((Toben is cool with this, but lemme know if there’s anything weird about it))
So far, Miranda had already watched three people die.
It was supposed to be a normal trip. It was right before finals, so she’d been looking forward to it. She wasn’t smart enough, so she’d gone to countless tutoring sessions to make sure she’d do a good job. It didn’t help that Mom and Dad were arguing again. So, it was supposed to be a simple relaxing day for her. Miranda usually didn’t care either way about fish. Some looked pretty, some looked ugly, some looked dumb. But, it was a day out. No worrying about schoolwork, or parents, or anything. Right?
Ha.
She remembered staring out the window, feeling more and more annoyed with each passing second. It was just her luck the bus had to get repaired or something. It didn’t help that the air conditioning was also broken, so she felt herself getting sweatier by the second. Sure, she had a good antiperspirant, and had dressed for Spring. But it still wasn’t nice to be inside what’d become an oversized oven.
Even when the bus pulled away from the highway, Miranda’s head was pressed against the glass. She watched the cars go by. So, great. Everyone else was probably there by now, having fun looking at, dunno, tuna or something. She didn’t even move when the bus pulled into a graffiti-filled warehouse.
What finally got her to move were the people with guns and tactical armor. Miranda snapped upwards, her eyes forced open. She was 99% sure you didn’t need guns to repair a bus. Was Denton really getting that bad nowadays?
Apparently, Mr. Dolph thought so, too. Miranda had been sitting towards the middle, so she only got snippets of what they were talking about. Drug trafficking? What kind of criminal uses a bus full of teenagers to slip drugs under the radar? It didn’t feel right.
Then Mr. Dolph’s head just… exploded.
Miranda stared at the dead body, before slowly moving her head back up.
That had been number one.
It’d turned out that those terrorist idiots had kidnapped them to prove a point somehow. Those terrorist idiots from a few years back. Why P.J. Hobbs? She had no idea. Just that she’d woken up… somewhere. She didn’t want to know where. Miranda did distantly remember an island being mentioned. It made sense, since seagulls were everywhere.
Numbers two and three came much later. Miranda had already woken up, and had been looking through her things. It was kind of funny, looking back. She’d bought a new dress recently, one she’d been eyeing for a while now. It was lace, and kind of a teal seafoam color. She didn’t usually wear teal colors, but it looked good on her. Plus, it was from a designer she liked. Miranda had spent the evening before the trip planning her outfit around it. It’d taken ages to figure out what looked good in it, but she settled on some nice peach pink heels. She felt it needed more pink, so she added a bracelet. But it still needed a small touch.
Hence why she picked the matching day bag. It was perfect. It didn’t overload her outfit and kept the teal the focus, but it still fit. But, she had to take a moment to just hold it, look at it, before she opened it up. The funny part was remembering she spent so much time planning her outfit, like it was the only thing she’d need to worry about.
While she was still on that thought, Miranda heard some distant noises. She lifted her head up, and looked from where they came from. Her eyes widened the same way they had when she saw the guns.
It was far away, but she still saw them. On the other side of the rope bridge, a far way away, two boys were fighting. She couldn’t tell what they were grabbing onto, but it was clear that was what the whole thing was about. They were tugging, and pulling.
She couldn’t make out the face of one of them, but she knew who the other was. It was Richard Ormsby. He had a reputation.
Miranda’s eyes darted towards the tire iron they gave her. Her right hand was swift, and grabbed it in a heartbeat. She was on the other side of the bridge, and she wasn’t sure they could see her. But if they saw her, wanted to do something to her, she had to be prepared.
But when she looked back up, Miranda saw them plunge forward. Just as quickly as she saw them, they had tumbled down the slope. Even from a distance, she saw their bodies twist and distort against the cliff.
Then, they were gone.
Miranda kept staring at the spot Richard and the other boy were for what felt like over an hour. There was no trace of their fight, at least from the edge they’d fallen off. She said nothing, and moved little. She’d just sat there, her quick breathing coming in and out. But, eventually, she stood up, and slid a bag over each shoulder. The tire iron was still in her hand, just in case.
She stepped onto the bridge. Miranda silently chastised herself for not changing into her other shoes. She had no idea how well bridges straight out of Indiana Jones fared against heels. Actually, maybe it was a better idea to change shoes. Better safe than sorry.
After taking a moment to change into her spare shoes, Miranda picked her things back up. Alright, so deep breath. Now try to slowly walk across it.
The wood creaked underneath her as her tennis shoes tapped along the bridge. Miranda prayed to god that it wouldn’t break. But, she made it to the other side.
She was right away greeted with a seagull, sitting on a post holding part of the bridge up. That wasn’t anything notable by itself. However, she noticed that its beak was red, almost as if it had been dining on-
… She didn’t want to think about that.
Miranda placed her bags back down. However, she kept the tire iron. She felt safer with it in her hands, even if the two boys weren’t going to become zombies and climb up. Or something.
Once again, she felt her skin crawl at the idea of taking a closer look. Yet, like an idiot, she glanced over the edge.
Their bodies were twisted, broken, as they bobbed up and down in the rising tide. Streaks of red leaked out, staining the water like a burgundy paint. Miranda wanted to look away, but she just couldn’t. She didn’t stop even when the bodies swept away, to sink under the water as if they never existed.
When Miranda finally tore her gaze away, she felt a chill crawl up her spine. The breeze continued to brush against her hair and dress, and the seagulls continued to caw. But it felt wrong.
That could have been her.
The truth was, she’d made her decision already. Richard had a reputation. He was a douche. Blunt? Yes. But it was true. He fought people on a regular basis, and, okay, he was somewhat decent when it came to parties. Thing was, she wasn’t sure how many people liked Richard. Probably only a small handful, if we’re being charitable.
She had no idea how it started, only how it ended. But she knew there were plenty of people she could see playing. So many geeks, so many outcasts. People like Michael, or Aria. People who’d have a reason to kill others. Or specific people.
Miranda Millers had made her decision a long time ago. However, seeing Richard’s dead body, along with that of another boy, only strengthened it. She didn’t like her decision, but she didn’t like the alternative, either.
She didn’t stand a chance. Not if she didn’t do something. She was alone. She could end up like Richard.
Eventually, she slowly walked away from the ledge. Miranda placed herself nearby her bags, nearby where the bridge started. She looked down at the tire iron. It was rusty. At least, she hoped that was rust. But she knew it was a way. The only way.
She hoped she didn’t see anyone soon.
Red or Dead
Start of G24; open!
((Male Student #18 - Zubin Wadia: RE-START))
Zubin was pissed. He'd seen this coming. Well, he'd seen it coming four years ago, back when everyone was still scared of it, but still, Rule 0 had been violated - NO CLASS TRIPS.
But now he was here, having woken up an hour ago somewhere. He spent the first ten minutes sobbing tearing the assholes a new one.
So now he was walking around with his bags and a shotgun (which would probably fly out of his hands and dislocate his shoulder if he ever fired it)
So now he had accepted, however unwillingly, that he was in for the proverbial long haul, and that he was going to have to find some way out of this. The big question was how.
This was one of those times he hated his life. He could be in bed sleeping right now. Now, he was looking at a cliff in a death game. At least the view was nice. Especially that spot of blue.
Zubin was pissed. He'd seen this coming. Well, he'd seen it coming four years ago, back when everyone was still scared of it, but still, Rule 0 had been violated - NO CLASS TRIPS.
But now he was here, having woken up an hour ago somewhere. He spent the first ten minutes sobbing tearing the assholes a new one.
So now he was walking around with his bags and a shotgun (which would probably fly out of his hands and dislocate his shoulder if he ever fired it)
So now he had accepted, however unwillingly, that he was in for the proverbial long haul, and that he was going to have to find some way out of this. The big question was how.
This was one of those times he hated his life. He could be in bed sleeping right now. Now, he was looking at a cliff in a death game. At least the view was nice. Especially that spot of blue.
((Nate Chauncey))
A heavy sleeper Nate normally was not, and in this case she had gotten lucky and actually benefited from her easy-to-end snooze.
Her dreams hadn't been especially pleasant, mind you; the inscrutable musings of her unconscious psyche as it sorted through the unending mailbox of incoming experiences and stimulus were sometimes fascinating to recollect and recount, though her attempts at dream journals usually failed. This time, however, that poor besieged postal worker had been buried under a massive flood of intense feelings. Bad feelings, of course, given the period coming before her restless slumber. Her memory of her teacher's horrible demise had played itself quietly through her mind in supersaturated crimson and black until she heard loud gunshots.
She'd apparently been used in her unconscious state to rudely prop closed the door of the mess hall, but the gunshots helpfully informed her of her status. It turned out she had been lucky in that regard, and had crawled feebly around the corner of the building, dragging her daypack, a short moment before someone left through that door. She stayed in place, quietly listening for any signs of movement, and had just been about to investigate the interior when someone else left the building. She stayed put for a while after that.
In theory, Nate appreciated the chance to be alone and in a quiet, beautiful place like this. Normally, she'd be driven into an artistic frenzy with inspiration, that patch of leaves, the way the clouds looked above, even her own silhouette with her back to a wood wall. Given the context of her location, her imagination turned the leaves into a bloodstain, the clouds into thunderheads raining bullets, and herself...
Nate found her assigned pickaxe 'weapon' in short order; it hardly fit into the bag, and the sheer heft of it made transport improbable. Worse was the intent, the mistreatment of a noble implement with a lot of history. A pickaxe was a tool, a device to be used by humanity to construct, to overcome, to take from nature to use for oneself. This one was to take life from a person, so Nate could live a little longer. How repugnant. Even when a pickaxe was used in war, there was a cause to fight for beyond selfish desire.
Nobody wanted to admit they were selfish at all. Nate certainly didn't, though she wasn't exactly free from it. She shirked off chores, she skipped family meals and outings, and she borrowed money for art supplies with both parties aware she probably wouldn't repay it. She liked to keep to herself and spend time alone, and was happy to provide that same thing to others. She was introverted, occasionally shy, and definitely a little oblivious to other people.
But she wasn't a murderer. But what did that leave her with?
Defiance? Sure, that worked.
---
Nate stood now by the ravine, holding the pickaxe in both hands because it was too heavy to hold it any other way. She had an idea, some small sense of stubborn rebellion that drove her to look at her map and find a good spot. She had taken a little while to do so, given the relative distance and heft of the object in her possession. She'd considered giving it up a few times, her face beading with sweat as she stopped to rest and forced herself to stand up and keep going. If she wanted to make a statement, then darn it, she had nothing better to do, so she might as well just do it.
The bridge was in sight, and as she walked along it, partly to find a suitable spot and partly out of some strange attraction of the eerie beauty of the place, she saw a figure right next to it, on the same side as Nate no less. She could also see something in that person's hand, but Nate still made no effort to hide or anything. If they attacked her, well that would just suck, and she hoped it wouldn't happen, but it was a weird sense of unreality still clinging to her that told her there was no threat.
She stood about thirty feet up from the figure, who she could identify now as a girl, and set her bag on the ground on the other side of the cliff from her. She held the wood and metal tool by the very end of the handle, head on the ground. Then, with as much might as she could still muster, Nate swung the pickaxe back from the cliff, before she threw it, underhanded, sending the thing flying about eight feet past the edge of the ravine, where it fell like a dropped anchor down into the bottom of the chasm.
Well, she'd thrown a pickaxe off a cliff. That was a new life experience, at least. Nate took a knee, thoroughly worn out from her trek. She wasn't sure how satisfying the actual act was-it was pretty exhausting all things considered-but the completion of a difficult task for no reason but her own desire made her smile. Take that, crazy kidnappers. She threw her weapon into a ravine. What're you gonna do now?
...They could probably make the neck thing explode if they wanted. They didn't, so Nate supposed it wasn't that big a deal to them. Oh well. She was proud of herself, so those guys could screw themselves.
Nate glanced over at the other girl, a pretty brunette in a blue dress. She wondered what her story was, but right now, she'd settle to just move a few more feet from the edge and sit down and then lay down on her back to catch her breath. That was good.
A heavy sleeper Nate normally was not, and in this case she had gotten lucky and actually benefited from her easy-to-end snooze.
Her dreams hadn't been especially pleasant, mind you; the inscrutable musings of her unconscious psyche as it sorted through the unending mailbox of incoming experiences and stimulus were sometimes fascinating to recollect and recount, though her attempts at dream journals usually failed. This time, however, that poor besieged postal worker had been buried under a massive flood of intense feelings. Bad feelings, of course, given the period coming before her restless slumber. Her memory of her teacher's horrible demise had played itself quietly through her mind in supersaturated crimson and black until she heard loud gunshots.
She'd apparently been used in her unconscious state to rudely prop closed the door of the mess hall, but the gunshots helpfully informed her of her status. It turned out she had been lucky in that regard, and had crawled feebly around the corner of the building, dragging her daypack, a short moment before someone left through that door. She stayed in place, quietly listening for any signs of movement, and had just been about to investigate the interior when someone else left the building. She stayed put for a while after that.
In theory, Nate appreciated the chance to be alone and in a quiet, beautiful place like this. Normally, she'd be driven into an artistic frenzy with inspiration, that patch of leaves, the way the clouds looked above, even her own silhouette with her back to a wood wall. Given the context of her location, her imagination turned the leaves into a bloodstain, the clouds into thunderheads raining bullets, and herself...
Nate found her assigned pickaxe 'weapon' in short order; it hardly fit into the bag, and the sheer heft of it made transport improbable. Worse was the intent, the mistreatment of a noble implement with a lot of history. A pickaxe was a tool, a device to be used by humanity to construct, to overcome, to take from nature to use for oneself. This one was to take life from a person, so Nate could live a little longer. How repugnant. Even when a pickaxe was used in war, there was a cause to fight for beyond selfish desire.
Nobody wanted to admit they were selfish at all. Nate certainly didn't, though she wasn't exactly free from it. She shirked off chores, she skipped family meals and outings, and she borrowed money for art supplies with both parties aware she probably wouldn't repay it. She liked to keep to herself and spend time alone, and was happy to provide that same thing to others. She was introverted, occasionally shy, and definitely a little oblivious to other people.
But she wasn't a murderer. But what did that leave her with?
Defiance? Sure, that worked.
---
Nate stood now by the ravine, holding the pickaxe in both hands because it was too heavy to hold it any other way. She had an idea, some small sense of stubborn rebellion that drove her to look at her map and find a good spot. She had taken a little while to do so, given the relative distance and heft of the object in her possession. She'd considered giving it up a few times, her face beading with sweat as she stopped to rest and forced herself to stand up and keep going. If she wanted to make a statement, then darn it, she had nothing better to do, so she might as well just do it.
The bridge was in sight, and as she walked along it, partly to find a suitable spot and partly out of some strange attraction of the eerie beauty of the place, she saw a figure right next to it, on the same side as Nate no less. She could also see something in that person's hand, but Nate still made no effort to hide or anything. If they attacked her, well that would just suck, and she hoped it wouldn't happen, but it was a weird sense of unreality still clinging to her that told her there was no threat.
She stood about thirty feet up from the figure, who she could identify now as a girl, and set her bag on the ground on the other side of the cliff from her. She held the wood and metal tool by the very end of the handle, head on the ground. Then, with as much might as she could still muster, Nate swung the pickaxe back from the cliff, before she threw it, underhanded, sending the thing flying about eight feet past the edge of the ravine, where it fell like a dropped anchor down into the bottom of the chasm.
Well, she'd thrown a pickaxe off a cliff. That was a new life experience, at least. Nate took a knee, thoroughly worn out from her trek. She wasn't sure how satisfying the actual act was-it was pretty exhausting all things considered-but the completion of a difficult task for no reason but her own desire made her smile. Take that, crazy kidnappers. She threw her weapon into a ravine. What're you gonna do now?
...They could probably make the neck thing explode if they wanted. They didn't, so Nate supposed it wasn't that big a deal to them. Oh well. She was proud of herself, so those guys could screw themselves.
Nate glanced over at the other girl, a pretty brunette in a blue dress. She wondered what her story was, but right now, she'd settle to just move a few more feet from the edge and sit down and then lay down on her back to catch her breath. That was good.
-
Lord_Shadow
- Posts: 536
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:43 am
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
((B13 Michael Maxwell, START))
Michael had been awake long enough to know for a definitive fact that the events that occurred on the bus were not part of an elaborate dream. He'd seen Mr. Dolph's head exploded all too clearly to accept the dream excuse. He had toyed with the idea that he had some kind of nervous breakdown, but that too was far too incomplete an explanation for the gassing, unconsciousness, and subsequent awakening on the island. This was all far too real. More real than anything he had ever experienced or hoped to experience. Nothing like a story, far too violent, bloody, and terrifying.
He had walked toward the sound of the ocean in a daze. He hadn't even looked through his pack, just taken it along and walked. He had seen in the distance a few people near some rope bridge over a ravine or something. That seemed dangerous considering what the terrorists had told them, and the results of the previous game they ran, but against his better judgement Michael made his way towards the people.
Right now, most people should be too shocked and confused to actually hurt anyone, he reasoned. He got within thirty feet of the nearest girl, whom he had seen just abandon her weapon to the waves. That was a good show of faith, and it helped him be at ease with his decision to approach instead of avoid contact.
"At least someone isn't willing to go along with this twisted game." His voice was a little weak, most likely still recovering from the shock and fear, so it was a little hard to speak up, but he tried to speak clearly over the crashing waves. "You two wake up at this spot together? Seen any sign of anyone else?"
No sooner had he spoken the words when he remembered he had seen three figures on approach. He looked at the other boy a bit farther from the rest, and he noticed what looked to be a gun. That, was most definitely not good. Best not to draw attention to it if the others hadn't noticed already.
Or if they were aware because they were working together.
Reason came back into his head and Michael became acutely aware that he had made probably the worst decision of his most assuredly soon-to-be cut-short life. He raised his hands over his head, slinging the pack over his shoulder. "Please don't shoot me. I didn't know you guys were out here."
Michael had been awake long enough to know for a definitive fact that the events that occurred on the bus were not part of an elaborate dream. He'd seen Mr. Dolph's head exploded all too clearly to accept the dream excuse. He had toyed with the idea that he had some kind of nervous breakdown, but that too was far too incomplete an explanation for the gassing, unconsciousness, and subsequent awakening on the island. This was all far too real. More real than anything he had ever experienced or hoped to experience. Nothing like a story, far too violent, bloody, and terrifying.
He had walked toward the sound of the ocean in a daze. He hadn't even looked through his pack, just taken it along and walked. He had seen in the distance a few people near some rope bridge over a ravine or something. That seemed dangerous considering what the terrorists had told them, and the results of the previous game they ran, but against his better judgement Michael made his way towards the people.
Right now, most people should be too shocked and confused to actually hurt anyone, he reasoned. He got within thirty feet of the nearest girl, whom he had seen just abandon her weapon to the waves. That was a good show of faith, and it helped him be at ease with his decision to approach instead of avoid contact.
"At least someone isn't willing to go along with this twisted game." His voice was a little weak, most likely still recovering from the shock and fear, so it was a little hard to speak up, but he tried to speak clearly over the crashing waves. "You two wake up at this spot together? Seen any sign of anyone else?"
No sooner had he spoken the words when he remembered he had seen three figures on approach. He looked at the other boy a bit farther from the rest, and he noticed what looked to be a gun. That, was most definitely not good. Best not to draw attention to it if the others hadn't noticed already.
Or if they were aware because they were working together.
Reason came back into his head and Michael became acutely aware that he had made probably the worst decision of his most assuredly soon-to-be cut-short life. He raised his hands over his head, slinging the pack over his shoulder. "Please don't shoot me. I didn't know you guys were out here."
There was once a dumb psuedo-news line here. Now there's this pretentious nonsense. YOU1 DID THIS, YOU1 KNOW WHO YOU1 ARE!
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
Miranda tensed up. She recognized that sound. She heard it a few minutes ago when she’d walked over. Someone else was here. Someone… who could easily be a threat. Her fingers wrapped around the tire iron, her nails biting into her palm. She snapped her head towards the direction the gravely footsteps came from.
It was Nate Chauncey. Nate was a weirdo. She was one of those painter types. Of course she was a painter type. She didn’t really talk to anyone, but when she did, it was clear someone hit her over the head a few years ago. They’d been in classes together, but they didn’t really talk. Sometimes Miranda would hear about something from a friend and laugh, but Nate herself wasn’t someone who she went out of her way to talk to. Sure, their families both lived in Kensington, but even that wasn’t an excuse to walk up to her on a regular basis.
Even then, could she kill Nate?
Nate was… throwing something off the ledge, she guessed? Miranda had flinched as Nate’s hand moved to toss whatever it was down the ravine. Her fingernails continued digging into her palm as her hand wrapped around the tire iron. She had no idea what Nate was doing, but a thought came into her head as she watched.
She totally could if she wanted to.
Miranda pictured Nate’s body bobbing up and down in the current, before slowly sinking. Nate didn’t appear to be dangerous, but you never know. Miranda stepped forward. She was thirty feet away, but that could be enough to get an edge on her, right? But she couldn’t just kill everyone she met. That wasn’t a good way to go about things.
Nate glanced at her, before placing herself on the ground to rest. She knew she was here. Could she leave, then? Or scare her away? Or… that.
Before she could finish that thought, Miranda felt herself flinch again. Her vision darted a second time. Oh, good, someone else was here. More people to deal with, just what she needed. This one was Michael Maxwell, and he was someone Miranda was surprised to see outside at all. One of them roleplay geeks. He’d just walked up, and started asking them questions. Who did you see so far? Did you wake up together? Things like that. Miranda tried to push aside the memory of the two boys, before he continued. Apparently, he realized just how dumb it was to walk up to two people and ask them questions like that.
Miranda tilted her head in thought. Michael apparently noticed that Nate tossed a weapon over the ledge, and acted like… it was somehow the best thing to do. Around potential murderers? But that meant they weren’t too dangerous, right?
Better safe than sorry.
Miranda lifted her tire iron, letting her eyes dart back and forth between the two. Then, she spoke.
“What are you two doing? What do you want?”
Her voice came out low, tense. She wasn’t sure what to do, but the best outcome was that she didn’t have to fight them.
It was Nate Chauncey. Nate was a weirdo. She was one of those painter types. Of course she was a painter type. She didn’t really talk to anyone, but when she did, it was clear someone hit her over the head a few years ago. They’d been in classes together, but they didn’t really talk. Sometimes Miranda would hear about something from a friend and laugh, but Nate herself wasn’t someone who she went out of her way to talk to. Sure, their families both lived in Kensington, but even that wasn’t an excuse to walk up to her on a regular basis.
Even then, could she kill Nate?
Nate was… throwing something off the ledge, she guessed? Miranda had flinched as Nate’s hand moved to toss whatever it was down the ravine. Her fingernails continued digging into her palm as her hand wrapped around the tire iron. She had no idea what Nate was doing, but a thought came into her head as she watched.
She totally could if she wanted to.
Miranda pictured Nate’s body bobbing up and down in the current, before slowly sinking. Nate didn’t appear to be dangerous, but you never know. Miranda stepped forward. She was thirty feet away, but that could be enough to get an edge on her, right? But she couldn’t just kill everyone she met. That wasn’t a good way to go about things.
Nate glanced at her, before placing herself on the ground to rest. She knew she was here. Could she leave, then? Or scare her away? Or… that.
Before she could finish that thought, Miranda felt herself flinch again. Her vision darted a second time. Oh, good, someone else was here. More people to deal with, just what she needed. This one was Michael Maxwell, and he was someone Miranda was surprised to see outside at all. One of them roleplay geeks. He’d just walked up, and started asking them questions. Who did you see so far? Did you wake up together? Things like that. Miranda tried to push aside the memory of the two boys, before he continued. Apparently, he realized just how dumb it was to walk up to two people and ask them questions like that.
Miranda tilted her head in thought. Michael apparently noticed that Nate tossed a weapon over the ledge, and acted like… it was somehow the best thing to do. Around potential murderers? But that meant they weren’t too dangerous, right?
Better safe than sorry.
Miranda lifted her tire iron, letting her eyes dart back and forth between the two. Then, she spoke.
“What are you two doing? What do you want?”
Her voice came out low, tense. She wasn’t sure what to do, but the best outcome was that she didn’t have to fight them.
There were two others, other than Blue, who arrived on the site. One of them threw something - something that required quite a bit of heft, which made it useful in some way.
Rule 11 Violated - NEVER discard anything.
Then another guy talked about how at least he (she?) wasn't going along with this, even though others were. Zubin walked towards them to better see them, as the guy put his hands over his head.
"Please don't shoot me. I didn't know you guys were out here." As he approached them, he started making out more details. The girl who had thrown that something over the cliff was, well, a girl. The guy was Mike Maxwell, and Blue was Miranda - so at least he had some names to go by.
“What are you two doing? What do you want?”
"Well, first of all, it's the three of us, and second, I'd have to say that at least for myself, I'm just trying to deal with the fact that I'm here. And you don't need to worry about me shooting you. I'm not going to give up everything just for a thrill."
Rule 11 Violated - NEVER discard anything.
Then another guy talked about how at least he (she?) wasn't going along with this, even though others were. Zubin walked towards them to better see them, as the guy put his hands over his head.
"Please don't shoot me. I didn't know you guys were out here." As he approached them, he started making out more details. The girl who had thrown that something over the cliff was, well, a girl. The guy was Mike Maxwell, and Blue was Miranda - so at least he had some names to go by.
“What are you two doing? What do you want?”
"Well, first of all, it's the three of us, and second, I'd have to say that at least for myself, I'm just trying to deal with the fact that I'm here. And you don't need to worry about me shooting you. I'm not going to give up everything just for a thrill."
There were an awful lot of people meandering around the chasm. The other girl was postured aggressively, guarded and suspicious of others. A natural reaction, of course. Her accusatory tone was a little off-putting, but that was likely the point.
There were two boys, one much more timid than the other, withdrawing his opening comments in fear. At his approach, Nate sat up and started to pick herself off the ground. As much as she'd like to lay there for longer, conversing with people on the ground seemed ill-advised.
The final party assured them of his nonviolent intentions. He was paradoxically the most threatening, on account of his massive firearm. She eyed him, then the gun, then returned her gaze to his face.
There were a lot of questions flying around, so Nate paused while picking around what to say and in what order.
"I don't have a gun. Wouldn't be shooting people either way, really." She looked back at the cliff face, the massive drop into an aquatic abyss. "I threw my pickaxe into the ocean." Nate stopped again, considering the ramifications of her action and how it might appear.
"I wasn't gonna use it, so I figured I might as well toss it." All this talking she was doing was making her feel awkward. She wasn't much for drawing attention to herself, at least not in a conversation. Playing guitar in public was a very different thing.
"If you want, I'll leave. Or not. I don't care."
There were two boys, one much more timid than the other, withdrawing his opening comments in fear. At his approach, Nate sat up and started to pick herself off the ground. As much as she'd like to lay there for longer, conversing with people on the ground seemed ill-advised.
The final party assured them of his nonviolent intentions. He was paradoxically the most threatening, on account of his massive firearm. She eyed him, then the gun, then returned her gaze to his face.
There were a lot of questions flying around, so Nate paused while picking around what to say and in what order.
"I don't have a gun. Wouldn't be shooting people either way, really." She looked back at the cliff face, the massive drop into an aquatic abyss. "I threw my pickaxe into the ocean." Nate stopped again, considering the ramifications of her action and how it might appear.
"I wasn't gonna use it, so I figured I might as well toss it." All this talking she was doing was making her feel awkward. She wasn't much for drawing attention to herself, at least not in a conversation. Playing guitar in public was a very different thing.
"If you want, I'll leave. Or not. I don't care."
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Lord_Shadow
- Posts: 536
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:43 am
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
Michael slowly lowered his arms. This was better, but still not ideal. It didn't seem like the others were truly dangerous, but the gun and the raised tire iron still put him on edge. He turned to the tire iron girl.
"All I'm trying to do is make it out of this thing alive. I don't want any trouble and I'm not going to hurt anybody either."
He then turned toward former-pickaxe girl. "Tossing your assigned weapon like that may not have been the best decision long-term, but at least I know you're not a threat."
Finally he turned towards the boy. "I appreciate that you don't want to shoot me, but I hope you'll understand if I stay as far as humanly possible from you."
He sighed and shook his head. "This is all crazy and I have no idea how to deal with this all. There's been nothing like this except for the last time it happened, and everyone was sure that was some kind of freak incident. How could this have happened again? Why us?"
"All I'm trying to do is make it out of this thing alive. I don't want any trouble and I'm not going to hurt anybody either."
He then turned toward former-pickaxe girl. "Tossing your assigned weapon like that may not have been the best decision long-term, but at least I know you're not a threat."
Finally he turned towards the boy. "I appreciate that you don't want to shoot me, but I hope you'll understand if I stay as far as humanly possible from you."
He sighed and shook his head. "This is all crazy and I have no idea how to deal with this all. There's been nothing like this except for the last time it happened, and everyone was sure that was some kind of freak incident. How could this have happened again? Why us?"
There was once a dumb psuedo-news line here. Now there's this pretentious nonsense. YOU1 DID THIS, YOU1 KNOW WHO YOU1 ARE!
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
Another flinch. Miranda’s eyes flicked towards the third person. Zubin was… technically part of the popular crowd, she guessed. He was everywhere. He was in the math club, and he did multiple captain stuff. How he did it, she had no idea, but everyone knew Zubin, and Zubin probably knew everyone. Hell, she’d seen him at track meetings. He was kind of a weird guy, though. But Miranda didn’t really have anything against him. He was alright, she guessed.
But she hadn’t seen him just now. That wasn’t good. He acted like he’d already been there, too, and Nate and Michael probably saw him before she did. How long had he been there? How long did he watch her? Miranda’s nails continued digging into her palms as her grip tightened. Her lips slightly pulled back.
She was so prepared to have to slam the tire iron into someone’s head. Sure, Nate tossed whatever-it-was into the ravine, and it didn’t seem like Michael was doing something. Zubin… she didn’t know. He said he wasn’t going to shoot them “for a thrill,” but well. But Michael was just a “seems,” and for all she knew, Zubin was using exact words here. He said, “for a thrill,” but he could have other reasons to shoot. That hugeass shotgun didn’t help things any, either.
That said… it was weird, because Nate said she threw out her pickaxe because she didn’t want to use it. And Michael agreed. Well, he did point out the phenomenally stupid part of it, but he did say he wasn’t looking to hurt anyone. He even looked specifically at her while doing it. He went into this whole “why us?” thing, where he acted all… god, she didn’t even know.
Miranda tilted her head again. Her eyes snapped again to Nate, then to Zubin, then to Michael. Her grip only got tighter and tighter. Her breath got faster.
“It doesn’t matter,” Miranda said. “Thinking about it wouldn’t change a damn thing, since we’ll still be here no matter what.”
She took a step forward. Her body felt primed, ready to go, if they did something after all. Her eyes narrowed some.
“You guys should leave.”
The words were hard to get out. Her eyes then landed on Zubin’s gun. The best outcome would be that he didn’t fire it, and everyone went their separate ways.
But she hadn’t seen him just now. That wasn’t good. He acted like he’d already been there, too, and Nate and Michael probably saw him before she did. How long had he been there? How long did he watch her? Miranda’s nails continued digging into her palms as her grip tightened. Her lips slightly pulled back.
She was so prepared to have to slam the tire iron into someone’s head. Sure, Nate tossed whatever-it-was into the ravine, and it didn’t seem like Michael was doing something. Zubin… she didn’t know. He said he wasn’t going to shoot them “for a thrill,” but well. But Michael was just a “seems,” and for all she knew, Zubin was using exact words here. He said, “for a thrill,” but he could have other reasons to shoot. That hugeass shotgun didn’t help things any, either.
That said… it was weird, because Nate said she threw out her pickaxe because she didn’t want to use it. And Michael agreed. Well, he did point out the phenomenally stupid part of it, but he did say he wasn’t looking to hurt anyone. He even looked specifically at her while doing it. He went into this whole “why us?” thing, where he acted all… god, she didn’t even know.
Miranda tilted her head again. Her eyes snapped again to Nate, then to Zubin, then to Michael. Her grip only got tighter and tighter. Her breath got faster.
“It doesn’t matter,” Miranda said. “Thinking about it wouldn’t change a damn thing, since we’ll still be here no matter what.”
She took a step forward. Her body felt primed, ready to go, if they did something after all. Her eyes narrowed some.
“You guys should leave.”
The words were hard to get out. Her eyes then landed on Zubin’s gun. The best outcome would be that he didn’t fire it, and everyone went their separate ways.
The more reticent guy commented briefly on her decision. He didn't seem to recognize the point of her action, though she could hardly hold that against him. It wasn't like Nate had explained her choice in great detail, and at least he appreciated part of her intent.
It would be abhorrent for her to kill another person. Murder, by definition not including self-defense or accidents (though the latter was also dubious) served no purpose but destruction. It was never the best solution, but sadly was often easier to use than other fixes. Not to mention that using a pickaxe would entail stabbing someone with a gigantic metal spike, which was an absolutely brutal act. She was better off without that thing.
Of course, now the situation was designed to encourage murder. What the guy mentioned about it being a one-time thing was true, at least for her. There had been theories that it would recur, almost certainly, but nobody had taken them seriously. Thoughtlessness all around.
So distracted was Nate by her musing that she hadn't noticed the other girl's heightened tension until she made an aggressive step forward. It briefly startled Nate, but it also made sense; if she felt outnumbered and threatened, it was logical to want some space. At least she wasn't swinging that metal thing around right off the bat.
Nate looked at her. She brushed a strand of wavy hair from her face as the tailwind mussed it all up. "Okay. Later."
She turned and walked away back from where she'd come from, fiddling with her shoulder strap to relieve her sore side. About ten yards away, the sounds of conversation already lost, she turned back and called out one last thing.
"Good luck."
((Nate Chauncey continued in Earth Sky From Venus))
It would be abhorrent for her to kill another person. Murder, by definition not including self-defense or accidents (though the latter was also dubious) served no purpose but destruction. It was never the best solution, but sadly was often easier to use than other fixes. Not to mention that using a pickaxe would entail stabbing someone with a gigantic metal spike, which was an absolutely brutal act. She was better off without that thing.
Of course, now the situation was designed to encourage murder. What the guy mentioned about it being a one-time thing was true, at least for her. There had been theories that it would recur, almost certainly, but nobody had taken them seriously. Thoughtlessness all around.
So distracted was Nate by her musing that she hadn't noticed the other girl's heightened tension until she made an aggressive step forward. It briefly startled Nate, but it also made sense; if she felt outnumbered and threatened, it was logical to want some space. At least she wasn't swinging that metal thing around right off the bat.
Nate looked at her. She brushed a strand of wavy hair from her face as the tailwind mussed it all up. "Okay. Later."
She turned and walked away back from where she'd come from, fiddling with her shoulder strap to relieve her sore side. About ten yards away, the sounds of conversation already lost, she turned back and called out one last thing.
"Good luck."
((Nate Chauncey continued in Earth Sky From Venus))
Miranda wasn't very happy with the others being here, and wanted them to leave. As such, the other girl ... did.
Rule #7 Violated: Never go off alone if you can.
Mike went into some sort of soliloquy about the purpose of them being here. Of course, the answer to that was "who cares?" Knowing why they were here wasn't going to solve the immediate problem of being here in the first place.
"I don't think so. We should stick together. It'll be harder for anyone attacking if we're acting as a team for the moment. Maybe we can find some way out of this."
The latter was worth a shot - the system had to have some flaws in it, right?
Rule #7 Violated: Never go off alone if you can.
Mike went into some sort of soliloquy about the purpose of them being here. Of course, the answer to that was "who cares?" Knowing why they were here wasn't going to solve the immediate problem of being here in the first place.
"I don't think so. We should stick together. It'll be harder for anyone attacking if we're acting as a team for the moment. Maybe we can find some way out of this."
The latter was worth a shot - the system had to have some flaws in it, right?
-
Lord_Shadow
- Posts: 536
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:43 am
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
"Sorry but I have to disagree. I work best alone." I only work alone. He shook his head. His reasoning today was all kinds of messed up, but he knew getting involved with someone who clearly wanted to be alone was a bad idea.
Also a bad idea, piss off the guy with the gun, but that was the default option it seemed.
"I don't want to seem ungrateful or anything, but I think it best if we go our separate ways." He nodded toward the other girl, the one who left.
"You wanna follow her, go ahead. I'll see you around."
With that, he started walking off, to where he didn't know yet. Maybe he would figure that out on the way.
((Michael Maxwell continued in Two is Better Than One.))
Also a bad idea, piss off the guy with the gun, but that was the default option it seemed.
"I don't want to seem ungrateful or anything, but I think it best if we go our separate ways." He nodded toward the other girl, the one who left.
"You wanna follow her, go ahead. I'll see you around."
With that, he started walking off, to where he didn't know yet. Maybe he would figure that out on the way.
((Michael Maxwell continued in Two is Better Than One.))
There was once a dumb psuedo-news line here. Now there's this pretentious nonsense. YOU1 DID THIS, YOU1 KNOW WHO YOU1 ARE!
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
Well, that was easy.
Nate just… walked away. Miranda stared as she stepped up, and then away from the group. Could this really be so simple? Just… asking people to leave you alone? Was that all she needed to do.
Probably not. But oh, she wished.
Miranda gave a token wave with her other hand.
“You too… I guess?”
She was going to need “good luck”, if she was just going to throw her things away. Seriously, some part of her would be surprised if she was alive tomorrow morning.
Miranda shook that thought away, but Zubin kept talking. What, now? Did he seriously want to team up? But… weren’t they supposed to kill each other eventually? What would happen if it was down to just them? Could she trust Zubin with her life?
Michael seemed to agree with that thought. It was better this way. She didn’t know someone like Zubin well enough, and she knew Nate and Michael even less. In a death game? Yeah, she couldn’t trust them enough. For a moment, Miranda even pictured Zubin floating in the waves, before eventually being sucked down. Her skin crawled with that thought.
Michael left too. Miranda glanced at Zubin. The gun was still out. Slowly, she slid her bags onto her shoulder.
“Yeah… I don’t think groups are safe either. Sorry, but I’m going too.”
Simple as that.
She started to step away, gravel crunching underneath her running shoes. But, she looked back.
“Good luck, as well.”
She looked forward, hoping Zubin wasn’t planning on shooting her. Miranda started walking again, occasionally looking back anyways. Just to make sure he wasn’t.
A moment later, she found another bag. It wasn’t Nate’s, and she doubted it was Zubin’s or Michael’s. She stopped to look at it. It was one of the assigned ones, and it read “B22.” She gently nudged it with her foot, and turned her head towards the nearby slope. What looked like bullets was scattered along the sand like metallic pebbles.
Miranda stared down the slope. Waves crashed up and down against the bottom.
She could end up like Richard. But she didn’t want to.
((Miranda Millers continued I Jumped Out and I Pranked Him to Death with a Tire Iron))
Nate just… walked away. Miranda stared as she stepped up, and then away from the group. Could this really be so simple? Just… asking people to leave you alone? Was that all she needed to do.
Probably not. But oh, she wished.
Miranda gave a token wave with her other hand.
“You too… I guess?”
She was going to need “good luck”, if she was just going to throw her things away. Seriously, some part of her would be surprised if she was alive tomorrow morning.
Miranda shook that thought away, but Zubin kept talking. What, now? Did he seriously want to team up? But… weren’t they supposed to kill each other eventually? What would happen if it was down to just them? Could she trust Zubin with her life?
Michael seemed to agree with that thought. It was better this way. She didn’t know someone like Zubin well enough, and she knew Nate and Michael even less. In a death game? Yeah, she couldn’t trust them enough. For a moment, Miranda even pictured Zubin floating in the waves, before eventually being sucked down. Her skin crawled with that thought.
Michael left too. Miranda glanced at Zubin. The gun was still out. Slowly, she slid her bags onto her shoulder.
“Yeah… I don’t think groups are safe either. Sorry, but I’m going too.”
Simple as that.
She started to step away, gravel crunching underneath her running shoes. But, she looked back.
“Good luck, as well.”
She looked forward, hoping Zubin wasn’t planning on shooting her. Miranda started walking again, occasionally looking back anyways. Just to make sure he wasn’t.
A moment later, she found another bag. It wasn’t Nate’s, and she doubted it was Zubin’s or Michael’s. She stopped to look at it. It was one of the assigned ones, and it read “B22.” She gently nudged it with her foot, and turned her head towards the nearby slope. What looked like bullets was scattered along the sand like metallic pebbles.
Miranda stared down the slope. Waves crashed up and down against the bottom.
She could end up like Richard. But she didn’t want to.
((Miranda Millers continued I Jumped Out and I Pranked Him to Death with a Tire Iron))
Wait, what? They weren't going to team up? But, they could be picked off by anyone!
Nope, Mike was leaving, and soon after that Miranda. Although she did leave some parting words:
“Good luck, as well.”
She stopped to pick up something - and looked over the edge. It piqued Zubin's interest for a second, but he shook it off.
Wouldn't be surprised if you were next.
((Zubin Wadia continued in Murder: Often A Regrettable Action.))
Nope, Mike was leaving, and soon after that Miranda. Although she did leave some parting words:
“Good luck, as well.”
She stopped to pick up something - and looked over the edge. It piqued Zubin's interest for a second, but he shook it off.
Wouldn't be surprised if you were next.
((Zubin Wadia continued in Murder: Often A Regrettable Action.))