((Otis Adelaide continued from Sanctuary (of the temporary variety)))
Otis felt weak. The two of them - Samantha and himself - had been wandering across the cove for what seemed like hours looking for somewhere to spend the night, carrying his pack over both shoulders now as he hadn't the strength to hold it over one anymore. He hadn't even eaten all day, adding to his exhaustion, but after seeing that face there was no way he'd want to ever eat again. The shack would have been the ideal spot for them to sit out the game, but he didn't even want to think about that place right now, choosing to shove the image of the eyeless boy far back in his mind, right past his very worst memories. There was one night, in particular, which he'd ask to re-live far less than finding that body.
---
The club was packed tighter than it had ever been, with people spilling out into the streets and the line to get in going far back along the block, even turning the corner as more and more people clamoured to get inside. Of course, getting into Siberia - the club, not the region - was harder than whistling by knocking two coconuts together, and most who tried to enter were turned away unless they slipped the bouncers a flash of green (or pink, in the cases of the girls who really wanted to get inside).
Way in the back, up in the VIP booths, Otis sat with his parents, listening to the owner of another local record company telling him all about the downfall of soul in today's hip-hop and how it lost its way sometime back in the 90s, around the time of the infamous "coastal" debates. His father was barely listening, but he was in too good of a mood to stop him now. No, he'd let him finish, smile, thank him for coming all the way down here, then promptly have him escorted off the premises by his personal bodyguard, Bass. Bass the 6'6 mountain whose real name was only known to those whose names adorned his shoulders. No, Kym was in a very good mood tonight. This was the night that he'd win over his biggest rivals. This was the night which would show them all how powerful the Adelaide name could be.
With the clock coming up to 9pm, and the majority of Miami's finest settling in downstairs, Kym couldn't stop himself from grinning from ear to ear, waiting for the moment his boy would show them all what it meant to have his blood running through his veins. The boy, however, was looking decidedly less confident. Otis sat in between his father and the imposing Mr. Denham with both eyes on the hands of his watch. In a few minutes he'd be on stage for the very first time in his life, performing a rap he'd been working tirelessly on for the past few months. He knew how big a moment it was for his father; he'd been promising to sign him up as an artist ever since he could talk, but now that the big night was finally here, the night they'd been waiting years for, well, saying he was nervous would be almost offensive.
His mother, on the other hand, wasn't as oblivious as his father, and noticed her son's trembling hands as he sat quietly in a panic. "Otis, baby, I got somethin' to show you." Slipping out of the reach of her husband, she waited for her son to join her on the balcony, overlooking the bustling streets below. As soon as he stepped out into the warm summer air, she took him by the hands, clasping them tightly with her own while she looked up calmly at her little boy. "18 years old..."
"Mom?"
"18 years since I first held you in my arms." She looked him up and down before letting herself laugh. "Though I don't suppose I could do that now, huh."
Otis smiled awkwardly, wary of the sad look in her eye.
"Otis, sweety, I... you don't have to do this, y'know? If- If you don't think you can do this, you don't have to. You can say no if you want."
She forced herself to smile reassuringly, but it was too late. He felt betrayed.
"What? You don't think I can do this? I- I- I been waiting for this for years, mom, and now you're tellin' me I don't have to do this?"
"No, sweety, I-"
"No, mom! No! I'm- what, you think I'm scared or somethin'? That I'm nervous?"
He snatched his hands away furiously.
"You don't know anything! I'm gonna prove to you I got what it takes! At least- at least Dad believes in me! Y'know?!"
"No! Baby, I'm just lookin' out for you!"
"Lookin' out for me?!"
"Yeah! I don't wanna see you get hurt out there!"
"Hurt? Hurt? Shit, you really don't think I can do this!"
"No, that's-"
"No! You know what? You're a bitch, Mom! Always holdin' me back! You've never-"
Smack.
They stood silently, Otis stunned as he held his stinging face while his mother looked on in regret. That was it. She'd lost him for good.
Without a word, her son walked away, leaving his mother standing alone in the evening light. Wiping away the tears that were threatening to run through her mascara, she sighed in desperation. Her little boy had decided not to pay her any mind, and now he was about to make a fool of himself in front of everyone who mattered in this pointless city. Now his Dad would see just how thick the Adelaide blood really ran.
"Baby... please..." She whispered into the night.
An Ode to Adelaide
PRIVATE
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Hallucinogenic*
- Posts: 69
- Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 12:02 am
An Ode to Adelaide
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hallucinogenic. 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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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3450
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
((Gonna go ahead and note that all GMing in this thread is approved))
((Samantha Reynolds continued from Sanctuary (of the temporary variety)))
Hours. It had been hours since leaving that shack, hours since that horrible discovery. Hours that had dulled Samantha's memories of the event somewhat, allowing her to eat earlier. The face, however, still haunted her. She could still feel those empty sockets burning into her back. But it wasn't so urgent. It wasn't that big a deal, really. He couldn't hurt her now, that was for sure. He was dead. Who was that boy? That was the question that bothered her now. Who was he, and how had he died?
Then, as if in answer to her ponderings, hidden speakers crackled to life. A voice began addressing them, sounding oh so gleeful. It made Samantha clench her teeth, grinding them slightly. That fucking bitch. How could she sound so happy? People had died. Three of them. If she had to guess, the one they'd seen was Billy-Jay. "Gross" summed that sight up pretty damn well. Two more had died, too: Connor and Jay. All boys, it sounded like. That was interesting. Samantha vaguely wondered whether the gender ratio had been close to even, or if boys outnumbered girls on the island.
Then the areas they were to avoid were announced. Samantha took out her map and examined it, using her flashlight to provide illumination. She'd been using it for a while, now, shielding it with one hand to direct the beam and prevent excess light from escaping. There was no reason to make herself an easy target, after all. She knew two of the zones that were now sealed, having been in them. The other two were also easy to find, and not in a position to cause her trouble in her movements. She folded the map and tucked it into one of the pockets in her skirt. The night air was chilly, but somewhat refreshing. It was keeping her awake. Her blouse was all dried, now. Otis hadn't even seemed as interested in her state of immodesty. Probably preoccupied with what they'd seen.
In a way, it was a mercy that the shack was now off-limits. It meant that nobody else would be forced to share in the knowledge of that poor boy's fate. It also meant that they lacked important information, information that Samantha possessed. Billy-Jay had been killed by something related to his head and eyes. There was a possibility that it was someone's power. Somebody could have fried his brain or something. Samantha didn't believe that to be the case, though. They had announced the other two killers, at least obliquely, but had said nothing of Billy-Jay. That implied an accident. Had he misused his own power somehow? Had he tried to escape? Perhaps that was what happened to those who defied their system.
"Pretty grim, huh?" Samantha said, a few seconds after the announcements had finished. At least two people had already killed. Cristo, a presumably Latino boy, and someone called a banshee. Samantha couldn't remember the people from the briefing room in any detail. She'd been distracted, and had a bad view. For some reason, the number twenty stuck in her mind (well, twenty others, and then herself, but one had been shot so twenty was the real total). Twenty people here. Three were dead. That meant there were seventeen left. She would have to outlive sixteen other people, at least two of whom had murdered.
Those were not good odds.
Right now, though, she couldn't be thinking so far in the future. Otis' presence had something of a calming effect on her. Their companionship felt friendly, even though she didn't say much. Perhaps she was not the most welcoming person. She was still keeping him at a distance, at least on a personal emotional level. She could not be distracted by strange thoughts. She had to focus on surviving.
Her gun was once again tucked into the back of her skirt. It was not particularly comfortable; the metal had chilled with the onset of true night, and now it was freezing the small of her back. She'd put her socks and shoes back on, and they were sandy, just as she'd feared. Things could have been better. They could've been much worse, but they could certainly have been better. At least she was with Otis.
Time passed, as they continued to search for a good place to ride out the night. It was not an opportune time to be about. Visibility was shot, and Samantha found it more than possible that one of their opponents would have nightvision or something equally useful in this environment. Their best bet was to act only when it was to their benefit, that being in the day, and snatch what rest they could at other times. They could sleep in shifts, taking turns on watch. That was a huge advantage. Samantha could trust that Otis would not shoot her. At least, not until they were the last two left, and she didn't think he would even then. She wouldn't shoot him until the end, either. It was an understanding of sorts.
She had no idea if she would be able to pull the trigger if the time came at all, anyways. That body had reminded her that this wasn't a game. People didn't come back after dying. She would protect herself, spare herself that fate, but she couldn't murder somebody just for the heck of it, or expediency or whatever. Whether protecting herself included stopping the one day timer from running out, stopping them all from being blown to pieces... well, she'd have to consider that if it came up.
She could dimly make out a black shape in the distance. It looked like a rock face. Perhaps they would find shelter near there. They could wait until morning, and figure out a plan after the noon announcements, in eleven hours or so.
"How about over there?" she whispered to Otis, gesturing towards the silhouette.
((Samantha Reynolds continued from Sanctuary (of the temporary variety)))
Hours. It had been hours since leaving that shack, hours since that horrible discovery. Hours that had dulled Samantha's memories of the event somewhat, allowing her to eat earlier. The face, however, still haunted her. She could still feel those empty sockets burning into her back. But it wasn't so urgent. It wasn't that big a deal, really. He couldn't hurt her now, that was for sure. He was dead. Who was that boy? That was the question that bothered her now. Who was he, and how had he died?
Then, as if in answer to her ponderings, hidden speakers crackled to life. A voice began addressing them, sounding oh so gleeful. It made Samantha clench her teeth, grinding them slightly. That fucking bitch. How could she sound so happy? People had died. Three of them. If she had to guess, the one they'd seen was Billy-Jay. "Gross" summed that sight up pretty damn well. Two more had died, too: Connor and Jay. All boys, it sounded like. That was interesting. Samantha vaguely wondered whether the gender ratio had been close to even, or if boys outnumbered girls on the island.
Then the areas they were to avoid were announced. Samantha took out her map and examined it, using her flashlight to provide illumination. She'd been using it for a while, now, shielding it with one hand to direct the beam and prevent excess light from escaping. There was no reason to make herself an easy target, after all. She knew two of the zones that were now sealed, having been in them. The other two were also easy to find, and not in a position to cause her trouble in her movements. She folded the map and tucked it into one of the pockets in her skirt. The night air was chilly, but somewhat refreshing. It was keeping her awake. Her blouse was all dried, now. Otis hadn't even seemed as interested in her state of immodesty. Probably preoccupied with what they'd seen.
In a way, it was a mercy that the shack was now off-limits. It meant that nobody else would be forced to share in the knowledge of that poor boy's fate. It also meant that they lacked important information, information that Samantha possessed. Billy-Jay had been killed by something related to his head and eyes. There was a possibility that it was someone's power. Somebody could have fried his brain or something. Samantha didn't believe that to be the case, though. They had announced the other two killers, at least obliquely, but had said nothing of Billy-Jay. That implied an accident. Had he misused his own power somehow? Had he tried to escape? Perhaps that was what happened to those who defied their system.
"Pretty grim, huh?" Samantha said, a few seconds after the announcements had finished. At least two people had already killed. Cristo, a presumably Latino boy, and someone called a banshee. Samantha couldn't remember the people from the briefing room in any detail. She'd been distracted, and had a bad view. For some reason, the number twenty stuck in her mind (well, twenty others, and then herself, but one had been shot so twenty was the real total). Twenty people here. Three were dead. That meant there were seventeen left. She would have to outlive sixteen other people, at least two of whom had murdered.
Those were not good odds.
Right now, though, she couldn't be thinking so far in the future. Otis' presence had something of a calming effect on her. Their companionship felt friendly, even though she didn't say much. Perhaps she was not the most welcoming person. She was still keeping him at a distance, at least on a personal emotional level. She could not be distracted by strange thoughts. She had to focus on surviving.
Her gun was once again tucked into the back of her skirt. It was not particularly comfortable; the metal had chilled with the onset of true night, and now it was freezing the small of her back. She'd put her socks and shoes back on, and they were sandy, just as she'd feared. Things could have been better. They could've been much worse, but they could certainly have been better. At least she was with Otis.
Time passed, as they continued to search for a good place to ride out the night. It was not an opportune time to be about. Visibility was shot, and Samantha found it more than possible that one of their opponents would have nightvision or something equally useful in this environment. Their best bet was to act only when it was to their benefit, that being in the day, and snatch what rest they could at other times. They could sleep in shifts, taking turns on watch. That was a huge advantage. Samantha could trust that Otis would not shoot her. At least, not until they were the last two left, and she didn't think he would even then. She wouldn't shoot him until the end, either. It was an understanding of sorts.
She had no idea if she would be able to pull the trigger if the time came at all, anyways. That body had reminded her that this wasn't a game. People didn't come back after dying. She would protect herself, spare herself that fate, but she couldn't murder somebody just for the heck of it, or expediency or whatever. Whether protecting herself included stopping the one day timer from running out, stopping them all from being blown to pieces... well, she'd have to consider that if it came up.
She could dimly make out a black shape in the distance. It looked like a rock face. Perhaps they would find shelter near there. They could wait until morning, and figure out a plan after the noon announcements, in eleven hours or so.
"How about over there?" she whispered to Otis, gesturing towards the silhouette.
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GameMaker*
- Posts: 27
- Joined: Thu Aug 16, 2018 12:59 am
((Cristo Ruiz continued from Lay Your Weary Head To Rest))
It was dark, and Cristo didn't know how long he had been walking for. He was surrounded by his thoughts as he walked, paranoia, anger, self hatred, and other thoughts weighing him down as he had walked through this night. He didn't know exactly where he was, asides from the fact that it was somewhere on the island's shore. He had watched the waves come in, crashing against the rocks on the shore, the dark, black endless sea stretching out beyond it. He watched it come in, he watched it go out, and he stood there, mesmerized by the feeling of despair he felt when he looked at it. He watched that, and he thought, his mind working overtime to turn over things he never wanted to think about.
The last time he had spent a night like this- actually thinking- he didn't know. All of his nights lately had blended into the same, bland, dreary yet blissful routine. Popping a few pills, listening to music on his computer, a combination of his favorite rap, rock, and whatever the hell the newest crap on the radio was, and watching some movies, most of them mainstream, the occasional one being pornographic. After a few hours of this, he'd probably pass out on the couch. He wanted that right now. He wanted the music, he wanted the movies, he wanted the pornography. But most of all, he wanted the pills. Anything to stop the thoughts going through his head.
Cristo had been wrong, he realized now. He'd thought there was only one new Cristo, the one that he'd discovered with Connor. That one, he'd decided, was the jackal. It was the best fit- there was nothing human about this thing in his mind. It was all savage, primitive, the most basic brutal part of him. It was concerned only with survival, but it took a sick exhilarating pleasure from the things it had to do- it loved to hurt and it loved especially to kill. It wasn't just a predator but a sadist too, and it wanted to be the best, it wanted to be one left standing, and not just that, but the one left standing on a pile of corpses. He had wondered if this thing was in everyone- he suspected it was, at least in some capacity- but it definitely was in him. It had taken control of him when he had attacked Otis and when he had killed Connor. But now, when he needed to face the aftereffects of that, it was gone.
It was replaced by the other Cristo, the "I wish" Cristo, the "Why did I" Cristo. This one was definitely human, and it didn't tell Cristo what to do. It just commented on what he did. I wish I hadn't killed that boy, it said. I wish I wasn't on this island. Why did I kill him?, it said. Why do I think I can leave that behind, and why do I think should I continue with this?. Cristo hated it, and he was pretty sure it hated itself as well. But misery loves company, and it wouldn't leave Cristo alone.
Cristo laughed at this, laughed at his little private joke, laughed so hard and so long he didn't even notice when he started to cry. If anyone had walked by right now, and seem him, they wouldn't see even a shadow of the master hunter he had thought he was, the survivalist who had everything under his control. They'd see a boy who was possibly suicidal and definitely depressed, driven half mad with guilt, paranoia, and the fear of his own death. They'd see a boy who desperately wished for nothing more than this all to be a dream, for him to wake up in his own bed at his home, to be hugged and loved by his mother and father, to just live life like a semi-normal teenager. They'd see a boy who'd never get his wish.
It was dark, and Cristo didn't know how long he had been walking for. He was surrounded by his thoughts as he walked, paranoia, anger, self hatred, and other thoughts weighing him down as he had walked through this night. He didn't know exactly where he was, asides from the fact that it was somewhere on the island's shore. He had watched the waves come in, crashing against the rocks on the shore, the dark, black endless sea stretching out beyond it. He watched it come in, he watched it go out, and he stood there, mesmerized by the feeling of despair he felt when he looked at it. He watched that, and he thought, his mind working overtime to turn over things he never wanted to think about.
The last time he had spent a night like this- actually thinking- he didn't know. All of his nights lately had blended into the same, bland, dreary yet blissful routine. Popping a few pills, listening to music on his computer, a combination of his favorite rap, rock, and whatever the hell the newest crap on the radio was, and watching some movies, most of them mainstream, the occasional one being pornographic. After a few hours of this, he'd probably pass out on the couch. He wanted that right now. He wanted the music, he wanted the movies, he wanted the pornography. But most of all, he wanted the pills. Anything to stop the thoughts going through his head.
Cristo had been wrong, he realized now. He'd thought there was only one new Cristo, the one that he'd discovered with Connor. That one, he'd decided, was the jackal. It was the best fit- there was nothing human about this thing in his mind. It was all savage, primitive, the most basic brutal part of him. It was concerned only with survival, but it took a sick exhilarating pleasure from the things it had to do- it loved to hurt and it loved especially to kill. It wasn't just a predator but a sadist too, and it wanted to be the best, it wanted to be one left standing, and not just that, but the one left standing on a pile of corpses. He had wondered if this thing was in everyone- he suspected it was, at least in some capacity- but it definitely was in him. It had taken control of him when he had attacked Otis and when he had killed Connor. But now, when he needed to face the aftereffects of that, it was gone.
It was replaced by the other Cristo, the "I wish" Cristo, the "Why did I" Cristo. This one was definitely human, and it didn't tell Cristo what to do. It just commented on what he did. I wish I hadn't killed that boy, it said. I wish I wasn't on this island. Why did I kill him?, it said. Why do I think I can leave that behind, and why do I think should I continue with this?. Cristo hated it, and he was pretty sure it hated itself as well. But misery loves company, and it wouldn't leave Cristo alone.
Cristo laughed at this, laughed at his little private joke, laughed so hard and so long he didn't even notice when he started to cry. If anyone had walked by right now, and seem him, they wouldn't see even a shadow of the master hunter he had thought he was, the survivalist who had everything under his control. They'd see a boy who was possibly suicidal and definitely depressed, driven half mad with guilt, paranoia, and the fear of his own death. They'd see a boy who desperately wished for nothing more than this all to be a dream, for him to wake up in his own bed at his home, to be hugged and loved by his mother and father, to just live life like a semi-normal teenager. They'd see a boy who'd never get his wish.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler GameMaker. 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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Hallucinogenic*
- Posts: 69
- Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 12:02 am
"The cliffs?" Otis peered out into the darkness, spying the heavy silhouette of the southern cliff face against the star-spotted backdrop. "Yeah, sounds good." Wandering over side-by-side, it was clear to Samantha that the events back at the shack had shaken her protector somewhat, as he walked quietly across the sand with his gaze drifting to the ground below, like he was looking for something. It wasn't something that could be easily found though, and the previous announcement had caused his fevered mind to go into overdrive with paranoid thoughts about the other inhabitants of the island.
Cristo, his mind continued to whisper, as he recalled what the girl on the PA had said. Cristo had killed someone. They very same Cristo that had left him for dead back at the cells had actually killed someone, without even giving them the same fighting chance he gave to Otis. Had he gotten worse? Had his mind finally left its broken, mad shell behind? The notion that he could've been attacked first didn't even enter his head. No, if Cristo killed someone, it was out of cold blood - that was something he knew for sure.
But what about Otis? Would he have what it takes to actually murder someone? To take away another man's life? What about Samantha? Did she? He didn't know much about her, after all, and she could've been just as bad as everybody else so far. Then again, she didn't seem like the violent type, and even if she was, he was pretty sure he could take her if they ever got into a fight. Not that he'd enjoy it though, never. If there was one thing he didn't do it was hitting women, even if they hit first. To Otis, hitting a woman would be one of the worst things a guy could ever do. Hell, after hitting a woman, you might as well cut off your own dick and throw it to the dogs.
Yet still the question lingered, like a bad after-taste. What if she attacked him? What would he do? In his head he could imagine the scenario going his way without a hitch, but that was in his head, not real life. For all he knew she could just be leading him over to the cliffs to make sure nobody could see what she was about to do. Or worse yet, what she'd force Otis to do. There was just too many questions right now, and they all depressed him as he went over each one in his head, hoping that the answers wouldn't be as bad as he'd feared. Nonetheless, none of those answers even mattered if he could do nothing about them, and thinking back to his run-in with Connor, he remembered just how helpless he was right now.
Apparently, everyone had been given a "gift", as the man said. He hadn't really had the time to go over what he meant today, after all the things that had happened, but now that he was stuck on this train of thought, there'd be no getting off until he reached a safe conclusion. Thinking back to the holding cells once again, he began to piece together what had happened, bit by bit, while the pair made their way safely to the other side of the cove.
Cristo, his mind continued to whisper, as he recalled what the girl on the PA had said. Cristo had killed someone. They very same Cristo that had left him for dead back at the cells had actually killed someone, without even giving them the same fighting chance he gave to Otis. Had he gotten worse? Had his mind finally left its broken, mad shell behind? The notion that he could've been attacked first didn't even enter his head. No, if Cristo killed someone, it was out of cold blood - that was something he knew for sure.
But what about Otis? Would he have what it takes to actually murder someone? To take away another man's life? What about Samantha? Did she? He didn't know much about her, after all, and she could've been just as bad as everybody else so far. Then again, she didn't seem like the violent type, and even if she was, he was pretty sure he could take her if they ever got into a fight. Not that he'd enjoy it though, never. If there was one thing he didn't do it was hitting women, even if they hit first. To Otis, hitting a woman would be one of the worst things a guy could ever do. Hell, after hitting a woman, you might as well cut off your own dick and throw it to the dogs.
Yet still the question lingered, like a bad after-taste. What if she attacked him? What would he do? In his head he could imagine the scenario going his way without a hitch, but that was in his head, not real life. For all he knew she could just be leading him over to the cliffs to make sure nobody could see what she was about to do. Or worse yet, what she'd force Otis to do. There was just too many questions right now, and they all depressed him as he went over each one in his head, hoping that the answers wouldn't be as bad as he'd feared. Nonetheless, none of those answers even mattered if he could do nothing about them, and thinking back to his run-in with Connor, he remembered just how helpless he was right now.
Apparently, everyone had been given a "gift", as the man said. He hadn't really had the time to go over what he meant today, after all the things that had happened, but now that he was stuck on this train of thought, there'd be no getting off until he reached a safe conclusion. Thinking back to the holding cells once again, he began to piece together what had happened, bit by bit, while the pair made their way safely to the other side of the cove.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hallucinogenic. 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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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3450
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
They were heading towards the cliffs. It was good, very good, especially since Samantha was starting to get worried about Otis. The boy still seemed shell shocked by it all. She hadn't noticed until they started moving again, but now she wondered whether he would be sharp enough to keep watch at all tonight. If not, she could handle it. She'd pulled all-nighters before. It was practically a weekly event for her back in school. Fuck. School. The concept seemed so foreign now. It had been her world, her everything, her route to the future, a future where she wouldn't have to worry about anything, but could make money doing something she could tolerate and live in relative comfort. Now, that seemed rather shallow, rather mundane. She was fighting for her life, on an island far from home, with sixteen people who would have to kill her if they wanted to live. She had allied herself with one of those people, though whether that would be a good choice at all remained to be seen.
She wondered what Rachel would have done in this situation. Her sister would probably already be dead. That, or fucking Otis' brains out. Then again, maybe she'd actually be doing better. Maybe her sister's loose morals would have let her take control of the situation and start actually eliminating her opponents. Of course, that might not have turned out so well for the people who had done so. At least two killers had been announced to the island. Cristo was worse off, whoever he was, since a name and rough description had been given. The banshee was slightly more mysterious, but surely that tag would have meaning for somebody. Both of them were almost certainly targets, now, or at least poor potential allies.
They continued to walk, Samantha lighting their way with her shielded flashlight. She hoped they weren't too noticeable. It would be bad if they were ambushed. The night gave them some cover, but it was still very possible that someone would start shooting without warning, killing Samantha before she even realized they were there. She covered up even more of the light, her breathing and pulse quickening at the thought. She didn't want to die. No, she wouldn't die. She just had to figure a way out of this mess, a way that didn't involve murdering her way through. Would there be some weakness in the place? There had to be, right? Nothing was perfect. There just had to be.
Unfortunately, the odds were good that the weakness would be covered up by the fact that some people were playing along. Samantha couldn't focus too heavily on escape while watching her back. Again, she was thankful for Otis. Maybe they could make a concerted effort together. Maybe others would join them. After all, they hadn't shot each other yet. Otis hadn't even drawn his gun. That stopped her short. He hadn't drawn his gun. She'd assumed he still had it, but he hadn't even used it in the shack, when she thought they were being attacked. Had he thrown it away? Immediately, the image took hold. It was romantic, in a way; he was so tough, but he threw away his gun to avoid killing anyone. She knew, of course, that there was a good chance that wasn't the case. He could have lost it somewhere. He could be saving it for real trouble. The fact remained that he had never pointed a weapon at her.
They were getting closer, now. Closer to the cliffs, and closer to some semblance of safety. In the morning, they could start to plan. If they were going to make any move, the best time would probably be right after the announcement. Then, everyone else might be resting, or avoiding the new forbidden zones. Yes. That was a plan.
Plus, it meant the hard stuff would come later, and she could calm down a bit in the present.
She wondered what Rachel would have done in this situation. Her sister would probably already be dead. That, or fucking Otis' brains out. Then again, maybe she'd actually be doing better. Maybe her sister's loose morals would have let her take control of the situation and start actually eliminating her opponents. Of course, that might not have turned out so well for the people who had done so. At least two killers had been announced to the island. Cristo was worse off, whoever he was, since a name and rough description had been given. The banshee was slightly more mysterious, but surely that tag would have meaning for somebody. Both of them were almost certainly targets, now, or at least poor potential allies.
They continued to walk, Samantha lighting their way with her shielded flashlight. She hoped they weren't too noticeable. It would be bad if they were ambushed. The night gave them some cover, but it was still very possible that someone would start shooting without warning, killing Samantha before she even realized they were there. She covered up even more of the light, her breathing and pulse quickening at the thought. She didn't want to die. No, she wouldn't die. She just had to figure a way out of this mess, a way that didn't involve murdering her way through. Would there be some weakness in the place? There had to be, right? Nothing was perfect. There just had to be.
Unfortunately, the odds were good that the weakness would be covered up by the fact that some people were playing along. Samantha couldn't focus too heavily on escape while watching her back. Again, she was thankful for Otis. Maybe they could make a concerted effort together. Maybe others would join them. After all, they hadn't shot each other yet. Otis hadn't even drawn his gun. That stopped her short. He hadn't drawn his gun. She'd assumed he still had it, but he hadn't even used it in the shack, when she thought they were being attacked. Had he thrown it away? Immediately, the image took hold. It was romantic, in a way; he was so tough, but he threw away his gun to avoid killing anyone. She knew, of course, that there was a good chance that wasn't the case. He could have lost it somewhere. He could be saving it for real trouble. The fact remained that he had never pointed a weapon at her.
They were getting closer, now. Closer to the cliffs, and closer to some semblance of safety. In the morning, they could start to plan. If they were going to make any move, the best time would probably be right after the announcement. Then, everyone else might be resting, or avoiding the new forbidden zones. Yes. That was a plan.
Plus, it meant the hard stuff would come later, and she could calm down a bit in the present.
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Hallucinogenic*
- Posts: 69
- Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 12:02 am
Cristo's throat drew short, gasping breaths as he began to settle down. He'd only been crying for a minute or two, but something told him that'd been too long. Through bleary eyes he now saw what he would've done had he not been so careless, so emotional - two fingers of light, pulling themselves along the sands of the beach below. People.
No, he thought.
Prey.
The jackal was stirring deep within; it clawed and bit at his body from the inside out, telling him to go down there and shoot them both before they even had a chance to bid themselves goodnight. This would be easy. So frightfully simple, to walk, silently, down to the bottom of the cliff and release the full potential of his gun right into their hearts like this island has done to his. This was his moment - his glory. If he could pull this off there'd be no stopping him; no-one would get in his way. If those sick fucks wanted a show, then he'd give them one, oh yes. After all, he was Cristo Ruiz, and no-one would ever outperform him.
----
Otis grew weary. They'd finally reached the cliffs, meaning they could rest at last. Groaning as he pulled the bag from his shoulders, he gave a short grunt and off it went, flying into the sand. God-damn, did that feel good. He'd been carrying that thing all day long, and he was sick of it. Now he could sit back, relax, and sleep tight knowing he had someone to keep him company. Of course, it would've been much better if they had at least, oh, say, a bed, but hey, he wasn't picky. Especially when he was this god-damn tired.
Yawning loudly, he shuddered at the rush of the wind; it was getting much colder now, it must've been way past midnight, right? Shit, who even knew. Otis didn't, that was for sure. Not that it mattered. Sam looked just as beat as he did, but in a way he kinda resented that. What the hell had she been through today? She sure as hell didn't have a fucking gun pointed at her face - twice. Ugh, he knew he wasn't mad at her though. All he needed was a little shut-eye and he'd be good to go. They'd get up in the morning, maybe take off his tank top to show his new lady the goods, then find a proper place to hole up in while everyone else went crazy.
Heh, that didn't seem all that bad really. Yeah, so, he was in the worst situation of his entire life, but hey, he had a hot girl with him now, who probably had some kick-ass power of her own, and he had a feeling nobody was even gonna try and fuck with them. Not even Cristo fucking-
A gunshot permeated the air without warning; the sand near his feet springing high up in the air.
"Shit!"
Sam screamed too, the two of them back on their feet as their flashlights scrambled to find the shooter.
"Sam, you okay?!"
"Y-yeah! I'm fine! I'm fine!"
Their eyes darted around the area - who the fuck was that?! Someone had fucking shot at them, and they were standing out in the open like a couple of tools! Otis ran to his bag, but before he could reach it he was stopped by another gunshot. Inches, this time, away from his face. He turned, firing light into the distance as they clung together in a panic. Suddenly, their lights made contact upon something dark and manic, something that caused Samantha to squeeze Otis' arm a little tighter.
The wide-eyed smile of Cristo fucking Ruiz staring them right in the face.
No, he thought.
Prey.
The jackal was stirring deep within; it clawed and bit at his body from the inside out, telling him to go down there and shoot them both before they even had a chance to bid themselves goodnight. This would be easy. So frightfully simple, to walk, silently, down to the bottom of the cliff and release the full potential of his gun right into their hearts like this island has done to his. This was his moment - his glory. If he could pull this off there'd be no stopping him; no-one would get in his way. If those sick fucks wanted a show, then he'd give them one, oh yes. After all, he was Cristo Ruiz, and no-one would ever outperform him.
----
Otis grew weary. They'd finally reached the cliffs, meaning they could rest at last. Groaning as he pulled the bag from his shoulders, he gave a short grunt and off it went, flying into the sand. God-damn, did that feel good. He'd been carrying that thing all day long, and he was sick of it. Now he could sit back, relax, and sleep tight knowing he had someone to keep him company. Of course, it would've been much better if they had at least, oh, say, a bed, but hey, he wasn't picky. Especially when he was this god-damn tired.
Yawning loudly, he shuddered at the rush of the wind; it was getting much colder now, it must've been way past midnight, right? Shit, who even knew. Otis didn't, that was for sure. Not that it mattered. Sam looked just as beat as he did, but in a way he kinda resented that. What the hell had she been through today? She sure as hell didn't have a fucking gun pointed at her face - twice. Ugh, he knew he wasn't mad at her though. All he needed was a little shut-eye and he'd be good to go. They'd get up in the morning, maybe take off his tank top to show his new lady the goods, then find a proper place to hole up in while everyone else went crazy.
Heh, that didn't seem all that bad really. Yeah, so, he was in the worst situation of his entire life, but hey, he had a hot girl with him now, who probably had some kick-ass power of her own, and he had a feeling nobody was even gonna try and fuck with them. Not even Cristo fucking-
A gunshot permeated the air without warning; the sand near his feet springing high up in the air.
"Shit!"
Sam screamed too, the two of them back on their feet as their flashlights scrambled to find the shooter.
"Sam, you okay?!"
"Y-yeah! I'm fine! I'm fine!"
Their eyes darted around the area - who the fuck was that?! Someone had fucking shot at them, and they were standing out in the open like a couple of tools! Otis ran to his bag, but before he could reach it he was stopped by another gunshot. Inches, this time, away from his face. He turned, firing light into the distance as they clung together in a panic. Suddenly, their lights made contact upon something dark and manic, something that caused Samantha to squeeze Otis' arm a little tighter.
The wide-eyed smile of Cristo fucking Ruiz staring them right in the face.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hallucinogenic. 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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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3450
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
They'd reached the cliffs. Good. About time, too. Now they could... well, maybe sleep, maybe just settle down. They'd have to stay alert, stay ready, be prepared for a sudden ambush, but there were worse options. Like sticking around in the open. That'd be a pretty good way to get killed. Anyways, the cliffs were better, in many ways, than man-made shelter. The houses, the shack, those were places that people would make for. It was basic instinct. Comfort in the familiar. It had gotten Samantha earlier. Otis too. And that boy, the one with the melted face.
Otis yawned. Samantha tried to force herself to stifle her own urger to follow suit, failed. Stretched a little, too, flexing her toes. Damn sandy socks. She was about to say something, ask who should take first watch or some basic stuff like that, because no way in hell was she letting them rest unguarded, not with killers out there, when all of a sudden her worries went flying away, replaced by the more pressing concern of survival. Because someone was shooting at them. Someone had decided it was time to get into things, score a couple easy kills. They'd been too open. Too obvious. Now they would pay.
Samantha dived to the side, scrambled, came up on her feet, ducked close to Otis again. She'd screamed. Instinct. Bad instinct. The sort of thing that would get her killed. The sort of weakness she could not allow herself. She'd have been dead right now, if the attacker had aimed better.
Wait. That wasn't true. The shot had gone wide, not of Samantha, but of Otis. She was not the primary target. She was presumed to be the lesser threat.
She flicked her flashlight around, searching. Trying to calculate vectors in her head, to figure where the shot had originated from. Failing. Otis asked if she was alright. Like fuck she was alright. Someone was shooting at her. It was the sort of stupid question Pippi would have asked. But, since this was Otis, since this was a person she could feel almost comfortable with if he wasn't looking at her the wrong way, she bit down the bilious response that immediately came to mind, and instead forced out, "Y-yeah! I'm fine! I'm fine!"
Lovely. Stuttering and repetition. She was becoming a nervous wreck. Losing what little composure she had. That was bad. That would get them killed, as soon as their attacker figured it out. Especially since Otis didn't have a gun. Oh no. That meant it was all on her, wasn't it? She was their fighter, their hope of salvation. She, who had nearly killed herself test-firing her pistol, who had never so much as played one of those shooter games the freshmen boys always talked about.
She was clinging to Otis now, and oh, how she hated herself for it. Here she was, falling into the role of protected, failing, letting stress consume her, letting go of her very life because saving it might, lord forbid, take some effort. Another shot whizzed by, close again, so close to Otis, and she squeezed his arm and closed her eyes and prepared for the end because they were going to die and...
And she didn't know why, but she tweaked her face again, just a little. A slight grinding of cartilage in her ears. A flash of pain. A tiny little taste of what awaited her when that bullet came smashing into her body. And she realized she wasn't quite ready to go, wasn't quite ready to give in and take the easy way out.
Fuck dying.
And so, Samantha used her free hand to tug the gun out of her skirt and level it directly at the shooter, in plain view now, right in front of them. A boy whose ethnicity she couldn't quite place. His gun pointed at Otis. Her gun pointed at him. Stalemate. Standoff.
She was breathing heavily. Almost hyperventilating. She barely managed to push the words out, but they came.
"Should've been a bit quicker on the draw there, jackass."
Otis yawned. Samantha tried to force herself to stifle her own urger to follow suit, failed. Stretched a little, too, flexing her toes. Damn sandy socks. She was about to say something, ask who should take first watch or some basic stuff like that, because no way in hell was she letting them rest unguarded, not with killers out there, when all of a sudden her worries went flying away, replaced by the more pressing concern of survival. Because someone was shooting at them. Someone had decided it was time to get into things, score a couple easy kills. They'd been too open. Too obvious. Now they would pay.
Samantha dived to the side, scrambled, came up on her feet, ducked close to Otis again. She'd screamed. Instinct. Bad instinct. The sort of thing that would get her killed. The sort of weakness she could not allow herself. She'd have been dead right now, if the attacker had aimed better.
Wait. That wasn't true. The shot had gone wide, not of Samantha, but of Otis. She was not the primary target. She was presumed to be the lesser threat.
She flicked her flashlight around, searching. Trying to calculate vectors in her head, to figure where the shot had originated from. Failing. Otis asked if she was alright. Like fuck she was alright. Someone was shooting at her. It was the sort of stupid question Pippi would have asked. But, since this was Otis, since this was a person she could feel almost comfortable with if he wasn't looking at her the wrong way, she bit down the bilious response that immediately came to mind, and instead forced out, "Y-yeah! I'm fine! I'm fine!"
Lovely. Stuttering and repetition. She was becoming a nervous wreck. Losing what little composure she had. That was bad. That would get them killed, as soon as their attacker figured it out. Especially since Otis didn't have a gun. Oh no. That meant it was all on her, wasn't it? She was their fighter, their hope of salvation. She, who had nearly killed herself test-firing her pistol, who had never so much as played one of those shooter games the freshmen boys always talked about.
She was clinging to Otis now, and oh, how she hated herself for it. Here she was, falling into the role of protected, failing, letting stress consume her, letting go of her very life because saving it might, lord forbid, take some effort. Another shot whizzed by, close again, so close to Otis, and she squeezed his arm and closed her eyes and prepared for the end because they were going to die and...
And she didn't know why, but she tweaked her face again, just a little. A slight grinding of cartilage in her ears. A flash of pain. A tiny little taste of what awaited her when that bullet came smashing into her body. And she realized she wasn't quite ready to go, wasn't quite ready to give in and take the easy way out.
Fuck dying.
And so, Samantha used her free hand to tug the gun out of her skirt and level it directly at the shooter, in plain view now, right in front of them. A boy whose ethnicity she couldn't quite place. His gun pointed at Otis. Her gun pointed at him. Stalemate. Standoff.
She was breathing heavily. Almost hyperventilating. She barely managed to push the words out, but they came.
"Should've been a bit quicker on the draw there, jackass."
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Hallucinogenic*
- Posts: 69
- Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 12:02 am
Cristo smiled.
To himself, within his head, a smile opened - lips cracking as they peeled away from the dry, brittle teeth that grew sharper with every word the bitch threw.
Upon his face, lit up, blinded, by the flashlights, he revealed not a trace, and instead displayed the foulest look of disgust as the girl vainly stood her ground. Did she think he'd go down that easy? One flash of the gun and he'd piss himself in absolute terror? Please. This one had the air of virgin about her, in every sense of the word. A single look at the way her hair fell about aimlessly, her bookish glasses, the fact that she wasn't bracing herself for the recoil. These were things he knew expertly, and he knew just how to deal with a pest like her. And as for Otis? He glanced to her left. Well, it didn't look like he even had a weapon. Easy win, he thought. A little too easy compared to their first encounter, but whatever. They at least had better odds.
Still, he had to make it known that he wasn't gonna simply stay and take their shit. Raising his own weapon slightly, he stopped at the first twitch of the blonde's trigger finger. He couldn't afford getting killed just yet, not when he had so much left to do. So he raised it a little higher. She twitched again, aiming it a little more towards his heart. Credit was due for knowing her anatomy though; he imagined her friend wouldn't even know how to spell the word, let alone locate it. Again, his weapon rose, but met with hostility this time as her temper wore thin and she commanded him to stop. But he wouldn't stop, not ever. Not at the beck and call of his mother, not because the terrorists told him to, and certainly not by obeying this cow.
Finally, his weapon met her own, and the two of them stood just meters apart. Their guns rivalled one another, glinting in the moonlight like the grin of the devil, coaxing the two into ending the show in a parade of a blood ribbons and bone confetti. Would there be applause at the end? Would they get to take their bows? Maybe. If anyone deserved a standing ovation, it was the magnificent Cristo Ruiz, not these two bit-players.
Knowing his plan could fall apart at the slightest mishap, he hurried himself along, setting the act into motion with a gentle roll of his tongue.
"Alright, I can tell this has gotten waaaay out of hand."
He sighed, a little disappointed.
"So how about me and you make a deal?"
He shot her a quick flash of his teeth - the whitest smile.
"I'll put down my gun, you put down yours, then me and Zulu fight it out like real men. Hand-to-hand, man-to-man, all that... shit."
Otis growled under his breath. Did he just call him fucking Zulu? Oh, that was fucking it. He'd drugged him, shot at him and his new lady-friend, and now he was slinging that bullshit around? Fuck no. Fuck. No.
"Do what he says, man."
A bewildered look from Samantha.
"I'm gonna tear this fucker down."
To himself, within his head, a smile opened - lips cracking as they peeled away from the dry, brittle teeth that grew sharper with every word the bitch threw.
Upon his face, lit up, blinded, by the flashlights, he revealed not a trace, and instead displayed the foulest look of disgust as the girl vainly stood her ground. Did she think he'd go down that easy? One flash of the gun and he'd piss himself in absolute terror? Please. This one had the air of virgin about her, in every sense of the word. A single look at the way her hair fell about aimlessly, her bookish glasses, the fact that she wasn't bracing herself for the recoil. These were things he knew expertly, and he knew just how to deal with a pest like her. And as for Otis? He glanced to her left. Well, it didn't look like he even had a weapon. Easy win, he thought. A little too easy compared to their first encounter, but whatever. They at least had better odds.
Still, he had to make it known that he wasn't gonna simply stay and take their shit. Raising his own weapon slightly, he stopped at the first twitch of the blonde's trigger finger. He couldn't afford getting killed just yet, not when he had so much left to do. So he raised it a little higher. She twitched again, aiming it a little more towards his heart. Credit was due for knowing her anatomy though; he imagined her friend wouldn't even know how to spell the word, let alone locate it. Again, his weapon rose, but met with hostility this time as her temper wore thin and she commanded him to stop. But he wouldn't stop, not ever. Not at the beck and call of his mother, not because the terrorists told him to, and certainly not by obeying this cow.
Finally, his weapon met her own, and the two of them stood just meters apart. Their guns rivalled one another, glinting in the moonlight like the grin of the devil, coaxing the two into ending the show in a parade of a blood ribbons and bone confetti. Would there be applause at the end? Would they get to take their bows? Maybe. If anyone deserved a standing ovation, it was the magnificent Cristo Ruiz, not these two bit-players.
Knowing his plan could fall apart at the slightest mishap, he hurried himself along, setting the act into motion with a gentle roll of his tongue.
"Alright, I can tell this has gotten waaaay out of hand."
He sighed, a little disappointed.
"So how about me and you make a deal?"
He shot her a quick flash of his teeth - the whitest smile.
"I'll put down my gun, you put down yours, then me and Zulu fight it out like real men. Hand-to-hand, man-to-man, all that... shit."
Otis growled under his breath. Did he just call him fucking Zulu? Oh, that was fucking it. He'd drugged him, shot at him and his new lady-friend, and now he was slinging that bullshit around? Fuck no. Fuck. No.
"Do what he says, man."
A bewildered look from Samantha.
"I'm gonna tear this fucker down."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hallucinogenic. 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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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3450
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
He was fucking with her, trying to fake her out. Moving his gun into position on her. Thing was, that was exactly what she needed. A few moments to calm the fuck down, regulate her breathing, stabilize. This could be the last few seconds of her life. That was the sort of thing that had to be faced with dignity, not terror. She would ignore the sweat running down her palms. Ignore her elevating heartbeat. Just keep the gun trained where it'd be damn sure to take this asshole down. Because he wouldn't push it. The only reason to kill, to shoot, was to survive. That goal precluded getting shot in the heart.
But he kept twitching that gun, closer, closer to her. It was making her worried. Maybe he was insane. Maybe...
"Knock it off," she said.
And he cut the games, pointing it straight at her. The barrels of their weapons were mirrored. If they fired now, would the bullets impact each other, fall from the air? It was statistically improbable. She shouldn't be getting distracted now. Shouldn't be letting her attention wander. This was her life on the line. Otis' life too. It was all on her, and she hated it. Couldn't stand the pressure.
So, when this boy proposed a deal, she wanted to jump on it. Wanted to throw her gun down, breath a sigh of relief, and let Otis bail her out. But that was stupid. She was being weak. Helpless. Letting herself be taken care of. It wasn't fair. She had to refuse. Had to back him off, prevent any fight from occurring. She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear her hair, grind her teeth, anything to release the pressure that was once again building inside of her.
But she couldn't. If she slackened even a bit, it would be the end. This guy would shoot her, then Otis. Her breathing was speeding up even more. She felt lightheaded. Fuck. They were doomed. This was it.
Otis told her to do it. To agree. She glanced at him, confused, realized her mistake and snapped her head back. Her finger twitched on the trigger, nearly ended both of their lives. Why was Otis doing this? Because the guy had insulted him? No. No, Otis was smarter than that. Better than that. There were two options. Either he thought he could win, or... or he was protecting her. He cared. He cared for someone he'd just met. No. No no no. No way. Not happening. It was machismo, that was all. Show off for the girl to get good with her. Right. Had to be. No one could care at a time like this, with only one possible survivor.
He could win. That was it. Had to be.
"Fine. At the same time."
It was the easy way out. The safe way. But it was the best way, for her. Because, no matter what happened, it meant Samantha had a better shot at living. If Otis won, she was safe. And if he... if he lost, she'd have a running start. And she'd get her gun, get clear, and then haunt this fucker to the ends of the earth.
She was calming down. The pressure was off. Thank goodness.
So why did she feel like she was making an enormous mistake?
But he kept twitching that gun, closer, closer to her. It was making her worried. Maybe he was insane. Maybe...
"Knock it off," she said.
And he cut the games, pointing it straight at her. The barrels of their weapons were mirrored. If they fired now, would the bullets impact each other, fall from the air? It was statistically improbable. She shouldn't be getting distracted now. Shouldn't be letting her attention wander. This was her life on the line. Otis' life too. It was all on her, and she hated it. Couldn't stand the pressure.
So, when this boy proposed a deal, she wanted to jump on it. Wanted to throw her gun down, breath a sigh of relief, and let Otis bail her out. But that was stupid. She was being weak. Helpless. Letting herself be taken care of. It wasn't fair. She had to refuse. Had to back him off, prevent any fight from occurring. She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear her hair, grind her teeth, anything to release the pressure that was once again building inside of her.
But she couldn't. If she slackened even a bit, it would be the end. This guy would shoot her, then Otis. Her breathing was speeding up even more. She felt lightheaded. Fuck. They were doomed. This was it.
Otis told her to do it. To agree. She glanced at him, confused, realized her mistake and snapped her head back. Her finger twitched on the trigger, nearly ended both of their lives. Why was Otis doing this? Because the guy had insulted him? No. No, Otis was smarter than that. Better than that. There were two options. Either he thought he could win, or... or he was protecting her. He cared. He cared for someone he'd just met. No. No no no. No way. Not happening. It was machismo, that was all. Show off for the girl to get good with her. Right. Had to be. No one could care at a time like this, with only one possible survivor.
He could win. That was it. Had to be.
"Fine. At the same time."
It was the easy way out. The safe way. But it was the best way, for her. Because, no matter what happened, it meant Samantha had a better shot at living. If Otis won, she was safe. And if he... if he lost, she'd have a running start. And she'd get her gun, get clear, and then haunt this fucker to the ends of the earth.
She was calming down. The pressure was off. Thank goodness.
So why did she feel like she was making an enormous mistake?
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Hallucinogenic*
- Posts: 69
- Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 12:02 am
Sam put down her gun.
They kept their eyes on Cristo as he did the same, mimicking her every move with frightening precision until the two of them were unarmed and their weapons lay out on the sand in front of them. One after the other, they all let out a sigh, exhaling all their tension while Otis prepared himself for the fight. The Latino took a few steps back, readying himself, then smiled.
"Come on then, show me what you've got you ugly fuck!"
Otis charged.
His mind blanked as he ran forward, sending the beach flying up in the wake of his attack. This was it. All the cards were on the table now, their lives now firmly in his own hands. If - no, when he won, he'd make sure to finish the guy off for good. He'd make sure that the fucker didn't kill anybody else, and he'd do it as painfully as possible. He didn't deserve mercy for everything he'd done, and as he launched himself across the stretch of land between them, he knew he wouldn't be capable of giving it even if he'd wanted to.
No, he'd give Cristo the beat-down he'd been waiting his whole life for, and it'd be fucking brutal. Smash in his ribs with his fists, kick in his guts until he spilled them out onto the ground, and then he'd finish with the real coup de grace - his oh so precious face. Oh yeah, he'd enjoy pulling that smug fucking grin off his face. Maybe he'd keep his teeth as a trophy and a symbol of his victory over the king of faggots. And then, once all was said and done, he'd take Sam away from this place - this hell - and he'd show her what a life she could have if she spent even just a second of it back home in the magical world of Miami.
But then, as he ran, he noticed something odd about the scene.
Cristo wasn't scared.
Why was he so calm when a huge guy like Otis was running towards him, veins pumped full of adrenaline and eyes that showed no fear?
And then he knew.
Because his eyes were exactly the same.
He tried to stop, tried to turn back the other way, to warn Samantha, but it was too late - the bullet found it's target, and Otis collapsed to the floor in a bloody heap.
Cristo couldn't believe it.
It had been so easy. He knew that Otis was as thick as shit, but he didn't expect him to fall for that so badly. The gun still smoked in his hand, the gun that he'd stolen from the guy he killed back at the settlement. His eyes widened at the thought. The image of that bullet-riddled corpses, leaking blood everywhere. How could someone have so much blood? Eyes glanced back to Otis' body, his blood sinking into the sand like the island was trying to take it all back. He didn't have nearly as much as the other guy. No, that was because he'd only shot him once. He hadn't gone overboard this time. He'd stayed in control. He was becoming a natural at this - a natural killer.
A grin.
Then he focused his attentions on the girl, now running towards them both. Was she... upset? Why? they weren't friends, they didn't know each other, so why the fuck was she so upset?! It made him angry. How could someone like him have friends here, but not Cristo? Surely he should've befriended the entire fucking colony by now, so what was going on? Iris had fallen so easily for his charms, as falsified as they were, and although that bitch Holly didn't seem to like him, he was sure she would've come around, given a little more time.
But no.
This cow was crying over Otis.
He took a step forward, gun raised.
"Hey! You dare take one more fucking step and I'll drop you faster than your lover boy there!"
That stopped her.
She couldn't do anything now - poor, helpless little cow, unarmed with no way out. He'd get his third kill of the day, and on the next he'd hear his name across the sky, like it always should've been.
"Cristo Ruiz, the champion! The true winner of the world!"
The jackal laughed inside him. It liked the sound of that. They'd kill every person here and walk away as winners. Yeah... that sounded so perfect, so right.
He tightened his grip on the gun, squeezing the trigger until it was just about ready to burst.
"You know,"
A sideways glance as he inspected her face.
"If you didn't insist on making yourself so fugly, you would've made a great victory lay."
He lined up his aim.
"Say hi to Otis - the fuck?!"
Something grabbed his ankle as he spoke, sending him into a blind panic. What the fuck was - NO. No fucking way.
A large, brown hand gripped itself around his leg, making it go numb. The fuck was going on?! Wasn't he supposed to be dead?! How was he still -
And then he froze. The gun slipped from his hand and made a short thump as it fell. The two of them were stuck, suspended in time almost, were it not for their beating hearts which now punched out against their chests. They beat faster and faster, trying their best to beak free of their skeletal cages because they knew they didn't have much time left to escape.
Samantha looked on, confused and scared, not knowing whether she should intervene or not as the blood persisted on pouring from her partner's open lung. She didn't know what was happening, and as Cristo slumped to his knees, still joined by skin to Otis, she realized neither did they.
In his mind, Otis could see every second of Cristo's life flashing back and forth between different events and memories of the better times he had growing up, before he became a model. The city, his parents, smiling. Before they moved he had seen a real childhood, a real life a kid could be happy to look back on with no regrets because at that age, who should have them? Then it all changed. They moved away, he joined a new school. He liked it there, he was popular, becoming the kind of person he thought his mother wanted him to be. And yet, they still weren't satisfied. They took him out, forced him to stay at home and study. He wasn't to interact with the riff-raff, the junkies and the failures, oh no. He was to study and work on his modelling - his parents always said he had that "Ruiz charm", and boy did he believe it.
But where had it gotten him? What had it all been for? Now he sat on a beach in the middle of the night, on the horizon of nowhere, his very memories being sucked away by someone his mother had tried so hard to keep him separate from. The very same person he'd considered to be above in every way had somehow managed to turn the tide, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His whole life, every single moment, every tear, every laugh, every flash of every camera, every disappointed look his parents sent his way - all gone, fading away into the black along with every other part of his brain. Every synapse, every impulse, fading, dissolving... but it didn't hurt.
The first moment of true peace he'd ever known would wind up being his last, and yet, he looked happy.
Content.
There was nothing left of him now but a warm, gentle smile.
The jackal gave the world a quiet nod, then slipped back into the shadows.
C17: Cristo Ruiz - Eliminated
They kept their eyes on Cristo as he did the same, mimicking her every move with frightening precision until the two of them were unarmed and their weapons lay out on the sand in front of them. One after the other, they all let out a sigh, exhaling all their tension while Otis prepared himself for the fight. The Latino took a few steps back, readying himself, then smiled.
"Come on then, show me what you've got you ugly fuck!"
Otis charged.
His mind blanked as he ran forward, sending the beach flying up in the wake of his attack. This was it. All the cards were on the table now, their lives now firmly in his own hands. If - no, when he won, he'd make sure to finish the guy off for good. He'd make sure that the fucker didn't kill anybody else, and he'd do it as painfully as possible. He didn't deserve mercy for everything he'd done, and as he launched himself across the stretch of land between them, he knew he wouldn't be capable of giving it even if he'd wanted to.
No, he'd give Cristo the beat-down he'd been waiting his whole life for, and it'd be fucking brutal. Smash in his ribs with his fists, kick in his guts until he spilled them out onto the ground, and then he'd finish with the real coup de grace - his oh so precious face. Oh yeah, he'd enjoy pulling that smug fucking grin off his face. Maybe he'd keep his teeth as a trophy and a symbol of his victory over the king of faggots. And then, once all was said and done, he'd take Sam away from this place - this hell - and he'd show her what a life she could have if she spent even just a second of it back home in the magical world of Miami.
But then, as he ran, he noticed something odd about the scene.
Cristo wasn't scared.
Why was he so calm when a huge guy like Otis was running towards him, veins pumped full of adrenaline and eyes that showed no fear?
And then he knew.
Because his eyes were exactly the same.
He tried to stop, tried to turn back the other way, to warn Samantha, but it was too late - the bullet found it's target, and Otis collapsed to the floor in a bloody heap.
Cristo couldn't believe it.
It had been so easy. He knew that Otis was as thick as shit, but he didn't expect him to fall for that so badly. The gun still smoked in his hand, the gun that he'd stolen from the guy he killed back at the settlement. His eyes widened at the thought. The image of that bullet-riddled corpses, leaking blood everywhere. How could someone have so much blood? Eyes glanced back to Otis' body, his blood sinking into the sand like the island was trying to take it all back. He didn't have nearly as much as the other guy. No, that was because he'd only shot him once. He hadn't gone overboard this time. He'd stayed in control. He was becoming a natural at this - a natural killer.
A grin.
Then he focused his attentions on the girl, now running towards them both. Was she... upset? Why? they weren't friends, they didn't know each other, so why the fuck was she so upset?! It made him angry. How could someone like him have friends here, but not Cristo? Surely he should've befriended the entire fucking colony by now, so what was going on? Iris had fallen so easily for his charms, as falsified as they were, and although that bitch Holly didn't seem to like him, he was sure she would've come around, given a little more time.
But no.
This cow was crying over Otis.
He took a step forward, gun raised.
"Hey! You dare take one more fucking step and I'll drop you faster than your lover boy there!"
That stopped her.
She couldn't do anything now - poor, helpless little cow, unarmed with no way out. He'd get his third kill of the day, and on the next he'd hear his name across the sky, like it always should've been.
"Cristo Ruiz, the champion! The true winner of the world!"
The jackal laughed inside him. It liked the sound of that. They'd kill every person here and walk away as winners. Yeah... that sounded so perfect, so right.
He tightened his grip on the gun, squeezing the trigger until it was just about ready to burst.
"You know,"
A sideways glance as he inspected her face.
"If you didn't insist on making yourself so fugly, you would've made a great victory lay."
He lined up his aim.
"Say hi to Otis - the fuck?!"
Something grabbed his ankle as he spoke, sending him into a blind panic. What the fuck was - NO. No fucking way.
A large, brown hand gripped itself around his leg, making it go numb. The fuck was going on?! Wasn't he supposed to be dead?! How was he still -
And then he froze. The gun slipped from his hand and made a short thump as it fell. The two of them were stuck, suspended in time almost, were it not for their beating hearts which now punched out against their chests. They beat faster and faster, trying their best to beak free of their skeletal cages because they knew they didn't have much time left to escape.
Samantha looked on, confused and scared, not knowing whether she should intervene or not as the blood persisted on pouring from her partner's open lung. She didn't know what was happening, and as Cristo slumped to his knees, still joined by skin to Otis, she realized neither did they.
In his mind, Otis could see every second of Cristo's life flashing back and forth between different events and memories of the better times he had growing up, before he became a model. The city, his parents, smiling. Before they moved he had seen a real childhood, a real life a kid could be happy to look back on with no regrets because at that age, who should have them? Then it all changed. They moved away, he joined a new school. He liked it there, he was popular, becoming the kind of person he thought his mother wanted him to be. And yet, they still weren't satisfied. They took him out, forced him to stay at home and study. He wasn't to interact with the riff-raff, the junkies and the failures, oh no. He was to study and work on his modelling - his parents always said he had that "Ruiz charm", and boy did he believe it.
But where had it gotten him? What had it all been for? Now he sat on a beach in the middle of the night, on the horizon of nowhere, his very memories being sucked away by someone his mother had tried so hard to keep him separate from. The very same person he'd considered to be above in every way had somehow managed to turn the tide, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His whole life, every single moment, every tear, every laugh, every flash of every camera, every disappointed look his parents sent his way - all gone, fading away into the black along with every other part of his brain. Every synapse, every impulse, fading, dissolving... but it didn't hurt.
The first moment of true peace he'd ever known would wind up being his last, and yet, he looked happy.
Content.
There was nothing left of him now but a warm, gentle smile.
The jackal gave the world a quiet nod, then slipped back into the shadows.
C17: Cristo Ruiz - Eliminated
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hallucinogenic. 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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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3450
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
There. The guns were down. It was all going to be okay. The two boys took a second to prepare themselves. The attacker stepped back a bit. Wait, why was he stepping back? That meant a trick. Some trip in the terrain or something she couldn't see. She was about to warn Otis, to tell him to hold off, and then it was too late.
Otis charged down the beach at his opponent, seemingly full of confidence. It would be okay. It would all be okay. Only it wouldn't. On some level, she knew this. Had known this the whole time. No matter what happened here, she or Otis would die in the end. Probably both of them. No, this was just a stalling measure. More than that, it was a bad one. The smaller guy must have had a plan. Maybe his power was acidic palms or something of the sort.
Or maybe he just had an extra gun.
Samantha watched him pull it out from behind his back, watched him level it, wielding it with more confidence and precision than she could ever have had, watched him stand, seemingly unfazed, as Otis barreled down on him, watched him pull the trigger, watched the blood spurt from Otis' chest.
Then she was running. She was running and crying, because she knew Otis was dead, and she knew she was going to die too, and she knew that, in the end, she just wanted to hang on to something that would bring her a little comfort before the end. She could have run away, but that wouldn't have helped against a gun. She could have pulled her knife and attacked, but she wouldn't have been quick enough. So she was just going to go to Otis, hold him, and wait for the end. The tears were running down her cheeks. Tears for Otis, for herself. For everything she could have done. Everything she'd always been afraid of. What the fuck had she been thinking, spending her life focused on school, on college, pushing aside friends and putting on ice any hint of romantic feelings? Was she that afraid of pain, of screwing up? She had screwed up. She was feeling pain, and soon there would be more.
And then, the guy with the gun told her to stop.
She wanted to ignore him. To keep moving. To go hold Otis, or to die halfway. Only, more than that, she wanted to cling to these last few seconds. She wanted to prolong her existence as much as she could, would have traded anything in the world for another thirty seconds.
He had his pistol gripped, looking at her. Aiming at her. He was going to shoot her, to kill her right here. This was going to be the end. Oddly, she didn't find the thought of a quick death very reassuring. No, far better to take a hit in the gut, to get a wound that lingered a little. Better to embrace death as a release, after having some time to come to terms with it. Better to have those extra few minutes or hours.
Then, to top it all off, he insulted her. Called her ugly, made indecent comments. This was it. The end of it all. Samantha was still crying. Dammit. Why couldn't she at least face death with some dignity or courage? Why couldn't she even hold it together enough for her last moment of existence to be a good one?
The boy started to tell her something about Otis, when, all of a sudden, he swore. He didn't blow Samantha's brains out. His aim wavered. Samantha looked around, seeking the source of her momentary reprieve.
It was Otis. Somehow, he'd managed to grab the other boy's ankle, and was holding him. He was bleeding everywhere, but alive. Somehow, still alive. And something was happening. It had to be, because the attacker wasn't shooting, wasn't killing Samantha. They looked confused, the both of them. Then, the boy's eyes rolled back, and he slumped to his knees. From there, he pitched forward into the sand. She noticed that he was smiling, not the menacing smile of before, but something calm. Peaceful, almost.
The fuck?
But it didn't matter. He was out at the very least, unconscious or something. She could run. She couldn't. Not with Otis hurt. Not with him dying, and he was dying; Samantha was no biologist, but she could tell that much. He wasn't going to make it out of here. So she ran to him, fell to her knees, still crying, crying for the boy she hardly knew, someone who, nonetheless, she considered a friend. Someone who had gambled with his life to protect her, and seemed to have managed, of all things, a draw.
She reached out her hand to him, unsure of whether or not she should touch him, unsure if she would cause him more pain.
"Are you... Oh my god, Otis."
What could she say? What could she do? No first aid kit could fix that damage. So she watched, watched Otis bleeding to death. Wondering what things could have been like if she hadn't lost her nerve, hadn't let him make that stupid decision. They could have both backed up, until they were out of range. They could have fled into the night, regrouped, fought another day. Let someone else take care of this psycho. They could be sitting somewhere, talking, getting to really know each other. Fuck, she didn't know anything about him, didn't know what foods he liked to eat, what music he listened to, what his favorite pastimes were. And now, now she never would.
She didn't try to fool herself. There was nothing she could do except keep Otis as comfortable as possible. That, and keep the other guy away. She glanced at him. He wasn't moving. Wasn't breathing. Had Otis had some sort of death touch? Was that why he had no gun, why he'd been so confident?
Later. Time to worry about that later. Because now, Otis was dying.
Otis charged down the beach at his opponent, seemingly full of confidence. It would be okay. It would all be okay. Only it wouldn't. On some level, she knew this. Had known this the whole time. No matter what happened here, she or Otis would die in the end. Probably both of them. No, this was just a stalling measure. More than that, it was a bad one. The smaller guy must have had a plan. Maybe his power was acidic palms or something of the sort.
Or maybe he just had an extra gun.
Samantha watched him pull it out from behind his back, watched him level it, wielding it with more confidence and precision than she could ever have had, watched him stand, seemingly unfazed, as Otis barreled down on him, watched him pull the trigger, watched the blood spurt from Otis' chest.
Then she was running. She was running and crying, because she knew Otis was dead, and she knew she was going to die too, and she knew that, in the end, she just wanted to hang on to something that would bring her a little comfort before the end. She could have run away, but that wouldn't have helped against a gun. She could have pulled her knife and attacked, but she wouldn't have been quick enough. So she was just going to go to Otis, hold him, and wait for the end. The tears were running down her cheeks. Tears for Otis, for herself. For everything she could have done. Everything she'd always been afraid of. What the fuck had she been thinking, spending her life focused on school, on college, pushing aside friends and putting on ice any hint of romantic feelings? Was she that afraid of pain, of screwing up? She had screwed up. She was feeling pain, and soon there would be more.
And then, the guy with the gun told her to stop.
She wanted to ignore him. To keep moving. To go hold Otis, or to die halfway. Only, more than that, she wanted to cling to these last few seconds. She wanted to prolong her existence as much as she could, would have traded anything in the world for another thirty seconds.
He had his pistol gripped, looking at her. Aiming at her. He was going to shoot her, to kill her right here. This was going to be the end. Oddly, she didn't find the thought of a quick death very reassuring. No, far better to take a hit in the gut, to get a wound that lingered a little. Better to embrace death as a release, after having some time to come to terms with it. Better to have those extra few minutes or hours.
Then, to top it all off, he insulted her. Called her ugly, made indecent comments. This was it. The end of it all. Samantha was still crying. Dammit. Why couldn't she at least face death with some dignity or courage? Why couldn't she even hold it together enough for her last moment of existence to be a good one?
The boy started to tell her something about Otis, when, all of a sudden, he swore. He didn't blow Samantha's brains out. His aim wavered. Samantha looked around, seeking the source of her momentary reprieve.
It was Otis. Somehow, he'd managed to grab the other boy's ankle, and was holding him. He was bleeding everywhere, but alive. Somehow, still alive. And something was happening. It had to be, because the attacker wasn't shooting, wasn't killing Samantha. They looked confused, the both of them. Then, the boy's eyes rolled back, and he slumped to his knees. From there, he pitched forward into the sand. She noticed that he was smiling, not the menacing smile of before, but something calm. Peaceful, almost.
The fuck?
But it didn't matter. He was out at the very least, unconscious or something. She could run. She couldn't. Not with Otis hurt. Not with him dying, and he was dying; Samantha was no biologist, but she could tell that much. He wasn't going to make it out of here. So she ran to him, fell to her knees, still crying, crying for the boy she hardly knew, someone who, nonetheless, she considered a friend. Someone who had gambled with his life to protect her, and seemed to have managed, of all things, a draw.
She reached out her hand to him, unsure of whether or not she should touch him, unsure if she would cause him more pain.
"Are you... Oh my god, Otis."
What could she say? What could she do? No first aid kit could fix that damage. So she watched, watched Otis bleeding to death. Wondering what things could have been like if she hadn't lost her nerve, hadn't let him make that stupid decision. They could have both backed up, until they were out of range. They could have fled into the night, regrouped, fought another day. Let someone else take care of this psycho. They could be sitting somewhere, talking, getting to really know each other. Fuck, she didn't know anything about him, didn't know what foods he liked to eat, what music he listened to, what his favorite pastimes were. And now, now she never would.
She didn't try to fool herself. There was nothing she could do except keep Otis as comfortable as possible. That, and keep the other guy away. She glanced at him. He wasn't moving. Wasn't breathing. Had Otis had some sort of death touch? Was that why he had no gun, why he'd been so confident?
Later. Time to worry about that later. Because now, Otis was dying.
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Hallucinogenic*
- Posts: 69
- Joined: Wed Aug 22, 2018 12:02 am
So much pain.
That was all he could feel now, as he lay bleeding to death.
His breathing had become erratic - he'd take in one short breath, then take two large gasps, then another, then a short one again. His body was failing him, after all the years he'd spent getting into perfect shape, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Hearing Sam, he did what he could to flip himself over.
He wasn't going without a fight, but he had a feeling this was one he was going to lose. In that case, he wanted to spend his last moments looking at the girl he'd given his life to protect. Finally, he'd done something he could truly be proud of. Something, he guessed, if she could've seen it, his mother would be proud of too.
He smiled, weakly.
Another gasp.
Every part of him felt heavy now, his head swimming as he tried his best to focus on her face.
He wanted to say something to her, tell her everything would be okay now, and that she'd have to be fearless if she wanted to live. He wanted to tell her how hot she was, make her feel good about herself before he went. Anything really.
But as he fought back the blur in his vision, all he could muster was a gurgle as blood seeped out of his mouth.
This was it.
The darkness.
Different to the one Cristo had seen, but somehow similar.
Like he was burning.
Like someone was pulling him under.
Looking back, he wondered if there was a better way to have done this.
He felt stupid.
Here he was, leaking out onto the island, leaving Samantha completely alone.
Would she cope without him?
He wondered.
Then grinned.
Of course she would.
He hadn't know for very long, but there was one thing he knew about her.
Otis liked her.
And that was all he needed.
His eyelids slowly closed, as he took one last look at the beautiful girl.
"M...ma-...make sure... y-you..."
A loud cough, his lungs throwing out the last of his air.
"Live, Sam. Just... live."
One last breath.
One last look at the stars.
Otis had done a lot of things in his life.
He'd fucked up a lot, and he often acted like a dick.
But in the end...
He had no regrets.
C04: Otis Adelaide - Eliminated
That was all he could feel now, as he lay bleeding to death.
His breathing had become erratic - he'd take in one short breath, then take two large gasps, then another, then a short one again. His body was failing him, after all the years he'd spent getting into perfect shape, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Hearing Sam, he did what he could to flip himself over.
He wasn't going without a fight, but he had a feeling this was one he was going to lose. In that case, he wanted to spend his last moments looking at the girl he'd given his life to protect. Finally, he'd done something he could truly be proud of. Something, he guessed, if she could've seen it, his mother would be proud of too.
He smiled, weakly.
Another gasp.
Every part of him felt heavy now, his head swimming as he tried his best to focus on her face.
He wanted to say something to her, tell her everything would be okay now, and that she'd have to be fearless if she wanted to live. He wanted to tell her how hot she was, make her feel good about herself before he went. Anything really.
But as he fought back the blur in his vision, all he could muster was a gurgle as blood seeped out of his mouth.
This was it.
The darkness.
Different to the one Cristo had seen, but somehow similar.
Like he was burning.
Like someone was pulling him under.
Looking back, he wondered if there was a better way to have done this.
He felt stupid.
Here he was, leaking out onto the island, leaving Samantha completely alone.
Would she cope without him?
He wondered.
Then grinned.
Of course she would.
He hadn't know for very long, but there was one thing he knew about her.
Otis liked her.
And that was all he needed.
His eyelids slowly closed, as he took one last look at the beautiful girl.
"M...ma-...make sure... y-you..."
A loud cough, his lungs throwing out the last of his air.
"Live, Sam. Just... live."
One last breath.
One last look at the stars.
Otis had done a lot of things in his life.
He'd fucked up a lot, and he often acted like a dick.
But in the end...
He had no regrets.
C04: Otis Adelaide - Eliminated
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hallucinogenic. 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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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3450
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
He was dying. Right before her eyes, Otis was slipping away. And there wasn't a single fucking thing she could do about it. At least it didn't seem like it was too awful a death. He seemed almost content, actually. It terrified her, the thought that someone could give up like that, could go without kicking and screaming. And then he smiled. He smiled, he closed his eyes, and he spoke to her. Told her to live. Took one more look at the world, and that was it. He was gone. Gone, lost, like he'd never been in the first place.
Samantha eventually stood up. Her feet were asleep. She looked at Otis, at the boy who had died for her, who had told her to survive. Looked at the other guy, whose name she didn't even know. The monster. The killer. He'd smiled too. They'd both smiled. Both seemed accepting. She shivered.
Then she ran. Ran from the beach, form the bodies, from the death. Ran from her fears and her her dreams and her decisions. Ran past the beach, past the shack, past the mountain. Ran past the school, past the coffee shop where she studied, past Pike Place Market, the smell of fish mixing with the smell of the sea, drifting through the air. Ran until she could run no more, because she had to take the elevator, which she rode to the top of the Space Needle, where she stood, leaning against the guardrail, blinking back tears as she looked out over Seattle, trying to forget.
Forget school. Forget swim team. Forget her lack of friends. Forget the mountain of homework sitting on her desk. Forget her sister—fucking slut—and her parents and their expectations. Be alone, be one with the world in the cool nighttime air.
Forget the knife. Definitely forget the knife.
Couldn't look too distraught, too desperate, or security would be all over her. Jumpers were bad for business. But she wasn't going to jump, right? Wasn't going to throw herself a tenth of a mile to the ground. No way. Even though she just wanted out of it all. Wanted to go away and never return. Wanted to say fuck it all, quit school, run away. Give up her future and dreams. After all, she was totally fucked come finals, especially since she was here, above the city, instead of sitting at home, finishing her projects and readying her presentations. At least the part of the observation deck she was on was empty. It often was at this time, after the sunset but before the late-night rush. With her pass, she could come here once a day, though, in practice, she didn't have time. This was her favorite time of day to visit.
She was crying, breathing too heavily. Pulling her hair until her scalp ached, and loose strands came away in her fingers. She looked at them. The ones in her right hand blond, wavy. The ones in her left the same, except where they crossed her palm. There, stained dirty red brown. The bandage had slipped. Dammit. She retied it. Tried not to think about the knife. Sitting in her bedroom, so out of place in the well-kept living quarters, in the back of her drawer. The little pocket knife, a souvenir from some shop she couldn't remember, toyed around with but never used, not until today, its blade stained the same as her hair now, since she hadn't had the heart to wipe it clean. Memories: sitting, staring at the screen of her computer, writing a line, deleting it, writing it, deleting it, slamming her fist on the desktop, realizing that she couldn't, just couldn't keep straight As if she kept up like this, realizing it was too much, too much, still three weeks until finals and she was already at this stage, too soon, and then the knife, sitting on her bookshelf, ignored for years, flipping it open, studying the blade, shiny, bright, perfect in the afternoon light, cutting a star into her last test (33/34—Good Job!), stabbing it into her beautiful desk, gouging the wood a little like those delinquents in school, throwing the test in the trash, slamming her palm on the table, pausing, trying to think, remembering no one was home, remembering no one would be home for hours, examining her palm, dancing the knife across it, first the dull side, then the blade, ever-so-lightly, not cutting not hurting not yet, reconsidering, pondering, taking the dive, blood, her blood, welling up from her palm, a light cut, nothing serious, no harm but the pain, pain running through her hand her mind herself, bringing her back, taking her away, making it so nothing mattered anymore, just her hand, stinging, burning, letting her know she was still alive, she was still real, she was more than a pile of school papers sitting on a desk, more than grades and extracurriculars and college acceptance letters, more than that all, more than she could even really grasp. A walk to the bathroom, peroxide on the cut, wrap it in gauze. Make up an excuse. Can't have Mom and Dad knowing. Can't be weak, can't give in to stress, can't escape like fucking Rachel did. Then, running, running—fuck homework, fuck passing, fuck the future—until she was on the observation deck.
Her palm was still bleeding. That was probably not a good sign. Maybe she had reopened the cut, torn the scab free when the bandage slipped. A quick glance around. Security really wouldn't like this. No way to explain it. Cutting herself? That was middle school emo shit. She was better than that. What would her parents say? Quicker breathing again. Parents. School. Homework. Three weeks. Three weeks until graduation. She could make it. She could pull herself back together, somehow. She could hold it in. Force away the worries. Ride the stress like a wave, fight her way to the surface. It was that or drown in it. That or let this be like each of her other breakdowns, something she swept under the carpet, meticulously hid under smiles and confidence and extra credit.
But it was too late. If she didn't fix this today, more than that, right the fuck now, it would come out. Grades slipping at the last second, Seniors suddenly taking hits to their GPAs? That didn't look good. She didn't feel like starting her future on academic probation. Didn't feel like making things even harder on herself. Why? Why the fuck did she have to be the responsible one? Why was she doing this to herself, trying so hard to reach a future she couldn't guarantee, couldn't even really imagine in concrete terms?
Her hands were clenched into fists, hard, too hard. A drop of blood had run down her left middle finger, pooled at the first joint. It wobbled, waited, fell. Splashed to the floor of the observation deck. Samantha opened her hand. The bandage had gone red, a nice line right down the middle. She had to change it. Had to get some more peroxide and new dressings, and think up a damn good excuse for a perfectly straight scab across her palm. A sharp rail. That would do. Was she up to date on her tetanus shots? Hopefully. She'd just lie. Her parents wouldn't know. She didn't lie often, but she was good at it. They couldn't look past her success. Couldn't imagine she'd deceive them.
Another drop. That wasn't good. She pressed her palm to her sweat pants. That would leave a stain. Dammit. Too much to deal with. Just too much. And the city, stretched out around her, unaware, uncaring. She would never matter to it. Not unless she flung herself from the platform. That would make her a headline for a day. But she wouldn't. Couldn't. Cared too much. Couldn't wiggle through the safety grid anyways, probably.
A sigh. Back to the elevators, then. Back home. Back to reality. Hold out for three more weeks. Graduate, then freak out over the summer, get it all done before college. Then four more years. Not so much, in the grand scheme of things. Four years, then graduate school. Then a career, a well-paying one, something tolerable. Maybe, someday, a family in there.
It sounded horrible. It sounded like a waste of an existence. She was still crying. Wishing, wishing as hard as she could, that she could be someone else. Anyone else.
The pain tore through her, dropping her back to her knees in the sand, the same sand, in front of the bodies. She hadn't gone anywhere at all. Hadn't run, except in her mind. She heard, distantly, the snaps cracks coming from her face, but it didn't matter, no, not one bit, what mattered was the pain, the pain distracting her from the present and the past, the pain taking away the world, taking away her memories, leaving her lying on her side on the beach, screaming and flailing around, as her face shattered, knit itself together, shattered again, her features fluctuating with whims she couldn't express, hidden from the world by her hands, her hands pressed against her face, her left palm healed, just a slight line of fresh pink skin, made sense, after all; it had been nearly a month. Nearly a month, and that day was crashing down on her again, suffocating her, combining with the loss of—
Pain again, washing the thoughts away.
Some time later, the pain stopped.
Good.
She was ready to face the world again.
Slowly, she pulled herself to a kneeling position. It wasn't just her socks that were sandy now. The stuff was worked into her skin, her hair, her skirt and blouse. She brushed it off.
A quick look around revealed that nothing had changed. Otis was still dead. The other guy was still dead. There was a large area of disturbed sand around her, where she had lain, writhing. Damn. The fact that she was still alive astounded her. Anyone with sense would have finished her off. The beach was still deserted, though.
She made her way to the water. Looked at her reflection in the light of the almost-full moon. The face that stared back was not her own. It was a monster's visage, twisted, distorted, mouth locked in a permanent grimace, nose grotesquely enlarged, ears shriveled, the whole thing wrinkled. Only her eyes and hair were her own, and that made it all the worse.
Bracing herself, she visualized her own face, as best she could recall it. The pain was not so bad, this time. Almost a friend. A welcome release from the world, a dimming and focusing of her perceptions. She kept her eyes open, watched, fascinated, as her face returned to its proper state.
And now what?
Time to move on. Time to get going. After all, she couldn't just wait here to die. She returned to the bodies. Picked up her gun. Stuck it in the pocket of her skirt. Picked up the other guy's first gun. Fumbled with it until she found what she was looking for. The button that made the bullets slide out, in their black case. She counted them. Six. That gun went into her pack. Next, the gun he had shot Otis with. Again, the process. Thirteen in this one. She decided to check her own gun, too. Also thirteen. That meant they'd had fourteen shots at the start. Good to know. Into the bag with the spare.
The attacker had two knives. Otis had one. She cut strips in the side of her skirt that did not already have them, and sheathed one of the spare knives there. Now she had one on each side. Symmetry. The other two joined the guns in her bag. She took the food from the packs, too, and the medical supplies. It was a lot. Fairly heavy. But she'd need it. She knew she'd need it.
Then, with everything taken care of, it was time to go. She started walking, stopped. Turned, looked back at Otis and the attacker. Walked back, and stood, looking down at Otis.
After a while, she knelt down once more, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. He was surprisingly cold.
And then she took off again. Staying in one place wouldn't be useful at all, not anymore, and besides, she still had to get an idea of what exactly was going on.
"Live, Sam. Just... live."
I will, Otis. Just watch me.
I will.
((Samantha Reynolds continued in Aftermath))
Samantha eventually stood up. Her feet were asleep. She looked at Otis, at the boy who had died for her, who had told her to survive. Looked at the other guy, whose name she didn't even know. The monster. The killer. He'd smiled too. They'd both smiled. Both seemed accepting. She shivered.
Then she ran. Ran from the beach, form the bodies, from the death. Ran from her fears and her her dreams and her decisions. Ran past the beach, past the shack, past the mountain. Ran past the school, past the coffee shop where she studied, past Pike Place Market, the smell of fish mixing with the smell of the sea, drifting through the air. Ran until she could run no more, because she had to take the elevator, which she rode to the top of the Space Needle, where she stood, leaning against the guardrail, blinking back tears as she looked out over Seattle, trying to forget.
Forget school. Forget swim team. Forget her lack of friends. Forget the mountain of homework sitting on her desk. Forget her sister—fucking slut—and her parents and their expectations. Be alone, be one with the world in the cool nighttime air.
Forget the knife. Definitely forget the knife.
Couldn't look too distraught, too desperate, or security would be all over her. Jumpers were bad for business. But she wasn't going to jump, right? Wasn't going to throw herself a tenth of a mile to the ground. No way. Even though she just wanted out of it all. Wanted to go away and never return. Wanted to say fuck it all, quit school, run away. Give up her future and dreams. After all, she was totally fucked come finals, especially since she was here, above the city, instead of sitting at home, finishing her projects and readying her presentations. At least the part of the observation deck she was on was empty. It often was at this time, after the sunset but before the late-night rush. With her pass, she could come here once a day, though, in practice, she didn't have time. This was her favorite time of day to visit.
She was crying, breathing too heavily. Pulling her hair until her scalp ached, and loose strands came away in her fingers. She looked at them. The ones in her right hand blond, wavy. The ones in her left the same, except where they crossed her palm. There, stained dirty red brown. The bandage had slipped. Dammit. She retied it. Tried not to think about the knife. Sitting in her bedroom, so out of place in the well-kept living quarters, in the back of her drawer. The little pocket knife, a souvenir from some shop she couldn't remember, toyed around with but never used, not until today, its blade stained the same as her hair now, since she hadn't had the heart to wipe it clean. Memories: sitting, staring at the screen of her computer, writing a line, deleting it, writing it, deleting it, slamming her fist on the desktop, realizing that she couldn't, just couldn't keep straight As if she kept up like this, realizing it was too much, too much, still three weeks until finals and she was already at this stage, too soon, and then the knife, sitting on her bookshelf, ignored for years, flipping it open, studying the blade, shiny, bright, perfect in the afternoon light, cutting a star into her last test (33/34—Good Job!), stabbing it into her beautiful desk, gouging the wood a little like those delinquents in school, throwing the test in the trash, slamming her palm on the table, pausing, trying to think, remembering no one was home, remembering no one would be home for hours, examining her palm, dancing the knife across it, first the dull side, then the blade, ever-so-lightly, not cutting not hurting not yet, reconsidering, pondering, taking the dive, blood, her blood, welling up from her palm, a light cut, nothing serious, no harm but the pain, pain running through her hand her mind herself, bringing her back, taking her away, making it so nothing mattered anymore, just her hand, stinging, burning, letting her know she was still alive, she was still real, she was more than a pile of school papers sitting on a desk, more than grades and extracurriculars and college acceptance letters, more than that all, more than she could even really grasp. A walk to the bathroom, peroxide on the cut, wrap it in gauze. Make up an excuse. Can't have Mom and Dad knowing. Can't be weak, can't give in to stress, can't escape like fucking Rachel did. Then, running, running—fuck homework, fuck passing, fuck the future—until she was on the observation deck.
Her palm was still bleeding. That was probably not a good sign. Maybe she had reopened the cut, torn the scab free when the bandage slipped. A quick glance around. Security really wouldn't like this. No way to explain it. Cutting herself? That was middle school emo shit. She was better than that. What would her parents say? Quicker breathing again. Parents. School. Homework. Three weeks. Three weeks until graduation. She could make it. She could pull herself back together, somehow. She could hold it in. Force away the worries. Ride the stress like a wave, fight her way to the surface. It was that or drown in it. That or let this be like each of her other breakdowns, something she swept under the carpet, meticulously hid under smiles and confidence and extra credit.
But it was too late. If she didn't fix this today, more than that, right the fuck now, it would come out. Grades slipping at the last second, Seniors suddenly taking hits to their GPAs? That didn't look good. She didn't feel like starting her future on academic probation. Didn't feel like making things even harder on herself. Why? Why the fuck did she have to be the responsible one? Why was she doing this to herself, trying so hard to reach a future she couldn't guarantee, couldn't even really imagine in concrete terms?
Her hands were clenched into fists, hard, too hard. A drop of blood had run down her left middle finger, pooled at the first joint. It wobbled, waited, fell. Splashed to the floor of the observation deck. Samantha opened her hand. The bandage had gone red, a nice line right down the middle. She had to change it. Had to get some more peroxide and new dressings, and think up a damn good excuse for a perfectly straight scab across her palm. A sharp rail. That would do. Was she up to date on her tetanus shots? Hopefully. She'd just lie. Her parents wouldn't know. She didn't lie often, but she was good at it. They couldn't look past her success. Couldn't imagine she'd deceive them.
Another drop. That wasn't good. She pressed her palm to her sweat pants. That would leave a stain. Dammit. Too much to deal with. Just too much. And the city, stretched out around her, unaware, uncaring. She would never matter to it. Not unless she flung herself from the platform. That would make her a headline for a day. But she wouldn't. Couldn't. Cared too much. Couldn't wiggle through the safety grid anyways, probably.
A sigh. Back to the elevators, then. Back home. Back to reality. Hold out for three more weeks. Graduate, then freak out over the summer, get it all done before college. Then four more years. Not so much, in the grand scheme of things. Four years, then graduate school. Then a career, a well-paying one, something tolerable. Maybe, someday, a family in there.
It sounded horrible. It sounded like a waste of an existence. She was still crying. Wishing, wishing as hard as she could, that she could be someone else. Anyone else.
The pain tore through her, dropping her back to her knees in the sand, the same sand, in front of the bodies. She hadn't gone anywhere at all. Hadn't run, except in her mind. She heard, distantly, the snaps cracks coming from her face, but it didn't matter, no, not one bit, what mattered was the pain, the pain distracting her from the present and the past, the pain taking away the world, taking away her memories, leaving her lying on her side on the beach, screaming and flailing around, as her face shattered, knit itself together, shattered again, her features fluctuating with whims she couldn't express, hidden from the world by her hands, her hands pressed against her face, her left palm healed, just a slight line of fresh pink skin, made sense, after all; it had been nearly a month. Nearly a month, and that day was crashing down on her again, suffocating her, combining with the loss of—
Pain again, washing the thoughts away.
Some time later, the pain stopped.
Good.
She was ready to face the world again.
Slowly, she pulled herself to a kneeling position. It wasn't just her socks that were sandy now. The stuff was worked into her skin, her hair, her skirt and blouse. She brushed it off.
A quick look around revealed that nothing had changed. Otis was still dead. The other guy was still dead. There was a large area of disturbed sand around her, where she had lain, writhing. Damn. The fact that she was still alive astounded her. Anyone with sense would have finished her off. The beach was still deserted, though.
She made her way to the water. Looked at her reflection in the light of the almost-full moon. The face that stared back was not her own. It was a monster's visage, twisted, distorted, mouth locked in a permanent grimace, nose grotesquely enlarged, ears shriveled, the whole thing wrinkled. Only her eyes and hair were her own, and that made it all the worse.
Bracing herself, she visualized her own face, as best she could recall it. The pain was not so bad, this time. Almost a friend. A welcome release from the world, a dimming and focusing of her perceptions. She kept her eyes open, watched, fascinated, as her face returned to its proper state.
And now what?
Time to move on. Time to get going. After all, she couldn't just wait here to die. She returned to the bodies. Picked up her gun. Stuck it in the pocket of her skirt. Picked up the other guy's first gun. Fumbled with it until she found what she was looking for. The button that made the bullets slide out, in their black case. She counted them. Six. That gun went into her pack. Next, the gun he had shot Otis with. Again, the process. Thirteen in this one. She decided to check her own gun, too. Also thirteen. That meant they'd had fourteen shots at the start. Good to know. Into the bag with the spare.
The attacker had two knives. Otis had one. She cut strips in the side of her skirt that did not already have them, and sheathed one of the spare knives there. Now she had one on each side. Symmetry. The other two joined the guns in her bag. She took the food from the packs, too, and the medical supplies. It was a lot. Fairly heavy. But she'd need it. She knew she'd need it.
Then, with everything taken care of, it was time to go. She started walking, stopped. Turned, looked back at Otis and the attacker. Walked back, and stood, looking down at Otis.
After a while, she knelt down once more, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. He was surprisingly cold.
And then she took off again. Staying in one place wouldn't be useful at all, not anymore, and besides, she still had to get an idea of what exactly was going on.
"Live, Sam. Just... live."
I will, Otis. Just watch me.
I will.
((Samantha Reynolds continued in Aftermath))