She hoped.
(Aston Bennett continued in Finalizing Plans)
All she knew was that Aston wasn't a complete monster. That was for damn sure.
To say that Aston had seen everything would be an understatement. She was practically there, only inches away from the mayhem. She tried to talk herself into going out. Held herself back. Would do her no good. Best to stay out of it. She was glad for it.
And to think. It took a slaughter for her to realize the piles of bodies that had been there for days.
Was she daydreaming when she came to the Parish? Was she still in that dream, just more self-aware?
. . . she didn't have the answer to that. Couldn't even guess.
Aston hated sleep, especially here. She couldn't tell her dreams from her nightmares.
The field, a sickly shade of green, covered in blood. Aston did not sneak out. She waited until she couldn't take the silence anymore. The door was open, silent and unnerving, eyes studying the layout. Her Mosin-Nagant was back in her hands. She had her things, prepared for a fight.
She never found that fight. Instead she found the boy.
A wounded boy who was not at all dead. Aston was surprised. Wasn't he supposed to be dead? How the hell could he still be alive, after all of that?
She reached her hand out
Only a few inches away.
Pulled the trigger once.
Didn't need a second.
Aston Bennett tried to convince herself that putting a bullet in his back was the biggest favor she could have given him. She knew that wasn't her reason why. She tried not to think of the real reason. She was afraid that there was no reason. The thought, the idea, the concept of her going off the cuff and killing anyone scared her deeply.
There was a reason, but again it scared her to consider it.
She didn't want to trust this one, just to end up killing him anyway. Would hurt too much. And she wasn't sure whether he would kill her if she made herself known. Too much of a risk. Had to be the reason. Had to.
No. Aston. Don't think about it.
It was the best decision. At the time.
... Besides, what the hell was she supposed to do? Patch him up? Carry him around? Craft a makeshift wheelchair out of treebark? Become a protector? A savior? A hero? He would have nothing to give her. He wasn't a friend, a sibling, a lover. Nothing to her. He had to prove himself in order to gain her trust. No rewards other than decreasing her odds of winning and a brief feeling of pride. Aston Bennett was many things, but she wasn't a good-doer boy scout who got off for helping old women across streets. She was not evil either. No joy from killing him. No one had the right to judge her. She wanted to do good.
She closed her eyes.
So just because he was still alive did not mean she had to let him live. Her mind went numb just thinking about it. She couldn't have let him live. What if he survived until the end? What was she supposed to do then? Kill him? What if she couldn't bring herself to kill him? If she hesitated? If she held back What then? What if he started crying and begged for her to let him live?! What then?! Was she supposed to feel remorse?! Take pity on the weakling, who she didn't even talk to in school?! Was she just supposed to let the wounded motherfucker win after she lost so much?! Or was she supposed to turn into a monster and cut the ties?! At least the fucking monster gets to live!
Gasping like a fish out of water. Held her hand against her heart. Calmed herself.
There were no signs of anyone else in the area. She waited anyway, just to get a grip on things. Then she did the only thing that made sense, at the time.
She started looking through the leftovers.
The same twinge of guilt that struck her as she robbed Joe. Made her feel like coughing up. She killed it as fast as she killed the crippled boy. It did no good. She shut that part of her out.
Food. Water. Med kits.
Most importantly, there were guns and other weapons. Plenty.
The boy she had killed had one, she pocketed it. It was small, but it was a gun. He had a magic 8 ball and a sledgehammer too. No way in hell she was taking a chance on those pieces of crap. She turned to the boy with the opened up throat and found two more guns. One was a revolver. She liked the look of it. Holding it made her feel like a hero. It had no bullets in it, and Aston had to spend a minute reloading it. She kept that out, weighing the Mosin-Nagant in the crook of her arm. The other was a machine gun. It was empty. This one was a strange one, keeping two empty guns on him. Maybe he expected to bash someone's head open. Or maybe he didn't plan on killing anyone. Just like her. Lot of good that did her, keeping that mindset.
The last had a gun too. Put that one in her bag. Aston figured he was the one who spoke to her. She recognized him, but she couldn't recall his name. At least she would have made his death quick, if the circumstances were right. His gun was okay. Found a sword too. She fashioned it next to her Naginata. It was heavy, but it fit in with the makeshift sword. It worked.
That's when she saw it. Saw 'it'. At first she had no idea what it was. It looked like a gun. She wasn't sure of that. Could be a toy, for all she knew. Regardless, she let her other rifle lay on the ground and picked up the new one. It was big enough to fit in both of her hands, at the very least. She studied it for a moment. Regarded the big shoulder, the small barrel. Looked through the sight. A sniper rifle? A machine gun? Both? She hoped it was both.
Aston told herself to cut off her emotions a million times over. Despite that, she couldn't help grinning. This. This was why she held back. It was badass. The gun looked nasty, like it was made to kill people. She was Rambo, drilling bullets into countless enemy soldiers. She didn't want to do that. Wanted to kill as few people as possible. However, the gun felt great to hold in her hands. It was a gift, to her, for being so dedicated. The powers that be (if they even existed) were behind her. Aston had a chance.
Then she pulled the trigger. Empty.
Fuck.
She found the other magazine in the boy's pocket. She reloaded, clicked the safety on just in case she accidentally fired. She looked down at her other rifle. She didn't want to leave it, just in case someone came along and took it. Aston couldn't have that. It could end up being used on her. A little extra weight wouldn't kill her, for now.
She thought that. Until she found the katana.
It was the same one that cut open the boy's neck. She was certain.
Aston was confused. This was the attacker's sword, right? Why would they leave it behind? She didn't ask questions. She picked it up, weighed it in her hands. She decided she was keeping it. She dropped the scythe, put the other sword in there. Now she had the katana and Joe's sword, so Joe could fight with her.
Joe would want this, she promised herself. They all would. You weren't a hero, or a saint, you're doing bad things to people. But at the expense of your own soul, you can make the souls of the dead rest easy. She made a promise to them too. Joshua, Alice, Joe and the three dead boys. When she saw the girl with the cut in her face, she would make sure to lance something off. Maybe more than one body part. Who knows? Aston found the thought perfectly rational and not at all crazed. Sounded perfectly understandable. An eye for an eye... Well, she could worry about that monster after she found the girl who killed Joe and made her suffer. Other girl should be glad she wasn't the bitch who killed Joe, damn glad that she was getting better treatment. Her death would be a night at the Marriott in comparison.
Not that revenge was the biggest thing on her plate.
It was all about survival, she reminded herself.
Scolded herself for thinking otherwise.
Fucking idiot.
Revolver in one pocket, Bersa Thunder in the other. Swords behind her, bloodstained and ready. Two pistols in her bag, a rifle and a sword with a curve. And lastly was the rifle. She would make sure to read the documentation. Use every bullet wisely. Like each one was the last one.
Three down. Plenty to go.
Aston Bennett was close. Close wasn't going to cut it. Perhaps with this rifle, the odds were in her favor. She figured. She hoped.
(Aston Bennett continued in Finalizing Plans)
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