((Damien Stone continued from Star Spangled Banner))
Damien ran...
And he ran.....
And he ran.......
Until he could run no further. He could barely stand by the time he finally stopped, the only thing stopping him from falling flat onto his back out of sheer exhaustion being the fact that he knew damn well that Carlyle and Kyle could still be hot on his trail. Sure, for now it looked as though he had successfully outrun them both, but until he managed to find a decent place to hide and recuperate he couldn't assume a damn thing.
Now that he briefly had a chance to properly survey his surroundings, he noticed what looked like a pine forest similar to the one he and Brian had hunted in just the other day. Odd, he could have sworn that the forest was in the opposite direction. Then again, after thinking back to the map he vaguely recalled there being a small woodland area in the upper-left corner, roughly near that cabin from day 1. Not that it mattered, seeing as the pine woods were a danger-zone anyway.
At least, they were up until the announcement that just blared out. It wasn't until that point that it finally occurred to Damien that it was now daytime. Christ, when was the last time he had a proper night's sleep? After three days of being on the edge every second, he was beginning to regret the days when he would wake up at seven in the morning on Saturdays to do some morning exercises.
After quickly checking to make sure nobody was following, Damien began to make his way towards the woods. As much as he wanted to stop and rest, he knew doing so out in the open like this was pretty much suicide. Not to mention highly unpleasant not that sleeping underneath a tree would be any better. The fact that it was beginning to drizzle did not help matters in the slightest.
As he made his way, he thought back on the names listed in the announcement, and more importantly the people who had killed them. From the sound of things, Brian had been busy getting his hands dirty. Kudos for actually getting something done without him there to lend a hand, but at the same time Damien couldn't help but feel that if he had met him at their rendezvous point like he supposed to then he wouldn't of had to abandon all of his stuff.
Shit, he'd almost forgotten about that. All of his stuff was gone. All of it. His map, his weapons, his food. Everything he was given to survive was now gone, all because that stupid motherfucker didn't show up when he was supposed to. It wasn't until that point that the true gravitas of his situation hit him like a sack of bricks.
It was odd to think that there was a time when Damien genuinely respected Brian. A time where, were it not for the fact that Damien held himself with such high regard, he possibly would have looked up to Brian as a shining example of what a true American should be like. Now though, after seeing Brian's true self, he practically hated the psychotic bastard. Good riddance. Damien was doing damn well working by himself anyway.
Yeah, you murdered your first crush and lost all your shit. Those are some medal-worthy achievements there.
He stopped just a few feet away from the forest's edge. In all the excitement, he'd almost completely forgotten about what he had done back at the shack by the lake. How his paranoia had ended with Amanda having a knife impaled in her chest. How she had glared at him with a look of pute hatred. She had despised him during her final moments, hadn't she? The nice girl from the gym saw him as a cruel monster before breathing her last breath.
Jesus Christ, what the fuck was he doing here? He should be back home, readying himself for the day when he would finally enlist to serve his country. Instead, here he was, skewering fellow American teenagers left right and centre. He didn't deserve this! All his life he was working towards being a model American citizen. Preparing himself for the day when he would make his Grandfather's legacy proud. Instead, his government decided to send him here, make him slaughter his classmates as if it was some kind of game. Was this his reward for all his years of loyalty and patriotism? Is this how his country treated those who loved their country more than they loved their own parents?
You know Damien, you keep going on about how horrible this all is, and how terrible it is to kill your own classmates. But when are you ever actually gonna start doing something about it? Or more importantly, if you hate killing people so much, then why haven't you stopped?
Time seemed to stand still for a moment. The only sound he could hear was the wing gushing through the air, and the only thing he could feel was the cold drizzle that was slowly but surely getting his only set of clothes wet.
Better find some shelter...
It didn't take long for him to find a suitable tree to rest up against. He felt chilly, hard wooden floor that he had rested on the night before looking relatively homely in retrospect, but given how tired he was he didn't seem to care. Once he had settled down, it didn't take long for him to drift off to sleep and replay the events that had transpired up to this point in his dreams.
The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed
The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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ViolentMedic
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- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:50 am
((Dylan Walker continued from Which R Are You Feeling?))
Dylan could not hate the outdoors any more than she did right now. She'd always preferred the indoors, anyway. Or at least preferred being outside buildings rather than staring at trees. Trees were boring. One tree was no different from the millions of other trees. Not like buildings.
But when nature decided it was a good time to start drizzling, it just made Dylan want to kick things. Not corpses this time, admittedly. Maybe just... kick a tree. Dylan tugged her jacket closer around her as she trudged towards the pine stands, pondering the announcement that had blared out not long ago.
It'd been interesting. First off, now with Stephanie gone (Dylan was with Smiley on this one, why were so many of her classmates willing to just off themselves instead of fight? Not that it mattered to her, one less between her and winning) that meant anyone who'd witnessed her first kill was gone. Dylan had worried that maybe one of them would seek her out, but now that wasn't an issue.
That spic girl that Dylan had almost been shot by had killed again. Not once, but twice. That made her top killer. Interesting. Maybe Dylan should find her. Make sure she doesn't become a problem later. She had to take initiative at this stage. Better to jump people than to be jumped.
More importantly, she knew the name of Maxim's killer. It was Callison. Dylan wasn't that surprised. She'd seen the animosity between them that day at the lake, the day Maxim had thrown her precious camera in the water. According to the announcements... the anti-minority partnership was sure racking up their share of kills. Amanda White and—possibly—Felicia LaChapelle. To cover that much ground... sounded like maybe they'd split.
That could only be good for her. Meant Callison was probably on his own. She'd find him. Beat him. Prove she was better than him, and by proxy, better than Maxim. Then she could deal with whatever else the game threw at her. Then she could win.
But not with this damn drizzle.
Dylan scowled at the sky as she stepped over some tree roots. She just needed to stop for a little while. Get out of this stupid drizzle. Why had she walked past the town? Bleh. And it wasn't even a good time for a nap. She still wasn't tired.
Eventually, she found a tree that, while still damn, didn't drip on her as much as staying in the open was. She tucked herself into a roomy gap between some tree roots, before rummaging in her bag for the MRE. She'd subsisted almost entirely on bread for her stay in Program, as well as the wheaties. (Most of the wheaties were gone now, nibbled away throughout the previous day.)
As loathe as she was to conform to the stereotype of her more shameful half... she was really craving that chicken.
She removed the pouch of chicken, tore it open and started shredding bits of it with her fingers, nibbling on it and thinking about the announcement some more. She didn't feel like she had much to worry about right now. Anyone with sense would be hiding in shelter from this drizzle.
She didn't know one of the bigger killers of the game was napping only a few metres away.
Dylan could not hate the outdoors any more than she did right now. She'd always preferred the indoors, anyway. Or at least preferred being outside buildings rather than staring at trees. Trees were boring. One tree was no different from the millions of other trees. Not like buildings.
But when nature decided it was a good time to start drizzling, it just made Dylan want to kick things. Not corpses this time, admittedly. Maybe just... kick a tree. Dylan tugged her jacket closer around her as she trudged towards the pine stands, pondering the announcement that had blared out not long ago.
It'd been interesting. First off, now with Stephanie gone (Dylan was with Smiley on this one, why were so many of her classmates willing to just off themselves instead of fight? Not that it mattered to her, one less between her and winning) that meant anyone who'd witnessed her first kill was gone. Dylan had worried that maybe one of them would seek her out, but now that wasn't an issue.
That spic girl that Dylan had almost been shot by had killed again. Not once, but twice. That made her top killer. Interesting. Maybe Dylan should find her. Make sure she doesn't become a problem later. She had to take initiative at this stage. Better to jump people than to be jumped.
More importantly, she knew the name of Maxim's killer. It was Callison. Dylan wasn't that surprised. She'd seen the animosity between them that day at the lake, the day Maxim had thrown her precious camera in the water. According to the announcements... the anti-minority partnership was sure racking up their share of kills. Amanda White and—possibly—Felicia LaChapelle. To cover that much ground... sounded like maybe they'd split.
That could only be good for her. Meant Callison was probably on his own. She'd find him. Beat him. Prove she was better than him, and by proxy, better than Maxim. Then she could deal with whatever else the game threw at her. Then she could win.
But not with this damn drizzle.
Dylan scowled at the sky as she stepped over some tree roots. She just needed to stop for a little while. Get out of this stupid drizzle. Why had she walked past the town? Bleh. And it wasn't even a good time for a nap. She still wasn't tired.
Eventually, she found a tree that, while still damn, didn't drip on her as much as staying in the open was. She tucked herself into a roomy gap between some tree roots, before rummaging in her bag for the MRE. She'd subsisted almost entirely on bread for her stay in Program, as well as the wheaties. (Most of the wheaties were gone now, nibbled away throughout the previous day.)
As loathe as she was to conform to the stereotype of her more shameful half... she was really craving that chicken.
She removed the pouch of chicken, tore it open and started shredding bits of it with her fingers, nibbling on it and thinking about the announcement some more. She didn't feel like she had much to worry about right now. Anyone with sense would be hiding in shelter from this drizzle.
She didn't know one of the bigger killers of the game was napping only a few metres away.
Damien was running through the forest again.
He wasn't exactly sure why he was running, or whether or not he was running from or towards anyone in particular, or even if this was the same forest he had fallen asleep in. Didn't look like the same forest, the other one had a lot more pine trees. This one though seemed a lot more like a jungle, like the kind from those old Vietnam movies he used to watch.
Actually, speaking of Vietnam movies, as he finally found himself entering a clearing Damien spotted a curious sight in the distance. He was standing - no, crouching - on top of a hill overlooking what looked like a make-shift prison camp of some description built out of wood and bamboo. There were numerous empty cages surrounding a large courtyard, and in the middle of this courtyard stood a dozen or so people, five of whom were American marines bound to wooden stakes. The rest were soldiers dressed in black, all of whom were aiming AK-47's at the marines tied to the stakes.
The sight sickened Damien. He knew a firing range when he saw one, and he was almost certain that the soldiers in black were not Americans. He lifted the pair of binoculars he wore around his neck, not questioning why he suddenly happened to have a pair of him on his person, and took a closer look at the soldiers in black. Sure enough, they were definitely not Americans. He wasn't 100% what race they were. Chinese? Vietnamese? North Korean? Whatever, point was they were asians pointing guns at Americans, and that was more than a good enough reason for him to intervene.
A couple dozen yards down the hill, he could see another guard on patrol duty, one who didn't seem to have noticed him. Seeing his chance, he unsheathed the combat knife from his belt and crept down the hill, making sure to be as silent as possible as he sneaked up behind the guard. With one quick movement, he flawlessly slit the bastard's throat, the guard's body crumbling to the floor in a bloody heap.
One down, seven to go...
As Damien leaned down to pick up the dead guard's AK, a second guard whom he had failed to spot walked around the corner, swearing profusely in whatever heathen language it spoke the moment it saw him. In an attempt to silence him, Damien threw the knife at the alerted guard, impaling him right between the eyes. But he was too late, the soldiers in the prison camp had already been alerted to his prescience. Seemed he only had two choices now. Either he fall back and regroup at the risk of letting the American marines get executed, a prospect that made him feel physically ill. Or, he could just barge through the door and riddle the bastards with bullets, and pray to god that he wouldn't be the first one to go down.
With barely seconds to make his decision, Damien decided to go with the latter.
What happened next could be best described as a long and bloody battle, one which started with only seven soldiers and ended with an entire battalion, including several tanks and helicopters. Countless bullets were fired, soldiers were dying left right and centre and there were more exploding vehicles than Damien had ever seen outside of the most expensive action movies ever made. By the time he was done, Damien found himself surrounded by countless bodies and burning vehicles, the survivors of his onslaught weeping and begging the god they had forsaken for forgiveness.
Kneeling before him were the five marines, one of whom looking suspiciously like Brian Callison, all of whom looked up to him with awe. Here he was, standing tall and resolute, surrounded on all sides by the bodies of his fallen enemies. Truly, he was the greatest American soldier... No, the greatest American warrior to have ever lived.
The next thing Damien knew he was standing on a stage, being awarded the Medal of Honor by the General himself. Before him stood one of the largest crowds he had ever seen, probably over a thousand or so people, all of whom were cheering and celebrating his achievement.
"Son, you have done our beloved country proud. I do not exaggerate when I say that you are, beyond a doubt, the single greatest American hero in the history of these United States of America."
Damien wasn't sure what to say. What could he say. It was literally impossible for him to think of a greater honor than for the General himself to name him America's greatest hero. For the first time in his life, he actually had to suppress the urge to start bursting into tears of joy, not that it stopped a single teardrop from dripping down his cheek. He had done it. He had actually done it. He wasn't just living the American dream. He was living HIS American dream.
At which point, he spotted none other than his father looking back at him.
Unlike the rest of the crowd, his father didn't seem to be particularly happy. If anything he looked throughly unimpressed, if not downright disappointed. Not that it surprised Damien. His father always disapproved of the way he idolised the military. He was always going on about how Damien would just go out and waste his life cowering in a trench somewhere, or even worse end up a disfigured cripple for the rest of his life.
Well, here he was, alive and in perfect health. Not only that, he had the Medal of Honor pinned to his chest. He was the greatest hero America had ever known! Why the hell should he care what his father thought of him?
"Well." said Damien, speaking directly to his father as the crowd went eerily silent. "Looks like you were wrong. After all that talk about how I would die alone and afraid in some godless country, here I am, with the US's highest military honor pinned to my chest! I've become a greater hero than grandfather could have ever dreamed of being!"
He hardly seemed to noticed that everyone around him seemed to freeze in time, with the exception of two unseen figures standing behind his father.
"I did it father! I succeeded where you failed! I'm the greatest hero this country has ever known, whilst you? You're just coward who forgot how to love his country."
Damien grinned. "Well? What do you have to say to that?"
His father didn't say a word. Instead, he stepped to the side and allowed the two figures behind him to step forward.
Damien's grin dropped.
The first was an asian girl with a gaping hole in her neck, with blood pouring freely from it all over her chest and body.
The other was a caucasian girl with a dagger impaled in her chest, and her broken arm dangling limply by her side.
Both girls glared at him, pure unadulterated hatred in their eyes as they stared deep into his soul. As much as Damien wanted to blink or look away, he found himself unable to stop staring back.
They hated him. Hated him more than he ever thought anyone could possibly hate a person, or anything for that matter. These two girls despised him with every fibre of their beings.
And they both had damn good reasons for doing so.
It was at this point that Damien finally woke up.
His brow was drenched with sweat as he looked around his surroundings, the realisation that it had all just been a dream slowly creeping up on him. Jesus Christ, what the hell was that all about? One minute he was the greatest hero America had ever known, the next...
He shook the thoughts from his mind as he lay back, closing his eyes and desperately trying to go back to sleep. He could still do with a few more hours rest before resuming his hunt, his first goal being to find himself something to eat. Once that had been sorted, he could then worry about getting his hand on a decent weapon before someone with a gun found him first.
Little did he realise that sleeping just a few metres away was a fellow player who just so happened to have a firearm on them.
He wasn't exactly sure why he was running, or whether or not he was running from or towards anyone in particular, or even if this was the same forest he had fallen asleep in. Didn't look like the same forest, the other one had a lot more pine trees. This one though seemed a lot more like a jungle, like the kind from those old Vietnam movies he used to watch.
Actually, speaking of Vietnam movies, as he finally found himself entering a clearing Damien spotted a curious sight in the distance. He was standing - no, crouching - on top of a hill overlooking what looked like a make-shift prison camp of some description built out of wood and bamboo. There were numerous empty cages surrounding a large courtyard, and in the middle of this courtyard stood a dozen or so people, five of whom were American marines bound to wooden stakes. The rest were soldiers dressed in black, all of whom were aiming AK-47's at the marines tied to the stakes.
The sight sickened Damien. He knew a firing range when he saw one, and he was almost certain that the soldiers in black were not Americans. He lifted the pair of binoculars he wore around his neck, not questioning why he suddenly happened to have a pair of him on his person, and took a closer look at the soldiers in black. Sure enough, they were definitely not Americans. He wasn't 100% what race they were. Chinese? Vietnamese? North Korean? Whatever, point was they were asians pointing guns at Americans, and that was more than a good enough reason for him to intervene.
A couple dozen yards down the hill, he could see another guard on patrol duty, one who didn't seem to have noticed him. Seeing his chance, he unsheathed the combat knife from his belt and crept down the hill, making sure to be as silent as possible as he sneaked up behind the guard. With one quick movement, he flawlessly slit the bastard's throat, the guard's body crumbling to the floor in a bloody heap.
One down, seven to go...
As Damien leaned down to pick up the dead guard's AK, a second guard whom he had failed to spot walked around the corner, swearing profusely in whatever heathen language it spoke the moment it saw him. In an attempt to silence him, Damien threw the knife at the alerted guard, impaling him right between the eyes. But he was too late, the soldiers in the prison camp had already been alerted to his prescience. Seemed he only had two choices now. Either he fall back and regroup at the risk of letting the American marines get executed, a prospect that made him feel physically ill. Or, he could just barge through the door and riddle the bastards with bullets, and pray to god that he wouldn't be the first one to go down.
With barely seconds to make his decision, Damien decided to go with the latter.
What happened next could be best described as a long and bloody battle, one which started with only seven soldiers and ended with an entire battalion, including several tanks and helicopters. Countless bullets were fired, soldiers were dying left right and centre and there were more exploding vehicles than Damien had ever seen outside of the most expensive action movies ever made. By the time he was done, Damien found himself surrounded by countless bodies and burning vehicles, the survivors of his onslaught weeping and begging the god they had forsaken for forgiveness.
Kneeling before him were the five marines, one of whom looking suspiciously like Brian Callison, all of whom looked up to him with awe. Here he was, standing tall and resolute, surrounded on all sides by the bodies of his fallen enemies. Truly, he was the greatest American soldier... No, the greatest American warrior to have ever lived.
The next thing Damien knew he was standing on a stage, being awarded the Medal of Honor by the General himself. Before him stood one of the largest crowds he had ever seen, probably over a thousand or so people, all of whom were cheering and celebrating his achievement.
"Son, you have done our beloved country proud. I do not exaggerate when I say that you are, beyond a doubt, the single greatest American hero in the history of these United States of America."
Damien wasn't sure what to say. What could he say. It was literally impossible for him to think of a greater honor than for the General himself to name him America's greatest hero. For the first time in his life, he actually had to suppress the urge to start bursting into tears of joy, not that it stopped a single teardrop from dripping down his cheek. He had done it. He had actually done it. He wasn't just living the American dream. He was living HIS American dream.
At which point, he spotted none other than his father looking back at him.
Unlike the rest of the crowd, his father didn't seem to be particularly happy. If anything he looked throughly unimpressed, if not downright disappointed. Not that it surprised Damien. His father always disapproved of the way he idolised the military. He was always going on about how Damien would just go out and waste his life cowering in a trench somewhere, or even worse end up a disfigured cripple for the rest of his life.
Well, here he was, alive and in perfect health. Not only that, he had the Medal of Honor pinned to his chest. He was the greatest hero America had ever known! Why the hell should he care what his father thought of him?
"Well." said Damien, speaking directly to his father as the crowd went eerily silent. "Looks like you were wrong. After all that talk about how I would die alone and afraid in some godless country, here I am, with the US's highest military honor pinned to my chest! I've become a greater hero than grandfather could have ever dreamed of being!"
He hardly seemed to noticed that everyone around him seemed to freeze in time, with the exception of two unseen figures standing behind his father.
"I did it father! I succeeded where you failed! I'm the greatest hero this country has ever known, whilst you? You're just coward who forgot how to love his country."
Damien grinned. "Well? What do you have to say to that?"
His father didn't say a word. Instead, he stepped to the side and allowed the two figures behind him to step forward.
Damien's grin dropped.
The first was an asian girl with a gaping hole in her neck, with blood pouring freely from it all over her chest and body.
The other was a caucasian girl with a dagger impaled in her chest, and her broken arm dangling limply by her side.
Both girls glared at him, pure unadulterated hatred in their eyes as they stared deep into his soul. As much as Damien wanted to blink or look away, he found himself unable to stop staring back.
They hated him. Hated him more than he ever thought anyone could possibly hate a person, or anything for that matter. These two girls despised him with every fibre of their beings.
And they both had damn good reasons for doing so.
It was at this point that Damien finally woke up.
His brow was drenched with sweat as he looked around his surroundings, the realisation that it had all just been a dream slowly creeping up on him. Jesus Christ, what the hell was that all about? One minute he was the greatest hero America had ever known, the next...
He shook the thoughts from his mind as he lay back, closing his eyes and desperately trying to go back to sleep. He could still do with a few more hours rest before resuming his hunt, his first goal being to find himself something to eat. Once that had been sorted, he could then worry about getting his hand on a decent weapon before someone with a gun found him first.
Little did he realise that sleeping just a few metres away was a fellow player who just so happened to have a firearm on them.
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 148
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:50 am
Dylan continued to shred chicken and think about Callison. How to find him. How to kill him. She didn't know where he'd go, what weapons he had on him... he probably had Maxim's rifle, now that she thought of it. Darn, and she'd thought she would have the advantage. Just thinking about that rifle being pointed at her face again made her shake. She stuffed another chunk of chicken in her mouth to try and distract herself with the taste of actual food. As far as food went, though, she was likely doing better than a lot of kids. Having scrounged supplies here and there, as well as having access to the breakfast of champions...
Not the issue now, though. Plan:
1.) Find Brian Callison.
2.) ???
3.) Victory.
She had this. She definitely had this. Just needed to find him first, and the rest would sort itself out. Though it couldn't hurt to consider her options for when she found him. Sneaking up on him, perhaps? Cowardly, but it would get the job done... and part of being the strongest was being able to use her wits, wasn't it?
Dylan continued to think, fiddling with another scrap of chicken as she did so.
Not the issue now, though. Plan:
1.) Find Brian Callison.
2.) ???
3.) Victory.
She had this. She definitely had this. Just needed to find him first, and the rest would sort itself out. Though it couldn't hurt to consider her options for when she found him. Sneaking up on him, perhaps? Cowardly, but it would get the job done... and part of being the strongest was being able to use her wits, wasn't it?
Dylan continued to think, fiddling with another scrap of chicken as she did so.
((Tas continued from Man is Born Unto Trouble))
Continually, Anastasia's opinion of her decision to head deeper into the woods veered between approval and annoyance. It kept the worst of the rain off, and even the biting wind was muted by the densely packed stands of trees. On the other hand, it was dark, sounds were muffled, and it was goddamn hard for her to be certain whether she was going in the right direction. An orienteerer, Tas was not.
Besides, Tas kept on having to stop and wipe off her glasses, and it was starting to give her a huge headache. Or maybe that was the sleep deprivation. Or dehydration. Or constant paranoia.
On the balance of things, though, in spite of her nerves jangling at the slightest sound, Tas was the closest she'd been to warm since before she got here. It was the difference between being a little damp and soaked to the skin. Jesus... she'd be surprised if nobody froze to death in all of this.
Tas had her glasses off again, rifle tucked underneath her arm, when amongst the trees and undergrowth, a patch of blurred darkness suddenly resolved into the shape of a guy - another student.
Oh shit!
Continually, Anastasia's opinion of her decision to head deeper into the woods veered between approval and annoyance. It kept the worst of the rain off, and even the biting wind was muted by the densely packed stands of trees. On the other hand, it was dark, sounds were muffled, and it was goddamn hard for her to be certain whether she was going in the right direction. An orienteerer, Tas was not.
Besides, Tas kept on having to stop and wipe off her glasses, and it was starting to give her a huge headache. Or maybe that was the sleep deprivation. Or dehydration. Or constant paranoia.
On the balance of things, though, in spite of her nerves jangling at the slightest sound, Tas was the closest she'd been to warm since before she got here. It was the difference between being a little damp and soaked to the skin. Jesus... she'd be surprised if nobody froze to death in all of this.
Tas had her glasses off again, rifle tucked underneath her arm, when amongst the trees and undergrowth, a patch of blurred darkness suddenly resolved into the shape of a guy - another student.
Oh shit!
Damien was no longer alone.
He was on the verge of sleep when he began to hear the sound of footsteps nearing closer. Whilst at first he was too tired to even consider the possibility of there being another player nearby, as his eyes opened ever so slightly the truth of his predicament became obvious, jolting him awake in the process.
Standing before him was a girl with a gun. Not just any old girl with a gun either. It was Anastasia Flores. With a gun.
Anastasia Flores. Shit, of all the girls who could have come across him, it had to be her didn't it? She was another one of the minority girls, and a scrapper at that. She once knocked a soccer player out cold with a single punch, or so he had heard. Whilst he was almost certain that the details were exaggerated, the fact remained that she was banned from participating in sports for striking a fellow student, and in general she had quite the reputation as a hot-headed brawler.
In other words, she was exactly the kind of girl who would rejoice at the thought of killing a guy like him. And given her already hefty bodycount, not to mention the rather intimidating gun she had on her, Damien didn't doubt for a second that she intended to remove him from the competition.
Fuck that. No way I'm gonna let anyone kill me that easily...
Before she had a chance to use her firearm, Damien dashed to the side, attempting to disappear into the undergrowth. Thankfully, the section of woods they were in had it's fair share of bushes, so it wasn't too hard to get out of sight and hide. And from the looks of things, she had failed to spot where he had hidden, so for now he had the element of surprise on his side again.
Next question though was how to actually take her down without her shooting him first. Said question was answered fairly swiftly when he realised that she wasn't in pursuit of him, instead running off in the opposite direction in an attempt to get away.
Huh. Guess she isn't that bloodthirsty after all. Guess I should probably let her go...
What, so she could just kill you later? Listen to yourself numbnut, you spare this spic and she'll come back to skin you alive. Besides, you need to get your hands on a gun, and that rifle of her's looks like just the kind of weapon you need to survive this.
With barely seconds to make a decision, Damien left his hiding place to pursue his would-be killer, making sure to make as little noise as possible as he dashed from tree to tree. She wasn't exactly making that big an effort to hide her tracks, and before long he found her in a small clearing near the edge of the cliff face, her gun raised and her eyes on the lookout.
Clever bitch. Can't go rushing in or she'll blow your brains out. Got to sneak up from behind, take her out quietly.
Whilst Tas appeared to be panicking too much to pay attention to her scenery, Damien was able to remain hidden long enough for him to get closer, quietly dashing from tree to tree in an attempt to stay concealed. Before long, he found himself barely metres away from Tas, who at this point appeared to have her back turned to his location.
Well Damien, this is it. You're never going to get a more perfect opportunity than this to take her down.
As he prepared to make his move, doubtful thoughts began to claw at his mind. What if he was wrong? What if she never intended to kill him, and that his attempts at "defending" himself would be just another tick on the list of girls he had murdered in the name of his country? He could always just walk away, act like he never saw her...
...And go against everything he had been fighting for this whole time? What point would there be to all of this madness if he just gave up now, especially seeing as this girl's equipment was his key to salvation. After that fiasco at the shed, he had lost everything. His weapons, his food, his innoce... His back-pack. Tas had all three of these things. Hell, he could probably put that gun to better use than she ever could. With it, he would pretty much be unstoppable.
So no, he had no choice in the matter. His country expected him to kill her. No. His country DEMANDED that he kill her. He HAD to kill her. It wasn't his fault, nor would it be her's. If the only way he could survive is by having yet another human being's blood on his hands, then so fucking be it.
On that note, he grabbed her from behind, attempting to snap her neck before she could even realise what was going on.
He was on the verge of sleep when he began to hear the sound of footsteps nearing closer. Whilst at first he was too tired to even consider the possibility of there being another player nearby, as his eyes opened ever so slightly the truth of his predicament became obvious, jolting him awake in the process.
Standing before him was a girl with a gun. Not just any old girl with a gun either. It was Anastasia Flores. With a gun.
Anastasia Flores. Shit, of all the girls who could have come across him, it had to be her didn't it? She was another one of the minority girls, and a scrapper at that. She once knocked a soccer player out cold with a single punch, or so he had heard. Whilst he was almost certain that the details were exaggerated, the fact remained that she was banned from participating in sports for striking a fellow student, and in general she had quite the reputation as a hot-headed brawler.
In other words, she was exactly the kind of girl who would rejoice at the thought of killing a guy like him. And given her already hefty bodycount, not to mention the rather intimidating gun she had on her, Damien didn't doubt for a second that she intended to remove him from the competition.
Fuck that. No way I'm gonna let anyone kill me that easily...
Before she had a chance to use her firearm, Damien dashed to the side, attempting to disappear into the undergrowth. Thankfully, the section of woods they were in had it's fair share of bushes, so it wasn't too hard to get out of sight and hide. And from the looks of things, she had failed to spot where he had hidden, so for now he had the element of surprise on his side again.
Next question though was how to actually take her down without her shooting him first. Said question was answered fairly swiftly when he realised that she wasn't in pursuit of him, instead running off in the opposite direction in an attempt to get away.
Huh. Guess she isn't that bloodthirsty after all. Guess I should probably let her go...
What, so she could just kill you later? Listen to yourself numbnut, you spare this spic and she'll come back to skin you alive. Besides, you need to get your hands on a gun, and that rifle of her's looks like just the kind of weapon you need to survive this.
With barely seconds to make a decision, Damien left his hiding place to pursue his would-be killer, making sure to make as little noise as possible as he dashed from tree to tree. She wasn't exactly making that big an effort to hide her tracks, and before long he found her in a small clearing near the edge of the cliff face, her gun raised and her eyes on the lookout.
Clever bitch. Can't go rushing in or she'll blow your brains out. Got to sneak up from behind, take her out quietly.
Whilst Tas appeared to be panicking too much to pay attention to her scenery, Damien was able to remain hidden long enough for him to get closer, quietly dashing from tree to tree in an attempt to stay concealed. Before long, he found himself barely metres away from Tas, who at this point appeared to have her back turned to his location.
Well Damien, this is it. You're never going to get a more perfect opportunity than this to take her down.
As he prepared to make his move, doubtful thoughts began to claw at his mind. What if he was wrong? What if she never intended to kill him, and that his attempts at "defending" himself would be just another tick on the list of girls he had murdered in the name of his country? He could always just walk away, act like he never saw her...
...And go against everything he had been fighting for this whole time? What point would there be to all of this madness if he just gave up now, especially seeing as this girl's equipment was his key to salvation. After that fiasco at the shed, he had lost everything. His weapons, his food, his innoce... His back-pack. Tas had all three of these things. Hell, he could probably put that gun to better use than she ever could. With it, he would pretty much be unstoppable.
So no, he had no choice in the matter. His country expected him to kill her. No. His country DEMANDED that he kill her. He HAD to kill her. It wasn't his fault, nor would it be her's. If the only way he could survive is by having yet another human being's blood on his hands, then so fucking be it.
On that note, he grabbed her from behind, attempting to snap her neck before she could even realise what was going on.
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 148
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:50 am
Dylan was still pondering the ways to murder someone like Brian when she heard a bunch of rustling nearby. Choking on the piece of chicken she’d been chewing on, she quickly pushed the rest in her bag and reached for her gun. Only to realise that the source of the noise hadn’t seen her. Rather, they’d gone running past a few minutes away, and the trees around had probably obscured her from their sight. Or else they’d be attacking her right now.
She could still hear the crunching of pine needles under shoes. And suddenly the noise doubled. She was far from alone here.
Dylan grabbed her bag and edged towards the noise. She saw two people through the trees. Anastasia and Damien. A minority and a patriot, and two of the biggest killers in the game besides. Didn’t take a genius to know how this was going to end.
Dylan didn’t move to interfere. She just backed away slightly from what was shaping up to be a bloody fight and waited.
She could still hear the crunching of pine needles under shoes. And suddenly the noise doubled. She was far from alone here.
Dylan grabbed her bag and edged towards the noise. She saw two people through the trees. Anastasia and Damien. A minority and a patriot, and two of the biggest killers in the game besides. Didn’t take a genius to know how this was going to end.
Dylan didn’t move to interfere. She just backed away slightly from what was shaping up to be a bloody fight and waited.
Tas didn't know who it was she'd stumbled across and to be frank she didn't care. The last place she wanted to be right now was around anyone else, and for once it wasn't a decision made in panic as she faked one way and then bolted the other; the blonde-headed guy moved too, but in the opposite direction. Good, Tas wanted to lose him. Quick, but not sprinting - measured enough that she could still tell where she was going and wasn't about to faceplant on any underlying roots.
She was moving for a while, but the more she ran and the more her heart pounded with the exertion - she sure as hell couldn't keep dashing around for much longer - the surer she became that she was being followed. There were trampling sounds, the occasional snap and twang of a low lying branch being broken or brushed past. It wasn't like Tas herself was making much effort to be quiet, and she didn't know the first thing about covering her tracks. More and more often, she found herself glancing back, trying to catch a glimpse of the person she was sure was pursuing her.
So much so, in fact, that she almost ran straight off the steep incline that abruptly broke the trees.
Tas swore and slammed on the brakes so hard she fell flat on her ass, kicking up a plume of dusty gravel and causing yet another curse to burst free. It wasn't a precipice in front of her, but it was a significant drop; she'd have broken something for sure if she'd taken that tumble. Maybe worse.
The adrenaline was still pumping, but with her ears attuned to her surroundings... Tas couldn't hear those noises of pursuit any more. She was far from letting her guard down, but perhaps now was a good time to take stock. Leaning down to pick up her rifle again, Tas checked the mechanism over. The rifle itself was getting pretty scuffed up, but so far as her untrained eye could tell, it was still perfectly functional.
Maybe she-
Broad, brutally strong arms wrapped around her throat from behind. A moment of choking, a flash of blind panic, and then a surge of hot fury.
Fuck you!
Tas brought her head forward, gaining just a little space, and then hurled it back in a reverse butt. Solid contact, stars bursting in front of her eyes. But, from behind something gave, and there was a cry of pain, that grip loosening. Tas stomped down hard, found a foot, and then twisted, tackling her assailant around the midriff and bearing them both to the ground.
She was moving for a while, but the more she ran and the more her heart pounded with the exertion - she sure as hell couldn't keep dashing around for much longer - the surer she became that she was being followed. There were trampling sounds, the occasional snap and twang of a low lying branch being broken or brushed past. It wasn't like Tas herself was making much effort to be quiet, and she didn't know the first thing about covering her tracks. More and more often, she found herself glancing back, trying to catch a glimpse of the person she was sure was pursuing her.
So much so, in fact, that she almost ran straight off the steep incline that abruptly broke the trees.
Tas swore and slammed on the brakes so hard she fell flat on her ass, kicking up a plume of dusty gravel and causing yet another curse to burst free. It wasn't a precipice in front of her, but it was a significant drop; she'd have broken something for sure if she'd taken that tumble. Maybe worse.
The adrenaline was still pumping, but with her ears attuned to her surroundings... Tas couldn't hear those noises of pursuit any more. She was far from letting her guard down, but perhaps now was a good time to take stock. Leaning down to pick up her rifle again, Tas checked the mechanism over. The rifle itself was getting pretty scuffed up, but so far as her untrained eye could tell, it was still perfectly functional.
Maybe she-
Broad, brutally strong arms wrapped around her throat from behind. A moment of choking, a flash of blind panic, and then a surge of hot fury.
Fuck you!
Tas brought her head forward, gaining just a little space, and then hurled it back in a reverse butt. Solid contact, stars bursting in front of her eyes. But, from behind something gave, and there was a cry of pain, that grip loosening. Tas stomped down hard, found a foot, and then twisted, tackling her assailant around the midriff and bearing them both to the ground.
The fuck just happened?
One second, Damien had the situation all under control. Tas had been completely helpless and at his mercy. All he had to do was snap her neck like a twig, simple as that. There was no way she could possibly get away.
But then, WHAM! The back of her head slammed into his face, and suddenly he was experiencing a kind of pain he had never felt before. He'd been hurt plenty of times in the past, mostly from getting hit during paintball games. Never though had he ever been in as much pain as he was experiencing now, his left hand instinctively trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from his now broken nose.
Before he had a chance to retort, Tas then went on to stamp down on his foot, causing him to completely lose his grip to his shorter opponent. Then, with the perfect window of opportunity, she tackled him and knocked him onto the ground. There was a sharp pain in his back as he landed on a jagged rock, though that was nothing compared to the onslaught that was about to occur.
With the tables now turned, Tas didn't hesitate in the slightest as she began her brutal counterattack. With her rifle still in her hands, she began to smash the butt of her gun into Damien's face, never relenting as she continued to rain blow after blow on the boy who had just tried to kill her. Everything seemed to be a blur for Damien as she continued to assault him, never pausing for a second as she continued to hit him again.
And again.
And again...
And again.....
He couldn't think. He couldn't breath. He could barely tell what was going on anymore. All he knew was that the agony he was experiencing right now was truly unbearable.
Was this it? Was this how his story was to end? With his face getting beaten in by some Mexican girl with anger issues? Sure, there were probably worse ways to die, and admittedly he always preferred the thought of going out fighting than quietly in his bed.
Maybe then it was better this way. He'd had his shot, and he failed. He had made a mistake, so he had to pay for it. In hindsight, he should have seen this coming. It's probably what he would have done if he was in her situation. Should have fucking known better. All he could do now was lie back and allow himself to finally black out, pray that the final blow that would finish off would be the next one.
And at first, it looked as though that was the case. He didn't look as though he was fighting anymore, his arms going more limp with every blow. He had given up, submitted to his opponent. Thrown in the towel and called it quits as Tas continued to smash the butt of her gun into his face.
Until, that is, he suddenly shot his hand up and caught her arm mid-smash.
No. Fuck that! He couldn't give up just yet, not if it meant giving up his dream right there and then. He was a true American god damnit! A patriot! He was destined to be a war hero, not some schmuck who barely made it past the second half of the Program! No fucking way he could let this bitch take him down that easily, not whilst he still had strength in him!
With a sudden surge of strength, he swung his fist at her face, pounding her so hard that she fell over onto the grass beside him. Then, before she had a chance to regain her composure, he turned over so that he was the one who was looking down at her.
His face was a horrific mockery of what it used to be like. His nose was broken, his jaw was fractured, and what little was left of his teeth were jagged and uneven. During the struggle, his ponytail had become undone, his long hair now looking wild and unkempt. But worst of all was the primal expression on his face. His eyes, burning with anger and hatred. His barbaric snarl, showing off his crude teeth and dripping with blood. It was a look of pure animalistic rage, made all the worse by his bloodied and disfigured face.
And like Tas, he didn't pull any punches.
He wasn't sure how long he continued to pummel her, his knuckles becoming more and more bloodied with each vicious punch. At some point or another, he stopped hitting her, instead deciding to choke his enemy to death. He gazed deep into her eyes as he did so, relishing the moment when the life in her eyes began to slowly fade away. She had tried struggling at first, but in the end Damien was far stronger than her. Unlike him, she truly was completely helpless to prevent her own death. She couldn't even call out for help, or say one last taunt before passing away. All she could do was struggle to breath as he strangled her to death.
But in her final moments, as he continued to gaze into her eyes, Damien realised something.
She was afraid. Not angry, or aggressive. But afraid.
Suddenly, Damien snapped back to reality.
He let go of Tas' neck, his hands shaking as he stared down at the lifeless girl who lay below him.
Dear god... What have I become?
One second, Damien had the situation all under control. Tas had been completely helpless and at his mercy. All he had to do was snap her neck like a twig, simple as that. There was no way she could possibly get away.
But then, WHAM! The back of her head slammed into his face, and suddenly he was experiencing a kind of pain he had never felt before. He'd been hurt plenty of times in the past, mostly from getting hit during paintball games. Never though had he ever been in as much pain as he was experiencing now, his left hand instinctively trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from his now broken nose.
Before he had a chance to retort, Tas then went on to stamp down on his foot, causing him to completely lose his grip to his shorter opponent. Then, with the perfect window of opportunity, she tackled him and knocked him onto the ground. There was a sharp pain in his back as he landed on a jagged rock, though that was nothing compared to the onslaught that was about to occur.
With the tables now turned, Tas didn't hesitate in the slightest as she began her brutal counterattack. With her rifle still in her hands, she began to smash the butt of her gun into Damien's face, never relenting as she continued to rain blow after blow on the boy who had just tried to kill her. Everything seemed to be a blur for Damien as she continued to assault him, never pausing for a second as she continued to hit him again.
And again.
And again...
And again.....
He couldn't think. He couldn't breath. He could barely tell what was going on anymore. All he knew was that the agony he was experiencing right now was truly unbearable.
Was this it? Was this how his story was to end? With his face getting beaten in by some Mexican girl with anger issues? Sure, there were probably worse ways to die, and admittedly he always preferred the thought of going out fighting than quietly in his bed.
Maybe then it was better this way. He'd had his shot, and he failed. He had made a mistake, so he had to pay for it. In hindsight, he should have seen this coming. It's probably what he would have done if he was in her situation. Should have fucking known better. All he could do now was lie back and allow himself to finally black out, pray that the final blow that would finish off would be the next one.
And at first, it looked as though that was the case. He didn't look as though he was fighting anymore, his arms going more limp with every blow. He had given up, submitted to his opponent. Thrown in the towel and called it quits as Tas continued to smash the butt of her gun into his face.
Until, that is, he suddenly shot his hand up and caught her arm mid-smash.
No. Fuck that! He couldn't give up just yet, not if it meant giving up his dream right there and then. He was a true American god damnit! A patriot! He was destined to be a war hero, not some schmuck who barely made it past the second half of the Program! No fucking way he could let this bitch take him down that easily, not whilst he still had strength in him!
With a sudden surge of strength, he swung his fist at her face, pounding her so hard that she fell over onto the grass beside him. Then, before she had a chance to regain her composure, he turned over so that he was the one who was looking down at her.
His face was a horrific mockery of what it used to be like. His nose was broken, his jaw was fractured, and what little was left of his teeth were jagged and uneven. During the struggle, his ponytail had become undone, his long hair now looking wild and unkempt. But worst of all was the primal expression on his face. His eyes, burning with anger and hatred. His barbaric snarl, showing off his crude teeth and dripping with blood. It was a look of pure animalistic rage, made all the worse by his bloodied and disfigured face.
And like Tas, he didn't pull any punches.
He wasn't sure how long he continued to pummel her, his knuckles becoming more and more bloodied with each vicious punch. At some point or another, he stopped hitting her, instead deciding to choke his enemy to death. He gazed deep into her eyes as he did so, relishing the moment when the life in her eyes began to slowly fade away. She had tried struggling at first, but in the end Damien was far stronger than her. Unlike him, she truly was completely helpless to prevent her own death. She couldn't even call out for help, or say one last taunt before passing away. All she could do was struggle to breath as he strangled her to death.
But in her final moments, as he continued to gaze into her eyes, Damien realised something.
She was afraid. Not angry, or aggressive. But afraid.
Suddenly, Damien snapped back to reality.
He let go of Tas' neck, his hands shaking as he stared down at the lifeless girl who lay below him.
Dear god... What have I become?
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 148
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:50 am
Strange. The sight of two people taking turns at trying to beat each other to death shouldn't have disturbed Dylan. After all, she'd beaten a girl to death herself. It should have been old news by now. But she'd never seen a murder take place in front of her. She hadn't seen it from an outside perspective before. The footage of Program on the television didn't really capture it properly. Seeing it live was completely different.
Dylan had to avert her eyes a couple of times as Tas beat Damien's face into bloody pulp. Never for too long. She had to watch. Just in case one of them spotted her. But... eugh. They looked insane, fighting like that. When Damien got the upper hand and started dealing payback...
Dylan had never seen anyone look so absolutely-fucking-mental. That was especially hard to look at.
Before she'd seen how brutal the fight was getting, she'd had a few brief thoughts on how to deal with the survivor. If it was Tas, bullet to the head. No-brainer. If it was Damien, however... there'd been some vague thoughts about faking a team-up or threatening him with a gun and getting him to lead her to Callison. He'd probably know where Callison was, they'd been teamed up.
But... that expression...
Dylan gazed through the bushes, covering her mouth in a dual effort to both prevent herself from making sound or vomiting as Damien beat his firsts into Tas again and again.
Absolutely insane.
Did I look like that when I murdered Brigid? I didn't, did I?
He didn't look like he could be reasoned with. He looked like a dog infected with rabies.
And, well... she knew what you did to a dog infected with rabies.
Dylan had to avert her eyes a couple of times as Tas beat Damien's face into bloody pulp. Never for too long. She had to watch. Just in case one of them spotted her. But... eugh. They looked insane, fighting like that. When Damien got the upper hand and started dealing payback...
Dylan had never seen anyone look so absolutely-fucking-mental. That was especially hard to look at.
Before she'd seen how brutal the fight was getting, she'd had a few brief thoughts on how to deal with the survivor. If it was Tas, bullet to the head. No-brainer. If it was Damien, however... there'd been some vague thoughts about faking a team-up or threatening him with a gun and getting him to lead her to Callison. He'd probably know where Callison was, they'd been teamed up.
But... that expression...
Dylan gazed through the bushes, covering her mouth in a dual effort to both prevent herself from making sound or vomiting as Damien beat his firsts into Tas again and again.
Absolutely insane.
Did I look like that when I murdered Brigid? I didn't, did I?
He didn't look like he could be reasoned with. He looked like a dog infected with rabies.
And, well... she knew what you did to a dog infected with rabies.
It was like the first time, with Gerald - someone reaching out of the blue and grabbing her. This time though, Tas was in control, knew what she was doing. And that's why she didn't hesitate - fuck that! This wasn't misinterpretation, or overreacting, those hands were clasping at her throat with every intention of strangling the life out of her.
Not this time.
He was bigger than her, she noticed as the pair of them slammed into the ground. Muscular, blonde, typical jock. Looked familiar, but now really wasn't the time to be groping for a name. Didn't matter anymore. There wasn't hesitation as she straddled him, she knew what she was doing and god damn he deserved it- wham. The feeling of the gun's stock impacting against the guy's face was brutal, visceral, the shockwave of it travelling all the way up her arms, seeming to reverberate throughout her entire body. Tas brought back her arms, raised the rifle again - wham.
There was a splatter of blood this time, across the stock of the gun, across her sleeve, staining the already-marked hoodie even further. Another hit, another - something broke beneath her onslaught, and in those brief instances where she could see enough of his face to matter, the damage was obvious, mounting, and it felt so damn good-
Tas faltered in the middle of her swing as that thought ran across her mind's surface. It felt-
There was an audible smack and Tas's body jolted as the boy beneath her, whose face resembled so much battered meat, reached out and caught her arm. She twisted, pulled, the rifle to one side, and then the other, and for a moment the gun was pointing downwards and Tas wasn't sure if she was reaching for the trigger or just trying to grapple it out of his grip. A moment later though, and it was out of her hands as the gun was pinned to her body and her near-victim returned the favour.
The first punch broke her glasses, the second, her nose. The third smashed what was left of the lenses into her right eye, and she let out a cry as half of her vision exploded, and then went horribly black. The remainder was enough to see the frenzied, insane snarl on the ruined face of the guy- Damien. Christ, what a moment for that to come back to her, when it didn't even fucking matter in the slightest-
Another punch. There was warm wetness all over her face, and she couldn't tell how much was blood and how much was her tears, and really, did it make a difference? Tas twisted each way, as best she could, but unlike her, Damien was more or less using his entire body to keep her down, and the weight and the strength, it was too much.
Hands locked around her throat again, and Tas couldn't even choke out the breath to cry out. He was staring down at her, and one wide eye and one bloody red mess stared back, and all the while, her hands moved, grappled, seized around the rifle to work it this way and that and, and she just had to, had to-
Her vision was slipping away in a haze, but with clarity, Tas knew that her finger had found the rifle's trigger and pulled it. The gunshot was the last thing she heard.
Vete al infierno americano!
F22: ANASTASIA FLORES: DECEASED
Not this time.
He was bigger than her, she noticed as the pair of them slammed into the ground. Muscular, blonde, typical jock. Looked familiar, but now really wasn't the time to be groping for a name. Didn't matter anymore. There wasn't hesitation as she straddled him, she knew what she was doing and god damn he deserved it- wham. The feeling of the gun's stock impacting against the guy's face was brutal, visceral, the shockwave of it travelling all the way up her arms, seeming to reverberate throughout her entire body. Tas brought back her arms, raised the rifle again - wham.
There was a splatter of blood this time, across the stock of the gun, across her sleeve, staining the already-marked hoodie even further. Another hit, another - something broke beneath her onslaught, and in those brief instances where she could see enough of his face to matter, the damage was obvious, mounting, and it felt so damn good-
Tas faltered in the middle of her swing as that thought ran across her mind's surface. It felt-
There was an audible smack and Tas's body jolted as the boy beneath her, whose face resembled so much battered meat, reached out and caught her arm. She twisted, pulled, the rifle to one side, and then the other, and for a moment the gun was pointing downwards and Tas wasn't sure if she was reaching for the trigger or just trying to grapple it out of his grip. A moment later though, and it was out of her hands as the gun was pinned to her body and her near-victim returned the favour.
The first punch broke her glasses, the second, her nose. The third smashed what was left of the lenses into her right eye, and she let out a cry as half of her vision exploded, and then went horribly black. The remainder was enough to see the frenzied, insane snarl on the ruined face of the guy- Damien. Christ, what a moment for that to come back to her, when it didn't even fucking matter in the slightest-
Another punch. There was warm wetness all over her face, and she couldn't tell how much was blood and how much was her tears, and really, did it make a difference? Tas twisted each way, as best she could, but unlike her, Damien was more or less using his entire body to keep her down, and the weight and the strength, it was too much.
Hands locked around her throat again, and Tas couldn't even choke out the breath to cry out. He was staring down at her, and one wide eye and one bloody red mess stared back, and all the while, her hands moved, grappled, seized around the rifle to work it this way and that and, and she just had to, had to-
Her vision was slipping away in a haze, but with clarity, Tas knew that her finger had found the rifle's trigger and pulled it. The gunshot was the last thing she heard.
Vete al infierno americano!
F22: ANASTASIA FLORES: DECEASED
There was a sharp pain near his pelvis. He looked down at his body to find a gaping bulletwound, blood freely pouring from it until he stemmed the flow with his hand. In all the excitement, he hadn't even noticed that Tas had managed to hit him with a lucky shot.
Now that his adrenaline-fuelled rage has subsided, he realised just how much agony he was in. Whilst he wouldn't call himself a doctor, he didn't think that anything particularly vital had been hit, not that it meant that he didn't need some serious medical attention.
Though whether or not he deserved any medical attention after everything he had done was a different matter entirely.
Three girls. Three teenage, more-or-less innocent girls. For all his talk about heroism, all he had managed to achieve was murder three teenage girls, not to mention injure a fourth one. All of whom he had attacked without any provocation whatsoever.
What. The. Fuck.
What the fuck was he doing here? Why the fuck was he doing this? What point did any of this bullshit have? He'd long since forgotten why the Program existed in the first place. Was it to make some kind of point? Entertainment? Abuse of power? Whatever the reason, all Damien could think of at that very point in time was that he had brutally murdered three girls who had never done him any harm, all in the name of his great and glorious country.
And frankly, he just couldn't take it anymore.
Damien let how a loud and inhuman scream, one that resonated throughout the entire forest. His eyes darted around the immediate area, eventually finding what he was looking for: A lone camera pointing directly at him.
"Look at what you've done to me!" he screamed, spraying droplets of spittle and blood in the process.
"I was loyal to you! I would have died for you! And this is how my country repays me? By forcing me to kill innocent women? What the fuck! What have I been doing with my life! I was supposed to be a soldier, not some fucking murderer!"
Of course, given the state of his mouth, barely anything he said was remotely audible. For any outsider, it just sounded like a bunch of inhumane gibberish.
"I can't believe I've wasted my entire life wanting to become a person like this! I... I just can't..... Oh god, what have I done! I....."
He furiously punched the ground several times, his anger slowly subsiding once more as he began to do something he hadn't done since he was a very small child.
He cried.
No more. I quit. Fuck this shit, I can't do this anymore. This fucking... This fucking game has turned me into a monster. I'm not a hero. Hell, I'm not even an anti-hero. I'm the bad guy. A big fucking villain who kills innocent teenage girls.
Of course, the next question on his mind was what he should do next. He couldn't go on killing people, not anymore. At the same time, he was too terrified about the idea of killing himself. After everything he had done, there was no way he'd be allowed anywhere near heaven, or whatever paradise was waiting for good people. No, whilst he welcomed the idea of death, he was too scared to do a damn thing about it.
Was it too late to redeem himself? Maybe he could go vigilante or something, start hunting the other killers. Maybe he could find Becky, make sure that she was the one who made it off the island? Something like that?
Heh, guess you were right all along dad. Shame it took me this long to realise.
He leaned up, an idea suddenly springing to mind. That's it! He knew what he had to do now. What he had to do in order to redeem himself. It wouldn't be easy, nor would it be assure his own survival, but god damnit if he was going to die in this valley he'll be damned if he didn't get a chance to save his soul first.
All I've got to do is make sure tha-
At that point, everything went black.
He barely heard the gunshot. Nor did he feel the bullet hit him in the back of his head, spraying his brain matter all over the corpse lying in front of him.
He died not realising that he would never get a chance to redeem himself.
M02: DAMIEN STONE: DECEASED
Now that his adrenaline-fuelled rage has subsided, he realised just how much agony he was in. Whilst he wouldn't call himself a doctor, he didn't think that anything particularly vital had been hit, not that it meant that he didn't need some serious medical attention.
Though whether or not he deserved any medical attention after everything he had done was a different matter entirely.
Three girls. Three teenage, more-or-less innocent girls. For all his talk about heroism, all he had managed to achieve was murder three teenage girls, not to mention injure a fourth one. All of whom he had attacked without any provocation whatsoever.
What. The. Fuck.
What the fuck was he doing here? Why the fuck was he doing this? What point did any of this bullshit have? He'd long since forgotten why the Program existed in the first place. Was it to make some kind of point? Entertainment? Abuse of power? Whatever the reason, all Damien could think of at that very point in time was that he had brutally murdered three girls who had never done him any harm, all in the name of his great and glorious country.
And frankly, he just couldn't take it anymore.
Damien let how a loud and inhuman scream, one that resonated throughout the entire forest. His eyes darted around the immediate area, eventually finding what he was looking for: A lone camera pointing directly at him.
"Look at what you've done to me!" he screamed, spraying droplets of spittle and blood in the process.
"I was loyal to you! I would have died for you! And this is how my country repays me? By forcing me to kill innocent women? What the fuck! What have I been doing with my life! I was supposed to be a soldier, not some fucking murderer!"
Of course, given the state of his mouth, barely anything he said was remotely audible. For any outsider, it just sounded like a bunch of inhumane gibberish.
"I can't believe I've wasted my entire life wanting to become a person like this! I... I just can't..... Oh god, what have I done! I....."
He furiously punched the ground several times, his anger slowly subsiding once more as he began to do something he hadn't done since he was a very small child.
He cried.
No more. I quit. Fuck this shit, I can't do this anymore. This fucking... This fucking game has turned me into a monster. I'm not a hero. Hell, I'm not even an anti-hero. I'm the bad guy. A big fucking villain who kills innocent teenage girls.
Of course, the next question on his mind was what he should do next. He couldn't go on killing people, not anymore. At the same time, he was too terrified about the idea of killing himself. After everything he had done, there was no way he'd be allowed anywhere near heaven, or whatever paradise was waiting for good people. No, whilst he welcomed the idea of death, he was too scared to do a damn thing about it.
Was it too late to redeem himself? Maybe he could go vigilante or something, start hunting the other killers. Maybe he could find Becky, make sure that she was the one who made it off the island? Something like that?
Heh, guess you were right all along dad. Shame it took me this long to realise.
He leaned up, an idea suddenly springing to mind. That's it! He knew what he had to do now. What he had to do in order to redeem himself. It wouldn't be easy, nor would it be assure his own survival, but god damnit if he was going to die in this valley he'll be damned if he didn't get a chance to save his soul first.
All I've got to do is make sure tha-
At that point, everything went black.
He barely heard the gunshot. Nor did he feel the bullet hit him in the back of his head, spraying his brain matter all over the corpse lying in front of him.
He died not realising that he would never get a chance to redeem himself.
M02: DAMIEN STONE: DECEASED
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 148
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:50 am
It'd been easy to sneak up on him. How would he have heard her over the sound of his own screaming and crying?
Dylan lowered the handgun before absently wiping specks of blood off her jacket. Most of the blood had splattered on Tas, but some of it was on her. She didn't think about it as she tried wiping it away, only succeeding in spreading it everywhere.
“It's not murdering,” Dylan said quietly. She wasn't sure if she was directing it at Damien or at herself. “They're just... casualties.”
It was sanctioned by the government. It was just war. Dylan didn't have to feel weird about shooting people, she knew the government was cheering for it. Maybe not cheering for her... but as an American, this was... what she had to do, wasn't it? That's what being strong meant.
It meant not crying like a little bitch because she had to kill someone. If someone like Damien, a formerly upstanding patriot, got so whiny about it... that just proved she was stronger, right? And if it wasn't proved by the crying, the bullet in the head proved it.
So why did she feel so... shitty about it? That was really the only word for it. Shitty. Her stomach crawled and she had a lump in her throat and she just felt plain old bad about what she'd just done.
It didn't make sense. It wasn't as brutal as what she'd done to Brigid. Just a quick shot to the back of the head. And he was slandering America, that should have made it even easier. She could even make an argument, if that didn't work, that he'd been suffering and she'd just ended it. Just euthanasia. She'd had no trouble pulling the trigger, either. It was only after that she'd felt like this.
It all felt wrong. Why did it feel wrong?
Dylan continued to wipe blood off her jacket, scraping her nails against it in an effort to peel it all off. It wasn't like what he'd screamed had carried any weight. All that bullshit about it being murder and the government being wrong and blah blah. The government was right. Always right. Had to be. Or else Dylan had spent her life following false, stupid ideals.
It would make everything her grandmother had always told her wrong. It would have made all the bullying she'd dished out to minorities wrong, and same for all the abuse she'd taken for being one. All that self-hatred and just plain hatred, all for a stupid reason. It would mean she'd been orphaned in the first place for a stupid reason, that her father had been right when he said the country was barkers, that maybe her mother hadn't been a manipulative nigger bitch who dragged him over to that view.
Couldn't be. The idea that her life had been completely wrong... that was the stupid idea. All the kids who spouted that un-American bullshit were the ones that were dumb.
Dylan wasn't one of them. Some blood and misplaced disgust wouldn't break her. She had to be stronger than that. She would stay strong. It was just a test. They were just testing her patriotism.
Dylan stopped trying to remove the specks of blood.
She stepped over Damien's corpse and pried Tas' gun from her hands. A rifle. Looked newer than the one Maxim had been running about with. Scratched up a bit, but functional. The last thing Tas had done was confirm that for Dylan.
“Thanks,” Dylan muttered. She slipped it into her bag. It looked more unwieldy than her Blackhawk, but it couldn't hurt to have back-up. She ransacked Tas' bag for ammo, but left the rest of the supplies. She didn't need them. Damien didn't seem to have a bag in the first place.
Then she left. Maybe if she put some distance between her and Damien, she'd stop those stupid, little traitorous thoughts that told her she might be wrong.
Just bullshit, is what it was.
((Dylan Walker continued in Mozambique Hammer.))
Dylan lowered the handgun before absently wiping specks of blood off her jacket. Most of the blood had splattered on Tas, but some of it was on her. She didn't think about it as she tried wiping it away, only succeeding in spreading it everywhere.
“It's not murdering,” Dylan said quietly. She wasn't sure if she was directing it at Damien or at herself. “They're just... casualties.”
It was sanctioned by the government. It was just war. Dylan didn't have to feel weird about shooting people, she knew the government was cheering for it. Maybe not cheering for her... but as an American, this was... what she had to do, wasn't it? That's what being strong meant.
It meant not crying like a little bitch because she had to kill someone. If someone like Damien, a formerly upstanding patriot, got so whiny about it... that just proved she was stronger, right? And if it wasn't proved by the crying, the bullet in the head proved it.
So why did she feel so... shitty about it? That was really the only word for it. Shitty. Her stomach crawled and she had a lump in her throat and she just felt plain old bad about what she'd just done.
It didn't make sense. It wasn't as brutal as what she'd done to Brigid. Just a quick shot to the back of the head. And he was slandering America, that should have made it even easier. She could even make an argument, if that didn't work, that he'd been suffering and she'd just ended it. Just euthanasia. She'd had no trouble pulling the trigger, either. It was only after that she'd felt like this.
It all felt wrong. Why did it feel wrong?
Dylan continued to wipe blood off her jacket, scraping her nails against it in an effort to peel it all off. It wasn't like what he'd screamed had carried any weight. All that bullshit about it being murder and the government being wrong and blah blah. The government was right. Always right. Had to be. Or else Dylan had spent her life following false, stupid ideals.
It would make everything her grandmother had always told her wrong. It would have made all the bullying she'd dished out to minorities wrong, and same for all the abuse she'd taken for being one. All that self-hatred and just plain hatred, all for a stupid reason. It would mean she'd been orphaned in the first place for a stupid reason, that her father had been right when he said the country was barkers, that maybe her mother hadn't been a manipulative nigger bitch who dragged him over to that view.
Couldn't be. The idea that her life had been completely wrong... that was the stupid idea. All the kids who spouted that un-American bullshit were the ones that were dumb.
Dylan wasn't one of them. Some blood and misplaced disgust wouldn't break her. She had to be stronger than that. She would stay strong. It was just a test. They were just testing her patriotism.
Dylan stopped trying to remove the specks of blood.
She stepped over Damien's corpse and pried Tas' gun from her hands. A rifle. Looked newer than the one Maxim had been running about with. Scratched up a bit, but functional. The last thing Tas had done was confirm that for Dylan.
“Thanks,” Dylan muttered. She slipped it into her bag. It looked more unwieldy than her Blackhawk, but it couldn't hurt to have back-up. She ransacked Tas' bag for ammo, but left the rest of the supplies. She didn't need them. Damien didn't seem to have a bag in the first place.
Then she left. Maybe if she put some distance between her and Damien, she'd stop those stupid, little traitorous thoughts that told her she might be wrong.
Just bullshit, is what it was.
((Dylan Walker continued in Mozambique Hammer.))