Stand up, Al.
As he swung at Nixon, he could feel the machete touching his skin as a counter attack. It was cold. As Alessio was hit he instinctively backed away, paranoid of the wound. He blindly walked with high speed backwards until he stumbled to realise that he walked against a bench. So he fell on it, sitting on it.
This sword fight was not like Star Wars or Lord of the Rings at all. Fuck it, it made him super nervous. He could die now. He already could feel blood flowing out of him and that he bleeds out.
He had things to do before he died. He did not know what, though. Kill people. See Vanessa's reaction to her causing all of this. Find a partner. Build more traps. Perhaps win, go home, start a new life.
Then he looked down and saw that he did not bleed, but that his shirt was torn. He made sure that it did not bleed by touching it with his fingers. There was no liquid of pain. It was a scratch and Al had to make sure it stayed a scratch.
"Please go away."
He pulled out his fake gun and pointed it at Jon. He put on his angriest face he could pull.
Clint Eastwood again.
70's Horror Movies 3: Swooooooooord Caaaaaaaaaaane
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Jon got him, now it was time to finish this.
He watched Al clamber up and then...
Jon didn't want to finish this. Al begged... he actually begged. He knew he shouldn't fall for it, but it all felt wrong. Even if it was a ruse, something about killing someone so defenseless, so pathetic just didn't feel right. He wasn't like the others, he didn't play that way.
And then Al pulled out a gun, and stared right at him.
Jon stood still, frozen. He waited for it, after all the times Al's refused to hesitate, he wouldn't with this. Jon knew it was all over for him.
Jon waited...
and waited...
and waited...
Al didn't shoot. Was this his idea of mercy? Was he actually trying to become a better person? Was he actually trying to help someone?
Jon had to find out.
He reached into his gun and slowly, methodically, pulled out his own gun; Will's gun.
He cocked the hammer back, and pointed it at Al.
He hovered the barrel of the gun back and forth across the figure on the other side of the room.
He still wasn't shot. He should have been.
Jon realized Al wasn't trying to avoid killing or trying to protect anyone.
He knew he was losing, he wanted Jon to leave so he could live. He wouldn't hesitate to cut him apart if he was on the ground, if he was defenseless, he saw that back at the bar. Al was just afraid of getting a little bit hurt, that's all.
Jon levered the gun towards Al's midsection.
Alessio was the worst kind of person. He wouldn't even look you in the eyes if he decided to kill you, Jon should've seen that one right away. Those few words he spoke, the ones that made Jon think he'd reformed? All garbage, all lies. He didn't really care, and he didn't really change. That bullshit line of his was just to throw Jon off, to confuse him before he got the drop on him.
He should do it.
He should pull the trigger and save everyone the suffering of letting this little careless selfish creep live. Al would've done it to him if the roles were reversed. Al would've done it to anyone, everyone if he could. Alessio cared about no one but himself, he had no dignity, he threw it all out the window to kill.
Do it.
He didn't say a word, he just stared down Al.
Do it!
He watched Al clamber up and then...
Jon didn't want to finish this. Al begged... he actually begged. He knew he shouldn't fall for it, but it all felt wrong. Even if it was a ruse, something about killing someone so defenseless, so pathetic just didn't feel right. He wasn't like the others, he didn't play that way.
And then Al pulled out a gun, and stared right at him.
Jon stood still, frozen. He waited for it, after all the times Al's refused to hesitate, he wouldn't with this. Jon knew it was all over for him.
Jon waited...
and waited...
and waited...
Al didn't shoot. Was this his idea of mercy? Was he actually trying to become a better person? Was he actually trying to help someone?
Jon had to find out.
He reached into his gun and slowly, methodically, pulled out his own gun; Will's gun.
He cocked the hammer back, and pointed it at Al.
He hovered the barrel of the gun back and forth across the figure on the other side of the room.
He still wasn't shot. He should have been.
Jon realized Al wasn't trying to avoid killing or trying to protect anyone.
He knew he was losing, he wanted Jon to leave so he could live. He wouldn't hesitate to cut him apart if he was on the ground, if he was defenseless, he saw that back at the bar. Al was just afraid of getting a little bit hurt, that's all.
Jon levered the gun towards Al's midsection.
Alessio was the worst kind of person. He wouldn't even look you in the eyes if he decided to kill you, Jon should've seen that one right away. Those few words he spoke, the ones that made Jon think he'd reformed? All garbage, all lies. He didn't really care, and he didn't really change. That bullshit line of his was just to throw Jon off, to confuse him before he got the drop on him.
He should do it.
He should pull the trigger and save everyone the suffering of letting this little careless selfish creep live. Al would've done it to him if the roles were reversed. Al would've done it to anyone, everyone if he could. Alessio cared about no one but himself, he had no dignity, he threw it all out the window to kill.
Do it.
He didn't say a word, he just stared down Al.
Do it!
This was it. Nixon had a gun, too. A real one.
Alessio was going to die. They stared at each other. Alessio relaxed his expression, not looking angry anymore.
"Who are you? I want to know who you are."
He lowered his gun a bit.
"I'd rather be...home."
He really was. Gunpoint. His stomach hurt. He was too nervous in this position. Perhaps he could engage in a conversation with Nixon to find out who they were. To find common ground. They both rather wanted to be home. Alessio did not need enemies. He either needed victims or helpers.
Alessio was going to die. They stared at each other. Alessio relaxed his expression, not looking angry anymore.
"Who are you? I want to know who you are."
He lowered his gun a bit.
"I'd rather be...home."
He really was. Gunpoint. His stomach hurt. He was too nervous in this position. Perhaps he could engage in a conversation with Nixon to find out who they were. To find common ground. They both rather wanted to be home. Alessio did not need enemies. He either needed victims or helpers.
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Al continued talking. It started with a question, then a stupid declaration.
Jon wouldn't tell him who he was. He should've known by now, mask or not.
"I'd rather be...home."
That was it? That was his excuse. Of everything he has to say, this was it. This was why he did what he did, why he killed.
"I'd rather be...home."
Jon was infuriated. He took in a deep breath.
"Fine... Go home."
*KRAK-KOW*
The room was enveloped in a bright flash of light, and Alessio dropped to the floor, wailing. The scent of gunsmoke filled his nostrils as he stood there, barrel still hot. Al deserved this.
Jon watched Al writhe around for a few moments, before pocketing the gun and turning around.
He... did it.
He wasn't sure how he felt about finally shooting someone, but he did it.
Jon opened the door and walked outside. He took his mask off once he closed the door behind him.
He felt terrified to be honest, but it wasn't for the reasons you'd expect.
He walked towards the forest, disappearing into it.
No, the real reason he was terrified was because he felt nothing. When he shot Alessio, the only thing he really felt in that moment was the recoil.
He felt nothing, and that was what terrified him the most.
(( Jonathan Gulley continued elsewhere ))
Jon wouldn't tell him who he was. He should've known by now, mask or not.
"I'd rather be...home."
That was it? That was his excuse. Of everything he has to say, this was it. This was why he did what he did, why he killed.
"I'd rather be...home."
Jon was infuriated. He took in a deep breath.
"Fine... Go home."
*KRAK-KOW*
The room was enveloped in a bright flash of light, and Alessio dropped to the floor, wailing. The scent of gunsmoke filled his nostrils as he stood there, barrel still hot. Al deserved this.
Jon watched Al writhe around for a few moments, before pocketing the gun and turning around.
He... did it.
He wasn't sure how he felt about finally shooting someone, but he did it.
Jon opened the door and walked outside. He took his mask off once he closed the door behind him.
He felt terrified to be honest, but it wasn't for the reasons you'd expect.
He walked towards the forest, disappearing into it.
No, the real reason he was terrified was because he felt nothing. When he shot Alessio, the only thing he really felt in that moment was the recoil.
He felt nothing, and that was what terrified him the most.
(( Jonathan Gulley continued elsewhere ))
Nixon shot him.
He wailed, cried, expressed his pain, his fear via vowels. But Jon left, without saying anything except that Al could go home, but Nixon lied and shot him, shot him, attempted to kill him. As Jon walked out of the door and closed it, Al should've felt relief, but all he felt was fear. It was the uncertainty of the wound. It was being alone, dying alone, being left alone.
Alessio slowly walked to his flashlight to look at the wound. It was bloody.
This wound now made his scarred hand look like nothing at all. Pain. Pain. Michael beating him was nothing compared to this mess.
He looked in the medical kit. Aspirin and ibuprofen. Lots of others stuff to clean the wound. He had no idea how to deal with a gunshot wound, though. Treat it the same as a different kind of injury? Treat it like a scratch? Was there another choice? No, there wasn't. So he bandaged it up like it was told to him in first aid class.
He was alive. He was not dying from this if he takes care of it. He needed to focus, gotta get a grip and stop being a whiner.
After taking care of the wound, he decided that he shouldn't worry about it anymore and take some sleep. Time will heal it. He didn't bother to turn out his flashlight. He was afraid of the dark, tonight.
Then, he woke up, it was still dark, sleeping with a bullet in his body felt strange, painful. He tried to sleep or at least nap for a couple of seconds but he just blankly stared at the ceiling of the cafeteria. The pain was distracting. After falling asleep again, he woke up when it felt like dawn to him. He stood up and eyed his surroundings. His flashlight and shamshir still lying on the floor. He found the gun he dropped after being shot.
He took a snack from his backpack, picked up the sword, gun and flashlight and left this place.
((Alessio Rigano continued in Overkill))
He wailed, cried, expressed his pain, his fear via vowels. But Jon left, without saying anything except that Al could go home, but Nixon lied and shot him, shot him, attempted to kill him. As Jon walked out of the door and closed it, Al should've felt relief, but all he felt was fear. It was the uncertainty of the wound. It was being alone, dying alone, being left alone.
Alessio slowly walked to his flashlight to look at the wound. It was bloody.
This wound now made his scarred hand look like nothing at all. Pain. Pain. Michael beating him was nothing compared to this mess.
He looked in the medical kit. Aspirin and ibuprofen. Lots of others stuff to clean the wound. He had no idea how to deal with a gunshot wound, though. Treat it the same as a different kind of injury? Treat it like a scratch? Was there another choice? No, there wasn't. So he bandaged it up like it was told to him in first aid class.
He was alive. He was not dying from this if he takes care of it. He needed to focus, gotta get a grip and stop being a whiner.
After taking care of the wound, he decided that he shouldn't worry about it anymore and take some sleep. Time will heal it. He didn't bother to turn out his flashlight. He was afraid of the dark, tonight.
Then, he woke up, it was still dark, sleeping with a bullet in his body felt strange, painful. He tried to sleep or at least nap for a couple of seconds but he just blankly stared at the ceiling of the cafeteria. The pain was distracting. After falling asleep again, he woke up when it felt like dawn to him. He stood up and eyed his surroundings. His flashlight and shamshir still lying on the floor. He found the gun he dropped after being shot.
He took a snack from his backpack, picked up the sword, gun and flashlight and left this place.
((Alessio Rigano continued in Overkill))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler RC. 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.