Brett lay low in his cubby, his hands slick with sweat, an animal like grin on his face. There was a girl at the door. She'd stumbled into his trap, gone as far as to call out. That confidence meant one of two things, she was either armed or extremely stupid. Given the late stage in the game he was betting on the latter, all the dumb kids had been killed off early. The kids without the guts, the kids like Durriken...
Brett readjusted his position, staring through his tiny peephole. She wasn't in the room yet- she was at the door. Alright- this was something new. Should he go after her? He looked down at the gun in his hand.
Another kill would be easy. Another notch under his belt, another step to finally getting back home. But did he really want the attention? That guilt?
Stupid. Shouldn't have called out- stupid... Kill her. Yeah. Yeah, one more couldn't hurt much at this stage.
Brett slowly got up from beneath the desk, placing his pistol down. He leaned in, aiming down the sights of the Stoner 63. He wondered who it was. Was it a girl he knew?
If she walked in, he'd be given no choice but to blow her away, friend or not. Brett didn't respond to her question. A chill ran down his spine-
BLAM.
Brett flinched back, looking up toward the door. Silence.
What the fuck?
Grabbing his pistol he ducked down low, peering through the peephole. Someone had fired a gun. Someone else was out there, either that or the girl was armed and had an itchy trigger finger. Brett cursed, straining for a better view. His heart was pounding, a sickening feeling of excitement had risen in him. He wanted to punch himself for it, but a grin was on his face.
"What the fuck is going on...?" He said softly.
Fuck it.
He eased out from behind the desk, pistol raised and ready. Slowly he made his way down the passageway toward the double doors, one now leaning slightly open. If there was a threat outside, he'd need to neutralize it eventually. He'd played things smart so far, as far as he was concerned, this was an acceptable risk.
Let's Make Life A Living Hell
(Private)
Moderator: Sh4dE
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Little Boy*
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This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Little Boy. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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Casey The Undead*
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Megan blinked, and John Ferrara's blood was everywhere. She stood, staring at it for several long moments. Blood. Brains. Body.
"...John?"
She trembled, reaching her hand towards the body. To do what? Check a fucking pulse? He blew his motherfucking brains out, it wasn't like he'd still be kicking after that.
"J-John? Oh...I..."
She'd caused someone to kill themselves. "Look how far I've come! I started just getting people killed, now they're killing themselves, soon I'll be killing them too!"
Megan was smiling as she let out a sob. This was bad. This was incredibly, really, really, very fucking bad. She reached back down to John, getting on her knees and bringing her hands to his head.
"Look at you! You killed my friends, you're a fucking murder and I'm sitting here, crying over your body! Was this your fucking plan? Was this your revenge on me, are you God's messenger telling me that I should just join you because I'm so royally fucked, right? Is that it?"
I'm Sorry.
Megan pulled his head onto her lap, letting herself get covered in his blood. "I'm sorry too, John. I'm so fucking sorry."
She looked up, trying to find a camera and failing. "See? See what you fucking do to people, America? See this shit? Is it worth it? Think, damnit, think!"
Megan heard a noise. Her fingers tightened around John's corpse, and she glanced up.
She was going to die here. She was going to die next to John Ferrara's corpse, without ever finding Brendon, without ever thanking Bryant and Luke, without ever making her pinky promise up.
I need time. Just a bit more time. Fuck this. I'm going to live.
Megan reached over and grabbed the gun John killed himself with, pushing the body away from her. She stood up. She must have looked mad, wearing a football helmet, carrying a gun and a hatchet, covered in blood. She must have looked completely fucking insane.
Perfect.
Megan took several shaky breaths. She was going to be calm. She was going to be collected. Finally she spoke, in as low and deadly a tone as she could manage. "Who the fuck is there?"
She looked straight at where the noise was coming from. "You want to mess with me? I haven't done much this game, but see this bitch here?" She kicked John's body for emphasis, automatically regretting it. Not even he deserved that. But she needed time, just a little more time. "He killed my friends. And he tried to kill me. Didn't get very far, though."
She fumbled for a moment with the gun. Was the safety off? What the fuck was a safety, even?
"See, I'm not scared anymore. I'm not afraid of hell, or of dying. Because me? I'm going to win this thing. So if you want to attack me, I'd reconsider. Because I will fucking kill you. Or, you can turn around now, and we can both pretend this never happened."
Megan hoped that she was a good enough actress to pull this off.
"Deal?"
"...John?"
She trembled, reaching her hand towards the body. To do what? Check a fucking pulse? He blew his motherfucking brains out, it wasn't like he'd still be kicking after that.
"J-John? Oh...I..."
She'd caused someone to kill themselves. "Look how far I've come! I started just getting people killed, now they're killing themselves, soon I'll be killing them too!"
Megan was smiling as she let out a sob. This was bad. This was incredibly, really, really, very fucking bad. She reached back down to John, getting on her knees and bringing her hands to his head.
"Look at you! You killed my friends, you're a fucking murder and I'm sitting here, crying over your body! Was this your fucking plan? Was this your revenge on me, are you God's messenger telling me that I should just join you because I'm so royally fucked, right? Is that it?"
I'm Sorry.
Megan pulled his head onto her lap, letting herself get covered in his blood. "I'm sorry too, John. I'm so fucking sorry."
She looked up, trying to find a camera and failing. "See? See what you fucking do to people, America? See this shit? Is it worth it? Think, damnit, think!"
Megan heard a noise. Her fingers tightened around John's corpse, and she glanced up.
She was going to die here. She was going to die next to John Ferrara's corpse, without ever finding Brendon, without ever thanking Bryant and Luke, without ever making her pinky promise up.
I need time. Just a bit more time. Fuck this. I'm going to live.
Megan reached over and grabbed the gun John killed himself with, pushing the body away from her. She stood up. She must have looked mad, wearing a football helmet, carrying a gun and a hatchet, covered in blood. She must have looked completely fucking insane.
Perfect.
Megan took several shaky breaths. She was going to be calm. She was going to be collected. Finally she spoke, in as low and deadly a tone as she could manage. "Who the fuck is there?"
She looked straight at where the noise was coming from. "You want to mess with me? I haven't done much this game, but see this bitch here?" She kicked John's body for emphasis, automatically regretting it. Not even he deserved that. But she needed time, just a little more time. "He killed my friends. And he tried to kill me. Didn't get very far, though."
She fumbled for a moment with the gun. Was the safety off? What the fuck was a safety, even?
"See, I'm not scared anymore. I'm not afraid of hell, or of dying. Because me? I'm going to win this thing. So if you want to attack me, I'd reconsider. Because I will fucking kill you. Or, you can turn around now, and we can both pretend this never happened."
Megan hoped that she was a good enough actress to pull this off.
"Deal?"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Casey The Undead. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
(Brendon Arrington continued from Going Off the Script.)
"Megan! Megan, where are you?!" Brendon shouted at the top of his lungs, his hangs cupped around his mouth as he wandered around the island. He probably looked like one big idiot and a very appetizing target, but luckily for him, the killers were either really busy or just didn't notice someone bellowing out a girl's name. He sighed as there was no answer or no sudden crushing hug from a falling Megan that had jumped from the highest tree in the area (he doubted she'd actually be that crazy but it was fun to imagine). Just the same as the past few hours that he had been doing this shit.
And he had even been lucky enough to find himself outside the Officer's Quarters again. 'Why the hell did I come back here?'
He had no answer and he briefly contemplated just turning and leaving. But he remained. Megan could have been around here and he wasn't going to run away just because of...well...the thing that had caused the whole entire split in the first place. 'Fuck, now I'm thinking about it. Calm down, Brendon...you went over this. You're stronger, you're better. You can keep your cool...you're the hero. Kind of. Maybe. I'm not even know anymore. Whatever. You know enough that you need to find Megan and talk to her. That's it, plain and simple.'
It was at that point in time that he heard a slightly muffled gunshot and he nearly jumped, turning his head towards the building. It was fucking eerie, that's what it was. The last time there were gunshots, it had led to Abby getting murdered by Madeleine Harris. He just hoped this wasn't going to turn out the same way. It probably was a dumb idea...the odds of Megan actually being in there were minuscule. But as long as the odds were there...a hero just had to charge forward, didn't he?
So Brendon ran into the building yet again, his boxing gloves still on his hands. He kept his mouth shut. There was no need to interrupt a possible fight in progress by announcing the presence of a newcomer. He followed the sound of the gunshot and soon heard a voice to go with it.
Megan's voice.
'Holy fucking shit it really is her I can't believe it.'
A grin came to his lips subconsciously and he began to walk faster, hoping that she was okay. There hadn't been another gunshot beyond the initial one that had gotten his attention so...that meant the fight was over, right? Maybe she had actually been able to convince one of the psychos on the island to stop shooting or something.
He rounded the corner and immediately skidded to a halt, his eyes widening as he saw the scene in front of him. Megan was there, of course. And so was the corpse of John Ferrara. If you had to call anything a corpse, John's body fit the bill. His head was just...mutilated. Destroyed would probably have been a more apt description. His blood decorated the walls...the floor...the ceiling. It was just fucking everywhere...it was disgusting. 'Jesus fuck!'
He had hated the son of a bitch. He had wanted to take him out ever since they had met at the garage, but it hadn't been like this. He had imagined some sort of high-adrenaline fight with bullets and curses flying through the air. Hell, even a "Fuck you -BANG-" would have been good in the whole cold, angry hero sort of way. But this? This wasn't cool at all. This was sickening and he felt bile rise up in his throat. He quickly looked away, swallowing the burning, bitter mixture back down.
Brendon focused on Megan. He could only really see her back...see that same football helmet she was wearing...along with a hatchet and a handgun. A handgun. Where'd she get it? Off John? Did she pick it up somewhere? Hell, where the fuck had she gotten that hatchet as well? There was a story behind all this...a story he didn't know and his brain was quickly just putting the two closest things together.
Handgun + Blown-Off Head = Holy shit did Megan just shoot someone in the head?
That wasn't right at all. Megan wouldn't have done anything like that. Pure and simple fact. There was no way she could have done anything like that.
But the island could have changed her. It had changed a lot of people. And besides, this was John Ferrara, the bastard that had killed Wendy and Chris.
Brendon silenced that train of thought immediately. 'No. No, Megan wouldn't have done this without some good reason. I believe in her. I know her.'
He finally opened his mouth to speak. He licked his dry lips. He had no lines for this moment...even though he had imagined it all in the past. The awkward hellos, the apology, the hug, the whatever, none of them incorporated Dead Guy into the equation. So he could only clear his throat, try to put his old smile back on, and say as gently as he could, "Hey Megan. ...Long time no see, huh?"
"Megan! Megan, where are you?!" Brendon shouted at the top of his lungs, his hangs cupped around his mouth as he wandered around the island. He probably looked like one big idiot and a very appetizing target, but luckily for him, the killers were either really busy or just didn't notice someone bellowing out a girl's name. He sighed as there was no answer or no sudden crushing hug from a falling Megan that had jumped from the highest tree in the area (he doubted she'd actually be that crazy but it was fun to imagine). Just the same as the past few hours that he had been doing this shit.
And he had even been lucky enough to find himself outside the Officer's Quarters again. 'Why the hell did I come back here?'
He had no answer and he briefly contemplated just turning and leaving. But he remained. Megan could have been around here and he wasn't going to run away just because of...well...the thing that had caused the whole entire split in the first place. 'Fuck, now I'm thinking about it. Calm down, Brendon...you went over this. You're stronger, you're better. You can keep your cool...you're the hero. Kind of. Maybe. I'm not even know anymore. Whatever. You know enough that you need to find Megan and talk to her. That's it, plain and simple.'
It was at that point in time that he heard a slightly muffled gunshot and he nearly jumped, turning his head towards the building. It was fucking eerie, that's what it was. The last time there were gunshots, it had led to Abby getting murdered by Madeleine Harris. He just hoped this wasn't going to turn out the same way. It probably was a dumb idea...the odds of Megan actually being in there were minuscule. But as long as the odds were there...a hero just had to charge forward, didn't he?
So Brendon ran into the building yet again, his boxing gloves still on his hands. He kept his mouth shut. There was no need to interrupt a possible fight in progress by announcing the presence of a newcomer. He followed the sound of the gunshot and soon heard a voice to go with it.
Megan's voice.
'Holy fucking shit it really is her I can't believe it.'
A grin came to his lips subconsciously and he began to walk faster, hoping that she was okay. There hadn't been another gunshot beyond the initial one that had gotten his attention so...that meant the fight was over, right? Maybe she had actually been able to convince one of the psychos on the island to stop shooting or something.
He rounded the corner and immediately skidded to a halt, his eyes widening as he saw the scene in front of him. Megan was there, of course. And so was the corpse of John Ferrara. If you had to call anything a corpse, John's body fit the bill. His head was just...mutilated. Destroyed would probably have been a more apt description. His blood decorated the walls...the floor...the ceiling. It was just fucking everywhere...it was disgusting. 'Jesus fuck!'
He had hated the son of a bitch. He had wanted to take him out ever since they had met at the garage, but it hadn't been like this. He had imagined some sort of high-adrenaline fight with bullets and curses flying through the air. Hell, even a "Fuck you -BANG-" would have been good in the whole cold, angry hero sort of way. But this? This wasn't cool at all. This was sickening and he felt bile rise up in his throat. He quickly looked away, swallowing the burning, bitter mixture back down.
Brendon focused on Megan. He could only really see her back...see that same football helmet she was wearing...along with a hatchet and a handgun. A handgun. Where'd she get it? Off John? Did she pick it up somewhere? Hell, where the fuck had she gotten that hatchet as well? There was a story behind all this...a story he didn't know and his brain was quickly just putting the two closest things together.
Handgun + Blown-Off Head = Holy shit did Megan just shoot someone in the head?
That wasn't right at all. Megan wouldn't have done anything like that. Pure and simple fact. There was no way she could have done anything like that.
But the island could have changed her. It had changed a lot of people. And besides, this was John Ferrara, the bastard that had killed Wendy and Chris.
Brendon silenced that train of thought immediately. 'No. No, Megan wouldn't have done this without some good reason. I believe in her. I know her.'
He finally opened his mouth to speak. He licked his dry lips. He had no lines for this moment...even though he had imagined it all in the past. The awkward hellos, the apology, the hug, the whatever, none of them incorporated Dead Guy into the equation. So he could only clear his throat, try to put his old smile back on, and say as gently as he could, "Hey Megan. ...Long time no see, huh?"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Tythanin. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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Casey The Undead*
- Posts: 196
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:44 am
"Brendon!"
Megan dropped the gun in surprise, her eyes wide. He was there. All this searching, all this running, all this thinking, and he was there, standing right in front of her.
And she was covered in blood in front of a newly dead corpse. Oh.
"Wait this...is...I..." Megan swallowed, pain searing in her throat. How long had it been since she'd had water? "He killed himself," she managed to rasp, looking at Brendon. "He said he was sorry. It's my fault."
She coughed violently, shaking her whole body. Water. She needed water. She pulled some out of her bag, clumsily, sipping it. Most of it pooled down her face, but she managed a few gulps.
Now what?
Megan looked at Brendon, realizing that he was the last piece of the puzzle. He was the only thing left unfinished, and now she had found him. What else was left?
Nothing. Nothing else was left. Nothing except finishing it off.
She sprinted towards him, hugging him, letting out a few dry sobs against his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so fucking sorry, for everything, I was being stupid, I was being naive, I was..."
She buried her face deeper into his shoulder blade. This was Brendon, he was real, how could she just let this go?
Because if she didn't, he would have too, and that wasn't right. She grabbed his hand. "There's someone else here. I don't know who, but we can't stay. We need to go. Find somewhere. There's something I need you to do for me, Brendon, but not here."
She dropped his hand, shaking her head. Pick a direction. Backwards, or forwards?
Forwards. She didn't have the energy to run, so she started to jog. She stopped mid stride and turned back, grabbing John Ferrara's gun. Going to need this.
Megan started away from the Officer's Quarters. She knew what she had to do.
She just hoped to God Brendon would agree with her.
((Megan Jacobson, continued in Running Out the Clock))
Megan dropped the gun in surprise, her eyes wide. He was there. All this searching, all this running, all this thinking, and he was there, standing right in front of her.
And she was covered in blood in front of a newly dead corpse. Oh.
"Wait this...is...I..." Megan swallowed, pain searing in her throat. How long had it been since she'd had water? "He killed himself," she managed to rasp, looking at Brendon. "He said he was sorry. It's my fault."
She coughed violently, shaking her whole body. Water. She needed water. She pulled some out of her bag, clumsily, sipping it. Most of it pooled down her face, but she managed a few gulps.
Now what?
Megan looked at Brendon, realizing that he was the last piece of the puzzle. He was the only thing left unfinished, and now she had found him. What else was left?
Nothing. Nothing else was left. Nothing except finishing it off.
She sprinted towards him, hugging him, letting out a few dry sobs against his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so fucking sorry, for everything, I was being stupid, I was being naive, I was..."
She buried her face deeper into his shoulder blade. This was Brendon, he was real, how could she just let this go?
Because if she didn't, he would have too, and that wasn't right. She grabbed his hand. "There's someone else here. I don't know who, but we can't stay. We need to go. Find somewhere. There's something I need you to do for me, Brendon, but not here."
She dropped his hand, shaking her head. Pick a direction. Backwards, or forwards?
Forwards. She didn't have the energy to run, so she started to jog. She stopped mid stride and turned back, grabbing John Ferrara's gun. Going to need this.
Megan started away from the Officer's Quarters. She knew what she had to do.
She just hoped to God Brendon would agree with her.
((Megan Jacobson, continued in Running Out the Clock))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Casey The Undead. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
His head was whirling. Everything was coming too fast for him. Once again for the whatever the hell time it was, Megan was throwing him for a loop and frankly, there wasn't anything else he had missed more. The whirling bundle of energy that was Megan Jacobson had just explained to him that John had blown his own fucking brains out ('What the fuck?') and that it was her fault that he did it or something ('What the fuck?') and now she needed to talk to him after a hug and crying and apologizing and then she was off like a goddamn phantom in the middle of the night.
Except it wasn't the middle of the night, it was the day, and apparently there was another dude here and frankly, after what had just happened, talking to anyone besides Megan was not high on his list of priorities. He had to go after her.
He looked back at John Ferrara's corpse, wondering what had happened to the other kid that had made him want to commit suicide. Did he finally just face himself in the mirror and realize that what he had done? Did he simply give up at the revelation that he was a heartless killer? Brendon's lips pressed together before he turned to run out of the Officers' Quarters and chase after Megan.
Suicide or not, realization or not, he'd never forgive John Ferrara for what he had done.
Brendon had wanted to kill the fucker himself.
(Brendon Arrington continued Running Out the Clock.)
Except it wasn't the middle of the night, it was the day, and apparently there was another dude here and frankly, after what had just happened, talking to anyone besides Megan was not high on his list of priorities. He had to go after her.
He looked back at John Ferrara's corpse, wondering what had happened to the other kid that had made him want to commit suicide. Did he finally just face himself in the mirror and realize that what he had done? Did he simply give up at the revelation that he was a heartless killer? Brendon's lips pressed together before he turned to run out of the Officers' Quarters and chase after Megan.
Suicide or not, realization or not, he'd never forgive John Ferrara for what he had done.
Brendon had wanted to kill the fucker himself.
(Brendon Arrington continued Running Out the Clock.)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Tythanin. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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Little Boy*
- Posts: 102
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 5:35 am
Brett peaked his head out the doorway, holding his breath. Gun first, he exited, looking around the empty room. It was silent as a grave. Then he spotted him. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes went wide.
"Oh."
John Ferrera, dead on the floor, with his brains piled around him. Brett blinked. He looked around the room, scanning for anyone hiding. There had been a voice- that he was sure of. A girl. Why had there been a girl? Was that the reason John was spread eagle on the floor, leaking brain matter? Had he been travelling with her, a sudden betrayal?
Like hell if he knew. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
"Oh... Everything alright out here?"
Silence.
He waved to the dead boy on the floor.
"Okay well, John, I'll leave you to it then. Keep up the good work man."
Slowly Brett backed away, shutting the door behind him. He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders, walking back toward his base.
"Heh. John Ferrera. That was easier then I expected!"
"Oh."
John Ferrera, dead on the floor, with his brains piled around him. Brett blinked. He looked around the room, scanning for anyone hiding. There had been a voice- that he was sure of. A girl. Why had there been a girl? Was that the reason John was spread eagle on the floor, leaking brain matter? Had he been travelling with her, a sudden betrayal?
Like hell if he knew. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
"Oh... Everything alright out here?"
Silence.
He waved to the dead boy on the floor.
"Okay well, John, I'll leave you to it then. Keep up the good work man."
Slowly Brett backed away, shutting the door behind him. He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders, walking back toward his base.
"Heh. John Ferrera. That was easier then I expected!"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Little Boy. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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Little Boy*
- Posts: 102
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 5:35 am
The room was deathly silent as the announcement finished. Brett leaned back in his shelter, banging his head off the desk. He let out a low whistle, hearing it cut through the silence like a knife.
What did he just say?
He ran through it in his mind one more time. Ryan was dead, Louis had found a weapon after all. John Ferrara, that stupid kid he'd been worrying about for half the game? Dead, suicide. Sophie Mason had gone and killed four people. Four fucking people. Then some stupid bitch had gone blown herself up with a grenade, and Brendan Arrington had gotten himself another kill.
But most important was the number. Final ten, or as Adams had said, final seven. Brett, Louis, Brendan and Sophie. That was four. That left three more unknowns... Brett wracked his brain, trying to think.
Bryant? No, no someone got him. Holy shit, four in a row. Bloodlust, fucking bloodlust Sophie. Juliet maybe? Did someone kill her? Shit, I can't remember...
He smacked his head in exasperation. His plan had actually worked- flawlessly. True, he wasn't the most interesting, and he was certainly not the fan favorite. He was probably going to hell as well for Durriken and the others... But then again, he was alive!
Brett raised a hand, knocking it on the underside of the wooden desk.
Hopefully it'll stay that way. Seven left, seven left and my cover hasn't been blown. Anyone else pops in, shoot'em on sight. No risks, no nothin'. When it gets down to it... Yeah. End in sight.
It had seemed like forever, but it was finally over. He wasn't sure how long the end game would last- a day, maybe only a few minutes. But he'd be ready and he wouldn't be pulling any punches. His friends back home would be proud of him no doubt.
Probably a lot of money riding on me- should kill myself like John. Yeah, kill myself, just to fuck with them. Chris probably put his entire collage fund down on me! Serves that fucker right. Don't they know this kinda stuff is immoral? For shame. For shame.
Brett closed his eyes and began to whistle to himself.
Six more, six more... Oh shit, do I have enough ammo!? Oh wait, of course I do. Six more, six more...
What did he just say?
He ran through it in his mind one more time. Ryan was dead, Louis had found a weapon after all. John Ferrara, that stupid kid he'd been worrying about for half the game? Dead, suicide. Sophie Mason had gone and killed four people. Four fucking people. Then some stupid bitch had gone blown herself up with a grenade, and Brendan Arrington had gotten himself another kill.
But most important was the number. Final ten, or as Adams had said, final seven. Brett, Louis, Brendan and Sophie. That was four. That left three more unknowns... Brett wracked his brain, trying to think.
Bryant? No, no someone got him. Holy shit, four in a row. Bloodlust, fucking bloodlust Sophie. Juliet maybe? Did someone kill her? Shit, I can't remember...
He smacked his head in exasperation. His plan had actually worked- flawlessly. True, he wasn't the most interesting, and he was certainly not the fan favorite. He was probably going to hell as well for Durriken and the others... But then again, he was alive!
Brett raised a hand, knocking it on the underside of the wooden desk.
Hopefully it'll stay that way. Seven left, seven left and my cover hasn't been blown. Anyone else pops in, shoot'em on sight. No risks, no nothin'. When it gets down to it... Yeah. End in sight.
It had seemed like forever, but it was finally over. He wasn't sure how long the end game would last- a day, maybe only a few minutes. But he'd be ready and he wouldn't be pulling any punches. His friends back home would be proud of him no doubt.
Probably a lot of money riding on me- should kill myself like John. Yeah, kill myself, just to fuck with them. Chris probably put his entire collage fund down on me! Serves that fucker right. Don't they know this kinda stuff is immoral? For shame. For shame.
Brett closed his eyes and began to whistle to himself.
Six more, six more... Oh shit, do I have enough ammo!? Oh wait, of course I do. Six more, six more...
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Little Boy. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
-
storyspoiler*
- Posts: 49
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:09 am
(Juliet Watanabe continued from The Burial Of The Dead)
There was a library in the officer's quarters.
Juliet liked libraries.
Things were different now. She was hungry--the food was gone. The seventh announcement had come and gone. Bryant was dead. Her last ally. Who was left? Nearly no one.
No. She could count. Seven people left.
Including Marilyn.
Seven people. They could wait it out. In the library (images of dark wood paneling and a fireplace in her mind). It would be quiet there. Marilyn could read.
Juliet liked libraries. And Marilyn could read. It was the one thing she knew Marilyn liked doing--reading. Buried in a book, she looks like a princess.
And if we're going to die, I can at least give her that.
She was trying not to think about Luke. Not think about Karl. Or Claire. Or Bryant, or Durriken, the deaths she hadn't even seen.
No one left but us.
But they could wait it out in the library. Hole up. Read. Maybe she could even talk to Marilyn, if she got up the nerve. The violent ones--Sophie Mason, Brett Torres--they could finish each other off. Juliet could guard the door. And then, and then when they were the only ones--
I'll get her to shoot me. Somehow. And then she'll be free.
That was the plan, anyway.
---------
The officer's quarters looked like…home.
No. No, they didn't look like home. They were stripped bare. They were owned by idiots, armed men, following orders. But they had wood paneling, like she imagined, and wood floors, not the ubiquitous scratchy oyster-grey carpeting.
She could grow to like it here.
Yup. Adams' voice in her head.
That was not a voice she wanted to hear again. She tried to concentrate very hard on looking for the library. Marilyn knew where the bedrooms were, so they could skip the second floor. It was ground floor or basement, then.
Hang a few scarves, get some of those cheap candles your mother liked, the ones that smelled like red hots…it would look enough like home for you, wouldn't it?
And that elicited a response. Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! You don't know anything about my mother!
That shut him up, at least for now. Juliet thought crankily that he didn't even sound like Adams in the announcements. He was just some demon in her head, and she didn't need to think about him now.
Will you think about Karl, then? Or Bryant, or Luke, or Claire? Or the rest of your fake 'family', now in the ground?
No. No, she wouldn't.
Find the library.
Behind her, Marilyn pointed to a door. And Juliet motioned her back.
Because unlike every other door here, she could hear noises behind this one.
There was a library in the officer's quarters.
Juliet liked libraries.
Things were different now. She was hungry--the food was gone. The seventh announcement had come and gone. Bryant was dead. Her last ally. Who was left? Nearly no one.
No. She could count. Seven people left.
Including Marilyn.
Seven people. They could wait it out. In the library (images of dark wood paneling and a fireplace in her mind). It would be quiet there. Marilyn could read.
Juliet liked libraries. And Marilyn could read. It was the one thing she knew Marilyn liked doing--reading. Buried in a book, she looks like a princess.
And if we're going to die, I can at least give her that.
She was trying not to think about Luke. Not think about Karl. Or Claire. Or Bryant, or Durriken, the deaths she hadn't even seen.
No one left but us.
But they could wait it out in the library. Hole up. Read. Maybe she could even talk to Marilyn, if she got up the nerve. The violent ones--Sophie Mason, Brett Torres--they could finish each other off. Juliet could guard the door. And then, and then when they were the only ones--
I'll get her to shoot me. Somehow. And then she'll be free.
That was the plan, anyway.
---------
The officer's quarters looked like…home.
No. No, they didn't look like home. They were stripped bare. They were owned by idiots, armed men, following orders. But they had wood paneling, like she imagined, and wood floors, not the ubiquitous scratchy oyster-grey carpeting.
She could grow to like it here.
Yup. Adams' voice in her head.
That was not a voice she wanted to hear again. She tried to concentrate very hard on looking for the library. Marilyn knew where the bedrooms were, so they could skip the second floor. It was ground floor or basement, then.
Hang a few scarves, get some of those cheap candles your mother liked, the ones that smelled like red hots…it would look enough like home for you, wouldn't it?
And that elicited a response. Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! You don't know anything about my mother!
That shut him up, at least for now. Juliet thought crankily that he didn't even sound like Adams in the announcements. He was just some demon in her head, and she didn't need to think about him now.
Will you think about Karl, then? Or Bryant, or Luke, or Claire? Or the rest of your fake 'family', now in the ground?
No. No, she wouldn't.
Find the library.
Behind her, Marilyn pointed to a door. And Juliet motioned her back.
Because unlike every other door here, she could hear noises behind this one.
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((Marilyn Williams continued from The Burial Of The Dead))
Juliet still hadn't explained to her what all of this was supposed to be about. The other girl obviously wanted Marilyn nearby, but in amongst all the gunfighting and chaos back at the mess hall, an explanation had somehow been pushed to the back of the agenda. Apparently Marilyn could trust Juliet though, given that the gunfight hadn't led to her immediately getting a bullet through the head.
The same question went round and round though, a question that her encounter with Bryant had delivered to her: What did Juliet want? Why had she been looking for Marilyn, Marilyn of all people? It couldn't be some kind of weird race thing, 'minorities represent', otherwise Juliet wouldn't have cared about what happened with Karl - something that Marilyn still wasn't sure if she should be upset had happened.
Marilyn couldn't choke out the question. Her tongue tripped over the words, even worse than normal. Stupid fricking stammer! She hated it. Hated how she could barely carry on a regular conversation without stumbling over every little thing she tried to say. So she stayed quiet instead. Not like anybody wanted to hear what Marilyn had to talk about. Instead she listened, this time to the announcement.
Seven left.
Her blood ran ice cold. Out of the entire group that had been picked, there were only seven of them remaining. It was coming down to the wire, to the close. Marilyn was still alive, somehow, had somehow made it this far... but that just meant that the time that she did run across people out to harm her drew ever closer. It had been a narrow escape back at the mess hall. She'd simply had the fortune to be on the roof - with Juliet's friend, when all hell had broken loose, she'd had the fortune to have others; Karl, Juliet, the other boy - Luke, around to take the bullets for her, drive the killer off. Earlier than that? Marilyn had just been lucky that Bryant was there to tell her to get out of harm's way.
Running only worked so long. Sooner or later, the luck would run out.
Heck, if Marilyn wasn't well aware of how useless she was in a confrontation, she might have suspected Juliet wanted her as a convenient meat shield... but that would've been disregarding the obvious issues with her as a partner. Marilyn wasn't a fighter, her first reaction to confrontation was to flee or cry. Juliet hadn't even asked about her weapon.
So... why, then?
Why her?
-Noises.
Oh god...
Wordlessly, barely even thinking about it, Marilyn stepped behind Juliet, followed her instruction.
The question still didn't leave her head.
Juliet still hadn't explained to her what all of this was supposed to be about. The other girl obviously wanted Marilyn nearby, but in amongst all the gunfighting and chaos back at the mess hall, an explanation had somehow been pushed to the back of the agenda. Apparently Marilyn could trust Juliet though, given that the gunfight hadn't led to her immediately getting a bullet through the head.
The same question went round and round though, a question that her encounter with Bryant had delivered to her: What did Juliet want? Why had she been looking for Marilyn, Marilyn of all people? It couldn't be some kind of weird race thing, 'minorities represent', otherwise Juliet wouldn't have cared about what happened with Karl - something that Marilyn still wasn't sure if she should be upset had happened.
Marilyn couldn't choke out the question. Her tongue tripped over the words, even worse than normal. Stupid fricking stammer! She hated it. Hated how she could barely carry on a regular conversation without stumbling over every little thing she tried to say. So she stayed quiet instead. Not like anybody wanted to hear what Marilyn had to talk about. Instead she listened, this time to the announcement.
Seven left.
Her blood ran ice cold. Out of the entire group that had been picked, there were only seven of them remaining. It was coming down to the wire, to the close. Marilyn was still alive, somehow, had somehow made it this far... but that just meant that the time that she did run across people out to harm her drew ever closer. It had been a narrow escape back at the mess hall. She'd simply had the fortune to be on the roof - with Juliet's friend, when all hell had broken loose, she'd had the fortune to have others; Karl, Juliet, the other boy - Luke, around to take the bullets for her, drive the killer off. Earlier than that? Marilyn had just been lucky that Bryant was there to tell her to get out of harm's way.
Running only worked so long. Sooner or later, the luck would run out.
Heck, if Marilyn wasn't well aware of how useless she was in a confrontation, she might have suspected Juliet wanted her as a convenient meat shield... but that would've been disregarding the obvious issues with her as a partner. Marilyn wasn't a fighter, her first reaction to confrontation was to flee or cry. Juliet hadn't even asked about her weapon.
So... why, then?
Why her?
-Noises.
Oh god...
Wordlessly, barely even thinking about it, Marilyn stepped behind Juliet, followed her instruction.
The question still didn't leave her head.
-
Little Boy*
- Posts: 102
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 5:35 am
Brett was whistling to himself as he packed up his things. The smell in his little cubby was all but unbearable, his little hiding hole had served its purpose.
Seven left.
He zipped up his back, swinging it around his back. He looked at the light machine gun propped up on the desk, sighing. It had served him well, but would it be a disadvantage? The gun was bulky and hard to wield. If he want to get a good shot, he'd have to prop it up like he'd had in the library, a gunner's next.
Something tells me I'm not walking into end game with a machine gun nest to back me up-, no these guys are too smart, too deadly. They're not going to fall for it. Only way to actually put it to use would be to climb up onto some roof, take the high ground and just start blasting at the motherfuckers... Wasn't that in a movie?
He paused, pursing his lips in discontent. After a second he grabbed the Stoner anyways, slinging it across his back. It was heavy as hell, and he sagged down.
Can't just leave it here. What would they say, getting killed with my own abandoned weapon? Take it, hide it somewhere they'll never find it... Maybe I should break it. Take something out, dismantle the thing. No... No, better keep it, just for a little longer. No telling, I could need the range.
Brett checked his pistol and turned, examining the remains of the library. He let out a high whistle, taking in the sights. Bullet holes, ruined books. Dead classmates. He'd really spruced the place up, increased the sales value.
He kept his gun up, making his way toward the door. John was dead right outside, he knew. Seven left. Six more deaths and he could go home.
To what?
It didn't matter. He'd already killed, in cold blood. To die now was a disservice, and angsting like some fucking emo wasn't his style.
Worry about it later. You've thought enough, now is the time to act. Six more kills and I can sit back on the couch, worry as much as I want.
He reached the door. Shoving it open, he looked around the outside.
Silent. Empty. He breathed a sigh of relief and exited, shutting the door behind him.
Okay. Where now?
He'd need to find some high ground, scope out the area. Maybe he'd get lucky, see some student running in between the buildings. Maybe he'd go on the hunt.
Should leave that to Sophie. Four in a row, who am I to ruin her streak? Besides, she's the one doing all the work for me.
A pang in his gut, he knew he should be laughing. Brett walked into the center of the room, scanning the exits.
Where next? Where next...? If I was some scared little teenager, where would I hide?
Seven left.
He zipped up his back, swinging it around his back. He looked at the light machine gun propped up on the desk, sighing. It had served him well, but would it be a disadvantage? The gun was bulky and hard to wield. If he want to get a good shot, he'd have to prop it up like he'd had in the library, a gunner's next.
Something tells me I'm not walking into end game with a machine gun nest to back me up-, no these guys are too smart, too deadly. They're not going to fall for it. Only way to actually put it to use would be to climb up onto some roof, take the high ground and just start blasting at the motherfuckers... Wasn't that in a movie?
He paused, pursing his lips in discontent. After a second he grabbed the Stoner anyways, slinging it across his back. It was heavy as hell, and he sagged down.
Can't just leave it here. What would they say, getting killed with my own abandoned weapon? Take it, hide it somewhere they'll never find it... Maybe I should break it. Take something out, dismantle the thing. No... No, better keep it, just for a little longer. No telling, I could need the range.
Brett checked his pistol and turned, examining the remains of the library. He let out a high whistle, taking in the sights. Bullet holes, ruined books. Dead classmates. He'd really spruced the place up, increased the sales value.
He kept his gun up, making his way toward the door. John was dead right outside, he knew. Seven left. Six more deaths and he could go home.
To what?
It didn't matter. He'd already killed, in cold blood. To die now was a disservice, and angsting like some fucking emo wasn't his style.
Worry about it later. You've thought enough, now is the time to act. Six more kills and I can sit back on the couch, worry as much as I want.
He reached the door. Shoving it open, he looked around the outside.
Silent. Empty. He breathed a sigh of relief and exited, shutting the door behind him.
Okay. Where now?
He'd need to find some high ground, scope out the area. Maybe he'd get lucky, see some student running in between the buildings. Maybe he'd go on the hunt.
Should leave that to Sophie. Four in a row, who am I to ruin her streak? Besides, she's the one doing all the work for me.
A pang in his gut, he knew he should be laughing. Brett walked into the center of the room, scanning the exits.
Where next? Where next...? If I was some scared little teenager, where would I hide?
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-
storyspoiler*
- Posts: 49
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:09 am
Here. Here is where you'd hide.
Juliet heard whistling on the other side of the door.
She pushed Marilyn back. Marilyn skittered back. They were two scared teenagers with a killer on the other side of the door, two scared teenagers because, now with Marilyn in tow, Juliet's battle-instinct was faltering. It was easy to shoot a Matthew Gourlay in the confusion of the first few days, easy to threaten a helpless Karl Chalmers with a gun she hardly knew how to use, but now, when she was down to the wire and killers were practically coming out of the walls, she found herself unable to kick the door open and pull the trigger.
You never killed anyone before.
But that wasn't it. She had killed Matthew Gourlay on the first day, might as well have killed him; any wound was a death sentence here. She wasn't hardcore, but she could kill, this she was sure of. There were people she cared about in this game and people she didn't, and of the former, there was only one left.
Marilyn.
She could certainly kill for Marilyn.
But she could also sense Marilyn's fear, smell it practically, and if I go in and kill some guy in cold blood in front of her, she'll run away.
I don't want her to run away.
So, new plan. Get Marilyn to a safe cozy-hole, away from where any fight might take place. There were other rooms, a kitchen, a gymnasium; she could ask Marilyn to go into any one of those. Hide. stay safe. It would work. Then she could kick open the Library door, kill whoever this schmuck was, and Marilyn won't hate me afterwards. At least not until she figures it out. And maybe I can explain…
Too complicated. Whistling man was moving. She took Marilyn's arm, careful not to grip too tight, careful to be gentle, and steered her backwards. Towards the gymnasium. Hide her there, kill this guy, everything will be so simple…
Then the door opened.
Fuck.
And Marilyn grabbed her arm, and slammed them both into an alcove. And Brett Torres walked out of the library.
Thank you. Good instincts.
God, she was beautiful.
But she was also a problem. Because she had frozen, silently, her hand still holding Juliet's arm, and if Juliet wanted to draw her gun, she needed to do it now, but there was no way she could think to shake Marilyn's hand off her own without giving away their position. And that would be certain death for both of them.
Fuck.
So. She could let Brett Torres pass by without shooting him. Without giving away their position. Without killing. Probably a bad plan in the long-term, but in the short term, if she tried anything else, they were probably both going to die, so there was that.
And maybe not having to shoot Brett Torres was a little bit of a relief.
Now we just have to get through this.
Because Brett Torres was practically creeping.
Come on, come on, move faster, please move faster.
Oh God, she was sweating.
Marilyn, let me get my gun. We can end this now, we can end this now, I promise I can keep you safe…
Too late.
Brett Torres was creeping by.
And then Brett Torres was moving.
And then Brett Torres was shooting his gun.
Juliet heard whistling on the other side of the door.
She pushed Marilyn back. Marilyn skittered back. They were two scared teenagers with a killer on the other side of the door, two scared teenagers because, now with Marilyn in tow, Juliet's battle-instinct was faltering. It was easy to shoot a Matthew Gourlay in the confusion of the first few days, easy to threaten a helpless Karl Chalmers with a gun she hardly knew how to use, but now, when she was down to the wire and killers were practically coming out of the walls, she found herself unable to kick the door open and pull the trigger.
You never killed anyone before.
But that wasn't it. She had killed Matthew Gourlay on the first day, might as well have killed him; any wound was a death sentence here. She wasn't hardcore, but she could kill, this she was sure of. There were people she cared about in this game and people she didn't, and of the former, there was only one left.
Marilyn.
She could certainly kill for Marilyn.
But she could also sense Marilyn's fear, smell it practically, and if I go in and kill some guy in cold blood in front of her, she'll run away.
I don't want her to run away.
So, new plan. Get Marilyn to a safe cozy-hole, away from where any fight might take place. There were other rooms, a kitchen, a gymnasium; she could ask Marilyn to go into any one of those. Hide. stay safe. It would work. Then she could kick open the Library door, kill whoever this schmuck was, and Marilyn won't hate me afterwards. At least not until she figures it out. And maybe I can explain…
Too complicated. Whistling man was moving. She took Marilyn's arm, careful not to grip too tight, careful to be gentle, and steered her backwards. Towards the gymnasium. Hide her there, kill this guy, everything will be so simple…
Then the door opened.
Fuck.
And Marilyn grabbed her arm, and slammed them both into an alcove. And Brett Torres walked out of the library.
Thank you. Good instincts.
God, she was beautiful.
But she was also a problem. Because she had frozen, silently, her hand still holding Juliet's arm, and if Juliet wanted to draw her gun, she needed to do it now, but there was no way she could think to shake Marilyn's hand off her own without giving away their position. And that would be certain death for both of them.
Fuck.
So. She could let Brett Torres pass by without shooting him. Without giving away their position. Without killing. Probably a bad plan in the long-term, but in the short term, if she tried anything else, they were probably both going to die, so there was that.
And maybe not having to shoot Brett Torres was a little bit of a relief.
Now we just have to get through this.
Because Brett Torres was practically creeping.
Come on, come on, move faster, please move faster.
Oh God, she was sweating.
Marilyn, let me get my gun. We can end this now, we can end this now, I promise I can keep you safe…
Too late.
Brett Torres was creeping by.
And then Brett Torres was moving.
And then Brett Torres was shooting his gun.
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-
Little Boy*
- Posts: 102
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 5:35 am
He should have known better. In retrospect, he should have done a lot of things. But there was too little time to regret. He'd reached the door when he heard the noise. In a heartbeat he was spinning, but even then he wasn't sure he was fast enough. He'd played the whole game smart, some might say cowardly. But who was left to call him a coward? Nothing but corpses. He'd outsmarted them all.
But now, someone had outsmarted him. In one heartbeat, everything he'd worked so hard for was smashed to pieces. He felt cold, slow and stiff. His pistol was up and a curse was on his lips.
BLAM.
He didn't even see them when he fired the first shot. The air seemed to light afire, he'd spun too fast and he was falling back now, losing his footing. He gritted his teeth and squinted, locking on to the pair of them, crouching near the library doors. A trap. They'd been waiting.
BLAM.
"Fuck!"
BLAM.
There was no thinking after that. He fired again and again, the noise drowning out everything around him.
"Motherfuckers!" He screamed, emptying his clip towards them. He was angry. How dare they try something like this? Didn't they know who he was? How could they get the drop on him? Stupid, stupid and angry.
Click click click.
He didn't waste any time. He'd stumbled back towards the door and now he pushed back, out and away. He started running, fumbling into the bag looking for another clip.
Girls. It had been a pair of girls.
Jesus- fucking Jesus, SHIT...
He didn't look back as he ran.
[[Brett Torres continues in Operation Terminated]]
But now, someone had outsmarted him. In one heartbeat, everything he'd worked so hard for was smashed to pieces. He felt cold, slow and stiff. His pistol was up and a curse was on his lips.
BLAM.
He didn't even see them when he fired the first shot. The air seemed to light afire, he'd spun too fast and he was falling back now, losing his footing. He gritted his teeth and squinted, locking on to the pair of them, crouching near the library doors. A trap. They'd been waiting.
BLAM.
"Fuck!"
BLAM.
There was no thinking after that. He fired again and again, the noise drowning out everything around him.
"Motherfuckers!" He screamed, emptying his clip towards them. He was angry. How dare they try something like this? Didn't they know who he was? How could they get the drop on him? Stupid, stupid and angry.
Click click click.
He didn't waste any time. He'd stumbled back towards the door and now he pushed back, out and away. He started running, fumbling into the bag looking for another clip.
Girls. It had been a pair of girls.
Jesus- fucking Jesus, SHIT...
He didn't look back as he ran.
[[Brett Torres continues in Operation Terminated]]
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Marilyn was hyperventilating, trying as best she could to be quiet about it because christ there was somebody just a few feet away and he had a gun and there really wasn't anywhere to run and-
Marilyn screamed, because Brett was moving, pulling out his gun, because Brett was firing at them and god he was so close he couldn't miss.
Marilyn hit the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees and trembled, tears spilling down her face because she was gonna die and - and Juliet was firing back and yelling something at her that she couldn't hear and Brett was screaming his head off and...
He was running?
He was going?
How would...
How did this...
She was alright?
A pained moan.
"Juliet!"
Marilyn screamed, because Brett was moving, pulling out his gun, because Brett was firing at them and god he was so close he couldn't miss.
Marilyn hit the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees and trembled, tears spilling down her face because she was gonna die and - and Juliet was firing back and yelling something at her that she couldn't hear and Brett was screaming his head off and...
He was running?
He was going?
How would...
How did this...
She was alright?
A pained moan.
"Juliet!"
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storyspoiler*
- Posts: 49
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:09 am
Push Marilyn back. Grab the gun. Shoot back, because oh God he's right there and we're all going to die.
Push Marilyn back. She had remembered to push Marilyn back. And she shouted "Stay back!" or really she shouted "Stay--" and then something hit her and it didn't hurt in the slightest but suddenly it was very hard to speak. So she didn't want to think about that.
The gun rattled in her hand. She was pulling and pulling and pulling the trigger and hoping she hit him because then that would be one less person for Marilyn to deal with, but do you really want to say you died killing someone? No, shut up, Mom, shut up, you shouldn't be here now, not like Adams or Dad or Simon. This is me.
She couldn't tell if she got him. He kept running. Running and screaming. And she bent over double, and fell.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, that hurts...
It was one of those times she could tell her face was drained of blood. She felt...old. Wrinkled. Suddenly exhausted. Mom, it hurts...
Mom wasn't here. No, Mom wasn't here. She had Marilyn and Marilyn was curled up in the corner, and she needed to protect Marilyn because Marilyn was her only one left and she needed to protect her family and maybe she was a little deranged right now.
Marilyn was crying in the corner. No. That wouldn't do. She was too pretty to cry. She was almost too beautiful to look at, blinding, blinding, or maybe her eyes were just burning, Juliet's eyes were burning, the pain was sapping her nerves, and now every part of her body stung and ached and burned. She wanted to scream.
Nuh-uh. No. Not yet. There were still things to do.
I'm bleeding.
Can't die with unfinished business. And there was something--something crucial. Six people left. Hard to remember.
"Marilyn." She rasped. "Marilyn. Don't cry. Hush, kiddo. It'll be fine."
She pulled Marilyn over--Pain is just a message. You can ignore the message--and gave her the best hug she could give, with the state her gut was in. She didn't want to get Marilyn bloody, not unless it was necessary. To her surprise, Marilyn didn't flinch back. She drew into the hug. And Juliet, bloody or no, could have flown.
Look, Mom. The most beautiful girl in the world. And I'm hugging her!
But she couldn't say that. She could just stroke Marilyn's hair and repeat old words, her Mom's words, old words for new injuries.
"Hush, child. Ssssssssh, kiddo. Everything will be alright."
The last one was a lie.
Marilyn was starting to fuss now, pulling her upright. Beautiful girl. She stopped Marilyn's arm, though, when Marilyn tried to pull her upright. Shook her head.
"It'll hurt too much if I move." God, her voice was getting weaker. How pitiful. "Let me stay."
Marilyn started to say something, and Juliet reached up a heavy hand, and put a finger to her lip. "Two things, then speak all you want." Everybody's always shutting you up. No one lets you speak enough. Even I'm shutting you up. I'm so sorry. "One, I--" here went nerve, but it's not like she was going to get another chance. "I like you. A lot. I mean, I like like you. Love you. You're beautiful and when you read, you light up, and--" Cough. Oh, blood all over her shirt. Great. "--I'm so sorry I never stood up for you before. Figured a troublemaker like me would just--you wouldn't want me near you--and I was a coward. Failure. I'm sorry..." The last word trailed, more than perhaps was healthy.
"Second thing." She pulled herself up on Marilyn's arm, and forced her voice into a steady cadence. Brisk. "Second thing is, I want you to shoot me. You're not going to survive if you haven't shot one person. I'm easy. Brett doesn't need another kill. I don't want his name next to mine on the announcements anyway. You shoot me, hole up till those six others have killed each other, eat the food I have left--live. Keep your energy up. Even if there's one guy left, if he's fighting, he's in worse shape than you. Take my gun. Use it. Don't be scared." Don't be scared. Marilyn looked scared. "Put the gun up to my forehead. Dead center. Look me in the eye, and we'll count to three. One, two, three, and you'll shoot me."
She shoved the gun towards Marilyn. Pressed it in her hand. "Easy."
Push Marilyn back. She had remembered to push Marilyn back. And she shouted "Stay back!" or really she shouted "Stay--" and then something hit her and it didn't hurt in the slightest but suddenly it was very hard to speak. So she didn't want to think about that.
The gun rattled in her hand. She was pulling and pulling and pulling the trigger and hoping she hit him because then that would be one less person for Marilyn to deal with, but do you really want to say you died killing someone? No, shut up, Mom, shut up, you shouldn't be here now, not like Adams or Dad or Simon. This is me.
She couldn't tell if she got him. He kept running. Running and screaming. And she bent over double, and fell.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, that hurts...
It was one of those times she could tell her face was drained of blood. She felt...old. Wrinkled. Suddenly exhausted. Mom, it hurts...
Mom wasn't here. No, Mom wasn't here. She had Marilyn and Marilyn was curled up in the corner, and she needed to protect Marilyn because Marilyn was her only one left and she needed to protect her family and maybe she was a little deranged right now.
Marilyn was crying in the corner. No. That wouldn't do. She was too pretty to cry. She was almost too beautiful to look at, blinding, blinding, or maybe her eyes were just burning, Juliet's eyes were burning, the pain was sapping her nerves, and now every part of her body stung and ached and burned. She wanted to scream.
Nuh-uh. No. Not yet. There were still things to do.
I'm bleeding.
Can't die with unfinished business. And there was something--something crucial. Six people left. Hard to remember.
"Marilyn." She rasped. "Marilyn. Don't cry. Hush, kiddo. It'll be fine."
She pulled Marilyn over--Pain is just a message. You can ignore the message--and gave her the best hug she could give, with the state her gut was in. She didn't want to get Marilyn bloody, not unless it was necessary. To her surprise, Marilyn didn't flinch back. She drew into the hug. And Juliet, bloody or no, could have flown.
Look, Mom. The most beautiful girl in the world. And I'm hugging her!
But she couldn't say that. She could just stroke Marilyn's hair and repeat old words, her Mom's words, old words for new injuries.
"Hush, child. Ssssssssh, kiddo. Everything will be alright."
The last one was a lie.
Marilyn was starting to fuss now, pulling her upright. Beautiful girl. She stopped Marilyn's arm, though, when Marilyn tried to pull her upright. Shook her head.
"It'll hurt too much if I move." God, her voice was getting weaker. How pitiful. "Let me stay."
Marilyn started to say something, and Juliet reached up a heavy hand, and put a finger to her lip. "Two things, then speak all you want." Everybody's always shutting you up. No one lets you speak enough. Even I'm shutting you up. I'm so sorry. "One, I--" here went nerve, but it's not like she was going to get another chance. "I like you. A lot. I mean, I like like you. Love you. You're beautiful and when you read, you light up, and--" Cough. Oh, blood all over her shirt. Great. "--I'm so sorry I never stood up for you before. Figured a troublemaker like me would just--you wouldn't want me near you--and I was a coward. Failure. I'm sorry..." The last word trailed, more than perhaps was healthy.
"Second thing." She pulled herself up on Marilyn's arm, and forced her voice into a steady cadence. Brisk. "Second thing is, I want you to shoot me. You're not going to survive if you haven't shot one person. I'm easy. Brett doesn't need another kill. I don't want his name next to mine on the announcements anyway. You shoot me, hole up till those six others have killed each other, eat the food I have left--live. Keep your energy up. Even if there's one guy left, if he's fighting, he's in worse shape than you. Take my gun. Use it. Don't be scared." Don't be scared. Marilyn looked scared. "Put the gun up to my forehead. Dead center. Look me in the eye, and we'll count to three. One, two, three, and you'll shoot me."
She shoved the gun towards Marilyn. Pressed it in her hand. "Easy."
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It was over -should have been over. Brett was gone, this wasn't how it was supposed to go - and Marilyn didn't know why it was hitting her so hard because she still didn't know Juliet but dammit she'd been shot and she'd been shot because of her.
Oh and... that cowardly little thought. If Juliet was hurt, then... that would leave Marilyn alone, and with just a few surviving...
Marilyn's eyes streamed with tears and she didn't know if she was afraid or grieving or hurt or some twisted combination of all three. Juliet's face was pale as Marilyn scrambled around to face her, and Marilyn flinched to see her jaw so tight, the grimace of pain on her lips...
My fault
Marilyn looked down to Juliet's stomach, trembled to see the blood spreading there, across her clothes. Droplets spilled down her cheeks, dripped down her chin... and her head jerked back up again as Juliet spoke her name. There was a wry little smile on the other girl's lips, and suddenly a hand on Marilyn's hair, stroking her, soothing, murmuring almost like those days when Marilyn would come home from school, hurt, and crawl into her mother's lap...
"I'm suh- I'm suh-s..."
Juliet hushed her. Marilyn's face fell even harder. She had to... had to do something at least. This couldn't be allowed to - this wasn't right, not after what had happened - Marilyn had got Brett's attention and got them shot at and, and...
She wasn't worth a bullet.
"J-Juliet I c-cuh-"
Finger on the lips, she shut up, shivered. A tear slid down Marilyn's face and across Juliet's hand. Then Juliet spoke again, and Marilyn froze.
She didn't mean that.
She couldn't mean that.
It didn't make sense, none of it made sense, Marilyn was - nobody cared about Marilyn, nobody had ever really cared. That was how things were, she'd just had to handle it.
Or if not handle it, survive it.
There wasn't supposed to be somebody that liked her - especially not in this way and not...
T-this was why Juliet had been looking for her this entire time?
But she... Marilyn didn't deserve that. Not how she'd acted, not how she'd gone through this, carried on people's shoulders, hid and ran whilst others died.
And now... Juliet she - she loved her. She took a bullet and it was because...
Marilyn didn't even really register what Juliet said after that until the gun was thrust into her palm. Marilyn stared down at it wide-eyed, then looked back up into Juliet's grimacing face. Juliet repeated herself. Marilyn shook her head violently.
"Nuh-no. Cuh-cuh-c'mon w-w-wuh-we can guh-get yuh-you inside! Suh-safe. I-it's nuh-not a-all buh-bad, ruh-right?"
Juliet didn't even answer, just gave a look which spoke volumes. Marilyn found herself crying harder than ever. She couldn't do this. Here was the first person who'd ever given a damn about her, and she was asking Marilyn to kill her. Marilyn didn't know how she felt about another girl having those kinds of feelings about her and frankly she didn't even care. It was genuine, real. She. Cared.
No, Juliet would - she'd get through this, it wasn't as bad as it looked. Of course it was gonna bleed a lot, these kinds of things did, because Marilyn sure, she totally knew about how all this worked and that Juliet was just being dramatic. Maybe it was a joke, and she'd turn around and be like 'Aha, gotcha' and it'd turn out she was kidding and they'd go into the building and bunker down and-
Marilyn squeezed her eyes shut.
Stop running.
Marilyn's hand twitched, the gun jerked up, faltered... rose again. She opened her eyes. Juliet looked back, past the cool barrel kissing her forehead.
Marilyn was hyperventilating.
They said it together.
"One."
"Tuh-two."
"Thr-
Oh and... that cowardly little thought. If Juliet was hurt, then... that would leave Marilyn alone, and with just a few surviving...
Marilyn's eyes streamed with tears and she didn't know if she was afraid or grieving or hurt or some twisted combination of all three. Juliet's face was pale as Marilyn scrambled around to face her, and Marilyn flinched to see her jaw so tight, the grimace of pain on her lips...
My fault
Marilyn looked down to Juliet's stomach, trembled to see the blood spreading there, across her clothes. Droplets spilled down her cheeks, dripped down her chin... and her head jerked back up again as Juliet spoke her name. There was a wry little smile on the other girl's lips, and suddenly a hand on Marilyn's hair, stroking her, soothing, murmuring almost like those days when Marilyn would come home from school, hurt, and crawl into her mother's lap...
"I'm suh- I'm suh-s..."
Juliet hushed her. Marilyn's face fell even harder. She had to... had to do something at least. This couldn't be allowed to - this wasn't right, not after what had happened - Marilyn had got Brett's attention and got them shot at and, and...
She wasn't worth a bullet.
"J-Juliet I c-cuh-"
Finger on the lips, she shut up, shivered. A tear slid down Marilyn's face and across Juliet's hand. Then Juliet spoke again, and Marilyn froze.
She didn't mean that.
She couldn't mean that.
It didn't make sense, none of it made sense, Marilyn was - nobody cared about Marilyn, nobody had ever really cared. That was how things were, she'd just had to handle it.
Or if not handle it, survive it.
There wasn't supposed to be somebody that liked her - especially not in this way and not...
T-this was why Juliet had been looking for her this entire time?
But she... Marilyn didn't deserve that. Not how she'd acted, not how she'd gone through this, carried on people's shoulders, hid and ran whilst others died.
And now... Juliet she - she loved her. She took a bullet and it was because...
Marilyn didn't even really register what Juliet said after that until the gun was thrust into her palm. Marilyn stared down at it wide-eyed, then looked back up into Juliet's grimacing face. Juliet repeated herself. Marilyn shook her head violently.
"Nuh-no. Cuh-cuh-c'mon w-w-wuh-we can guh-get yuh-you inside! Suh-safe. I-it's nuh-not a-all buh-bad, ruh-right?"
Juliet didn't even answer, just gave a look which spoke volumes. Marilyn found herself crying harder than ever. She couldn't do this. Here was the first person who'd ever given a damn about her, and she was asking Marilyn to kill her. Marilyn didn't know how she felt about another girl having those kinds of feelings about her and frankly she didn't even care. It was genuine, real. She. Cared.
No, Juliet would - she'd get through this, it wasn't as bad as it looked. Of course it was gonna bleed a lot, these kinds of things did, because Marilyn sure, she totally knew about how all this worked and that Juliet was just being dramatic. Maybe it was a joke, and she'd turn around and be like 'Aha, gotcha' and it'd turn out she was kidding and they'd go into the building and bunker down and-
Marilyn squeezed her eyes shut.
Stop running.
Marilyn's hand twitched, the gun jerked up, faltered... rose again. She opened her eyes. Juliet looked back, past the cool barrel kissing her forehead.
Marilyn was hyperventilating.
They said it together.
"One."
"Tuh-two."
"Thr-