Soon enough, the helicopters roared away, carrying the majority of the surviving students of National Summit Academy with them. The boats manned by the British retreated. The rescuers vanished as if they had never been, and for a brief span the Cabeza del Dragón was left to those few students who had, for one reason or another, chosen to decline rescue. Some had remained in hiding, unwilling to trust those they had been told their whole lives sought to cause them harm. Some believed they would be able to continue the game, to triumph in a suddenly-narrowed field. Some couldn't imagine themselves worthy or capable of starting a new life in a new country.
Ultimately, the causes didn't matter.
After roughly an hour of comparative stillness, soldiers returned and once more roamed the arena. These men and women were not the chatty British, however. They were American, but clad entirely in black with no insignia visible, armed and armored and deadly serious. They were not Program personnel. They had been scrambled from various locations, and comprised a unit of the most loyal, most unquestioning, most highly-trained forces available.
They spoke only when tactically necessary. They combed the area with mechanical precision, in compliance with intelligence offered by a unit even now working to recover data from the tapes, which had rolled unabated by the interference in the death game. If the soldiers felt anything about their task, they didn't show it. They all wore helmets, which completely concealed their faces.
Their job was a simple one: this iteration of The Program was a failure. Nobody who had even the slightest possibility of understanding the magnitude of that failure could be allowed to discuss what had happened. Some of the students had perished on their own, but none of those who still drew breath would remain alive in an hour's time.
Clean Up
-
Pippi
- Posts: 1118
- Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2018 6:32 pm
- Location: I'm Pip!
- Team Affiliation: Stephanie's Buccaneers
((Morgan Jones continued from Force Quit Box))
Morgan jolted awake with a yell, and then another one as his skull cracked against the ceiling of the cupboard he was nestled in. He held his head tightly in his hands for a few moments, groaning in pain, as bright white lights flooded his vision, before he smacked one hand against the cupboard door, natural light freeing him from the suffocating darkness of his hiding spot.
He’d fallen asleep near instantly, totally exhausted, not having slept for almost a full day beforehand, but his sleep had been far from restful. He’d flitted in and out of consciousness, tossing and turning in his cramped confines, thoughts and images flooding his mind, images of Casey and KeKe and Dakota and the church and the boat shed and the bar downstairs, all of them leading to one singular point, the one that had led to him being wrenched from his sleep and that was currently causing him to furiously scramble out of the cupboard;
He really, really didn’t wanna fucking die here.
Sure, he’d made a big, grandiose decision to sacrifice himself earlier. Or, rather, his desperate, sleep deprived mind had made that decision. Sure, he felt shitty about killing Casey, any decent human being would have, but he hadn’t done it on purpose. The whole point of the program was to kill, he’d been backed into a corner, and besides, there were no doubt people on those helicopters who had intentionally killed who were getting rescued despite their actions.
What had he thought back on Announcement Day? That he was totally fine with being a coward? Yeah, that statement still fucking stood. Coward he might be. Better that than a martyr. Only one of them let you ever wake up again.
Morgan scrambled to his feet, hoping beyond hope that the rescue team hadn’t cleared off by now. He couldn’t have slept for too long, right? He’d been uneasy and restless the whole time, not a recipe for continuous sleep, and from the looks of it, the light outside hadn’t changed too much since he’d crawled into the cupboards.
He took a moment to get himself back to his bearings and remove the lingering grogginess from his body, and that was when he heard it. Footsteps from downstairs. Multiple footsteps, each one purposeful, like they were walking in sync. He broke into a massive grin. They were still here. He was saved. He was fucking saved!
As he flung open the bathroom door and stepped out onto the corridor beyond it, Morgan thought about what he was gonna do when he got back home. He already had a plan; sleep. Sleep, for the entire day, not having to care about anything, not needing to worry about being stabbed in the back as he slept, and not lying on the ground with a hard backpack as a pillow and a pair of stupid foam Hulk hands as his only companion.
He tore down along the landing, rounding the corner to the stairwell. There they were, a group of about five soldiers, decked head to toe in black, faces hidden, each one holding a variety of firearms. Morgan couldn’t help but notice a couple other little details, such as the knife holstered on one of their ankles, and the grenades attached to a couple of their belts. He sighed in relief, grin wide on his face, and he took a step down towards them.
“Oh, sweet Jesus, thank fuck you’re still here, I was getting worried for a-“
The smile was wiped from Morgan’s face as the soldier at the front of the group raised his rifle, aiming it directly at his heart.
M39 – MORGAN JONES: DISPATCHED
Morgan jolted awake with a yell, and then another one as his skull cracked against the ceiling of the cupboard he was nestled in. He held his head tightly in his hands for a few moments, groaning in pain, as bright white lights flooded his vision, before he smacked one hand against the cupboard door, natural light freeing him from the suffocating darkness of his hiding spot.
He’d fallen asleep near instantly, totally exhausted, not having slept for almost a full day beforehand, but his sleep had been far from restful. He’d flitted in and out of consciousness, tossing and turning in his cramped confines, thoughts and images flooding his mind, images of Casey and KeKe and Dakota and the church and the boat shed and the bar downstairs, all of them leading to one singular point, the one that had led to him being wrenched from his sleep and that was currently causing him to furiously scramble out of the cupboard;
He really, really didn’t wanna fucking die here.
Sure, he’d made a big, grandiose decision to sacrifice himself earlier. Or, rather, his desperate, sleep deprived mind had made that decision. Sure, he felt shitty about killing Casey, any decent human being would have, but he hadn’t done it on purpose. The whole point of the program was to kill, he’d been backed into a corner, and besides, there were no doubt people on those helicopters who had intentionally killed who were getting rescued despite their actions.
What had he thought back on Announcement Day? That he was totally fine with being a coward? Yeah, that statement still fucking stood. Coward he might be. Better that than a martyr. Only one of them let you ever wake up again.
Morgan scrambled to his feet, hoping beyond hope that the rescue team hadn’t cleared off by now. He couldn’t have slept for too long, right? He’d been uneasy and restless the whole time, not a recipe for continuous sleep, and from the looks of it, the light outside hadn’t changed too much since he’d crawled into the cupboards.
He took a moment to get himself back to his bearings and remove the lingering grogginess from his body, and that was when he heard it. Footsteps from downstairs. Multiple footsteps, each one purposeful, like they were walking in sync. He broke into a massive grin. They were still here. He was saved. He was fucking saved!
As he flung open the bathroom door and stepped out onto the corridor beyond it, Morgan thought about what he was gonna do when he got back home. He already had a plan; sleep. Sleep, for the entire day, not having to care about anything, not needing to worry about being stabbed in the back as he slept, and not lying on the ground with a hard backpack as a pillow and a pair of stupid foam Hulk hands as his only companion.
He tore down along the landing, rounding the corner to the stairwell. There they were, a group of about five soldiers, decked head to toe in black, faces hidden, each one holding a variety of firearms. Morgan couldn’t help but notice a couple other little details, such as the knife holstered on one of their ankles, and the grenades attached to a couple of their belts. He sighed in relief, grin wide on his face, and he took a step down towards them.
“Oh, sweet Jesus, thank fuck you’re still here, I was getting worried for a-“
The smile was wiped from Morgan’s face as the soldier at the front of the group raised his rifle, aiming it directly at his heart.
M39 – MORGAN JONES: DISPATCHED
((Drew continued from In My Sights))
((Charlie continued from No Longer A Dreamer))
Drew lowered the gun and tried not to choke.
He'd seen the puff of red in the air as the bullet hit home. Blood. It didn't even look like blood from this far away. Hahaha holy shit.
He was all right. He was okay. He was managing, he was coping.
The rifle slipped out of his hands again.
He was okay. He was managing.
Drew screwed up his face tightly and pretended not to hear the strangled sob that came from his own mouth.
Ten minutes, an hour later, he finally picked himself up to look out of the window. Whoever he’d shot, could have been any number of people at that range, at least deserved the dignity of their killer facing up to what he’d done.
Drew scanned out, straining his field of view, looking out in places where he was sure he hadn’t fired at because he couldn’t see anything.
No body on the street.
The roar of rotors resounded out overhead. Helicopters were flying out again.
A strange shudder ran across his shoulders. Something had just happened. Something had happened and he’d missed it. What… what was going on here?
Drew watched the choppers drift off into the distance. Away from the mainland. He hadn’t noticed that before. They didn’t come from over the land. They’d come from—what the hell?—none of this made sense at all.
His heart started to pound. A twisting sensation began emanating from the pit of his stomach.
All of a sudden, he was thinking that those helicopters hadn’t been a US hit squad after all.
But… where did that leave him? Where did that leave Program?
He didn’t know.
A couple of hours later Drew received his answer.
Figures were moving through the streets below. Efficient and drilled teams sweeping the location unerringly. Not other participants. Certainly not whoever had been on the choppers in the first place.
Drew shrank back from the window. He was going to be sick.
Something happened and he missed it. Something big. And now those guys were out there to pick up the pieces.
Drew somehow doubted that they were there to round everyone up and say ‘Yeah we’re gonna call this one off, time to go home.’
Fuck. Fuck!
All this time up here, all this preparation, the way he’d had to force himself to pull that trigger, the way he’d planned to murder because it was the way out, the smart play, even if it disgusted him, even if it was all he could do not to completely break down.
And then today had been the one fucking day that something actually went wrong with the vaunted Program?
Fuck!
Drew’s breathing got heavier, ragged, the thoughts screaming around and around in his head. Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck this.
Motherfuckers! These fucking Americans, these fucking scumbags, who killed José and his parents and who knew how many others.
Drew went back to the window. He aimed the rifle. He fired.
Down below, the figures on the street scattered, running for cover.
He pulled back the bolt. Aimed. Fired.
Bolt. Aim. Fire.
Somebody yelled out. Had he hit someone? He hoped he did. He hoped the bullet festered and burned and they fucking died trying to breathe blood.
Gunshots split the air. Drew scrambled back from the window as bullets spattered against the masonry just beneath his window.
Then he started laughing. Did he have their fucking attention now!?
Back to the window. More bullets dashed against the area, one or two whizzing right past him and hitting something in the room behind. He took a second to aim. Fired.
Someone fell backward. Fierce triumph ran through Drew about a second before the bullet.
Drew collapsed back into the attic, blood spreading out from the wound in his shoulder. It hurt, but in a sort of vague detached way where he was just vaguely conscious that it should hurt rather than the pain actually penetrating through.
There was a thoomp noise from outside, and then a heavy metallic clunk as something sailed through the window and then rolled along the floor.
Drew turned his head, exhaled, closed his eyes.
The explosion tore through the attic.
Andrés Ladd: Mopped Up
--
Down on the wharf there was a patch of blood which turned into a smear of blood.
The smear of blood dragged its way around a corner, and then another one, and then came to rest.
This was also where Charlie came to rest, clinging onto a wall with everything she had to drag herself along further. Just that little bit further.
Mina was gone. The field surgery was reaching the limits of what it was capable of. She’d been bought more time, a lot more time borrowed, or stolen, than she knew she deserved.
Charlie struggled to find it in herself not to resent Mina. She hadn’t needed to help in the first place. She could have just left her to die.
Except by leaving, she’d pretty much done that. Why delay it for a day and then leave?
Perhaps because Mina had been within a few feet of Charlie cutting someone’s throat this time around.
She needed to keep her eyes open. A little further. A little further. There couldn’t be that much longer, ‘til the end.
Footsteps.
A smile, a grimace, flickered over Charlie’s face.
Never mind, this was it.
She let her eyes drift closed.
Charles Cade Jr: Not Here
((Charlie continued from No Longer A Dreamer))
Drew lowered the gun and tried not to choke.
He'd seen the puff of red in the air as the bullet hit home. Blood. It didn't even look like blood from this far away. Hahaha holy shit.
He was all right. He was okay. He was managing, he was coping.
The rifle slipped out of his hands again.
He was okay. He was managing.
Drew screwed up his face tightly and pretended not to hear the strangled sob that came from his own mouth.
Ten minutes, an hour later, he finally picked himself up to look out of the window. Whoever he’d shot, could have been any number of people at that range, at least deserved the dignity of their killer facing up to what he’d done.
Drew scanned out, straining his field of view, looking out in places where he was sure he hadn’t fired at because he couldn’t see anything.
No body on the street.
The roar of rotors resounded out overhead. Helicopters were flying out again.
A strange shudder ran across his shoulders. Something had just happened. Something had happened and he’d missed it. What… what was going on here?
Drew watched the choppers drift off into the distance. Away from the mainland. He hadn’t noticed that before. They didn’t come from over the land. They’d come from—what the hell?—none of this made sense at all.
His heart started to pound. A twisting sensation began emanating from the pit of his stomach.
All of a sudden, he was thinking that those helicopters hadn’t been a US hit squad after all.
But… where did that leave him? Where did that leave Program?
He didn’t know.
A couple of hours later Drew received his answer.
Figures were moving through the streets below. Efficient and drilled teams sweeping the location unerringly. Not other participants. Certainly not whoever had been on the choppers in the first place.
Drew shrank back from the window. He was going to be sick.
Something happened and he missed it. Something big. And now those guys were out there to pick up the pieces.
Drew somehow doubted that they were there to round everyone up and say ‘Yeah we’re gonna call this one off, time to go home.’
Fuck. Fuck!
All this time up here, all this preparation, the way he’d had to force himself to pull that trigger, the way he’d planned to murder because it was the way out, the smart play, even if it disgusted him, even if it was all he could do not to completely break down.
And then today had been the one fucking day that something actually went wrong with the vaunted Program?
Fuck!
Drew’s breathing got heavier, ragged, the thoughts screaming around and around in his head. Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck this.
Motherfuckers! These fucking Americans, these fucking scumbags, who killed José and his parents and who knew how many others.
Drew went back to the window. He aimed the rifle. He fired.
Down below, the figures on the street scattered, running for cover.
He pulled back the bolt. Aimed. Fired.
Bolt. Aim. Fire.
Somebody yelled out. Had he hit someone? He hoped he did. He hoped the bullet festered and burned and they fucking died trying to breathe blood.
Gunshots split the air. Drew scrambled back from the window as bullets spattered against the masonry just beneath his window.
Then he started laughing. Did he have their fucking attention now!?
Back to the window. More bullets dashed against the area, one or two whizzing right past him and hitting something in the room behind. He took a second to aim. Fired.
Someone fell backward. Fierce triumph ran through Drew about a second before the bullet.
Drew collapsed back into the attic, blood spreading out from the wound in his shoulder. It hurt, but in a sort of vague detached way where he was just vaguely conscious that it should hurt rather than the pain actually penetrating through.
There was a thoomp noise from outside, and then a heavy metallic clunk as something sailed through the window and then rolled along the floor.
Drew turned his head, exhaled, closed his eyes.
The explosion tore through the attic.
Andrés Ladd: Mopped Up
--
Down on the wharf there was a patch of blood which turned into a smear of blood.
The smear of blood dragged its way around a corner, and then another one, and then came to rest.
This was also where Charlie came to rest, clinging onto a wall with everything she had to drag herself along further. Just that little bit further.
Mina was gone. The field surgery was reaching the limits of what it was capable of. She’d been bought more time, a lot more time borrowed, or stolen, than she knew she deserved.
Charlie struggled to find it in herself not to resent Mina. She hadn’t needed to help in the first place. She could have just left her to die.
Except by leaving, she’d pretty much done that. Why delay it for a day and then leave?
Perhaps because Mina had been within a few feet of Charlie cutting someone’s throat this time around.
She needed to keep her eyes open. A little further. A little further. There couldn’t be that much longer, ‘til the end.
Footsteps.
A smile, a grimace, flickered over Charlie’s face.
Never mind, this was it.
She let her eyes drift closed.
Charles Cade Jr: Not Here
(( surprise Harland continued from BONE HURTING JUICE ))
Harland was curled up behind the desk/teller stand/whatever the fuck it was in the main room of the Customs Office, hiding out of sight from the corpses also within the building. In addition to the eyeless dude, Harland'd also found a brown dude with basically everything above his shoulders fucked up, and Harland didn't need none of that right now so he was keeping away. Oh, and neither of them had any water on them.
Harland couldn't get their faces out of his mind. Their glassy-eyed (for what was actually still left of their eyes) stares, kinda looking like they were still alive except for the fact they just seemed so… empty. Harland was pretty sure he recognized the brown dude, and the feeling of knowing what the literal inside of an acquaintance's head looked like was just so goddamned surreal. Not, like, a good surreal, but more like a "what the fuck is going on in my life" kind of surreal.
His leg still hurt.
Just then, Harland heard the front door of the building slowly creak open, and then a few of the loud, clunky footsteps a person wearing combat boots would make. There were voices, plural, with some wonky accents. Wonky accents meant foreigners, and that plus the combat boots meant all of a sudden Harland was caught in a literal land invasion by a foreign military. Harland knew that if the government back home was right, these guys would probably shoot him, and if the government back home was full of shit, these guys would probably rescue him - but they would also rescue Drowny. The same Drowny who Harland had tried to enlighten in the ways of whatever the hell it was he believed in. The same Drowny who would be filled with satisfaction about Harland being wrong. Drowny had died a while ago, but Harland didn't know that, and in his fucked-up state of mind, his spite for Dumb Fucking Drowny felt like it was the most important thing in the world. Even if Drowny lived and Harland died, that would be a victory for Harland. Like, he was probably just gonna die from tetanus or whatever anyways. He just let his mind run on autopilot.
"M-Motherfuckers, I'll eat your hands!" he blurted out. The threat didn't make any sense and he kinda knew it didn't make any sense, but jeez like y'know if a homeless man with a knife yelled that at Harland on the subway he'd be freaked the fuck out so it would probably work on the soldiers, assuming they could speak English.
"Flippin 'eck, who's there!?" one soldier said lightly.
"If you've got a weapon, drop it. It's okay, we're here to help." another said, directed in Harland's general direction.
"No! No, fuuuuuck you! Bitch, you don't own me! I've got an, uh..." Harland looked at his koosh ball. "-grenade, and I'll blow you the fuck up with it! I'm a real tough motherfucker! I'm wearing a necklace made from human ears!"
"D-Do I shoot 'em!?"
"No. No, not unless he attacks. Shit, why'd you ask that so loudly?" The soldier said the last bit quieter than the rest but Harland could still hear it. "Listen, kid, we don't want to hurt you, so please, please just come out with your hands up."
With a "H'TCHAAAAAAW!", Harland sprung up and threw the koosh ball at where he thought the trigger-happy soldier was. As the ball flew through the air, Harland noticed two things. One - there were in fact only two soldiers in the building, and two - his leg wasn't as fucked as he thought it was.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" screamed the soldier as the odd pink object floomped directly into his face. He fell backwards, dropping his gun. The other soldier - a kind of gruff, serious-looking dude - visibly flinched somewhat but seemed to recognize that Harland had in fact thrown something that wasn't a grenade.
Harland had been hoping that one of them would have shot him, but instead he watched as one stared at him incredulously while the other fumbled around on the ground. The serious-looking one glanced over at his comrade. "I think he threw a sea urchin at you."
"No, it was a super secret- " Harland interjected before being cut off by the serious-looking soldier. The trigger-happy one slowly stood up, holding on to the koosh ball with one hand and his gun in the other.
"Listen, kid, just cut the shit already, okay. We're here from Britain, and we're here to rescue you people. I'm not gonna force you to come with us, but if you don't, you're probably gonna die."
"Fuck you, I'm staying here."
"Are you sure this is what you want to do?"
Harland nodded his head.
"Okay…" The serious-looking soldier turned to his companion and sighed. "Bye, then."
The two soldiers walked out of the door, leaving Harland standing alone inside the building.
_____________________________________
The magnitude of how much he had just fucked up only really hit Harland as he watched through the window as the last of the British leaving the island. He'd just pretty much committed suicide out of spite, and only now that the choice had been made had he realized just how fucking stupid that was. It was like he'd just shot himself in the head, only everything was in slow-motion so that he could agonize over his dumb fucking mistakes. All he could do now was watch as his only hope faded away into the distance and the metaphorical bullet slowly drilled itself into his head.
_____________________________________
He was weeping, still staring out the window at the now long-gone Brits when the door opened again. He turned to face the door and saw another soldier.
"O-Oh my God please I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry please- "
There was a gunshot and then nothing.
Harland Strange stepped under the falling piano.
Harland was curled up behind the desk/teller stand/whatever the fuck it was in the main room of the Customs Office, hiding out of sight from the corpses also within the building. In addition to the eyeless dude, Harland'd also found a brown dude with basically everything above his shoulders fucked up, and Harland didn't need none of that right now so he was keeping away. Oh, and neither of them had any water on them.
Harland couldn't get their faces out of his mind. Their glassy-eyed (for what was actually still left of their eyes) stares, kinda looking like they were still alive except for the fact they just seemed so… empty. Harland was pretty sure he recognized the brown dude, and the feeling of knowing what the literal inside of an acquaintance's head looked like was just so goddamned surreal. Not, like, a good surreal, but more like a "what the fuck is going on in my life" kind of surreal.
His leg still hurt.
Just then, Harland heard the front door of the building slowly creak open, and then a few of the loud, clunky footsteps a person wearing combat boots would make. There were voices, plural, with some wonky accents. Wonky accents meant foreigners, and that plus the combat boots meant all of a sudden Harland was caught in a literal land invasion by a foreign military. Harland knew that if the government back home was right, these guys would probably shoot him, and if the government back home was full of shit, these guys would probably rescue him - but they would also rescue Drowny. The same Drowny who Harland had tried to enlighten in the ways of whatever the hell it was he believed in. The same Drowny who would be filled with satisfaction about Harland being wrong. Drowny had died a while ago, but Harland didn't know that, and in his fucked-up state of mind, his spite for Dumb Fucking Drowny felt like it was the most important thing in the world. Even if Drowny lived and Harland died, that would be a victory for Harland. Like, he was probably just gonna die from tetanus or whatever anyways. He just let his mind run on autopilot.
"M-Motherfuckers, I'll eat your hands!" he blurted out. The threat didn't make any sense and he kinda knew it didn't make any sense, but jeez like y'know if a homeless man with a knife yelled that at Harland on the subway he'd be freaked the fuck out so it would probably work on the soldiers, assuming they could speak English.
"Flippin 'eck, who's there!?" one soldier said lightly.
"If you've got a weapon, drop it. It's okay, we're here to help." another said, directed in Harland's general direction.
"No! No, fuuuuuck you! Bitch, you don't own me! I've got an, uh..." Harland looked at his koosh ball. "-grenade, and I'll blow you the fuck up with it! I'm a real tough motherfucker! I'm wearing a necklace made from human ears!"
"D-Do I shoot 'em!?"
"No. No, not unless he attacks. Shit, why'd you ask that so loudly?" The soldier said the last bit quieter than the rest but Harland could still hear it. "Listen, kid, we don't want to hurt you, so please, please just come out with your hands up."
With a "H'TCHAAAAAAW!", Harland sprung up and threw the koosh ball at where he thought the trigger-happy soldier was. As the ball flew through the air, Harland noticed two things. One - there were in fact only two soldiers in the building, and two - his leg wasn't as fucked as he thought it was.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" screamed the soldier as the odd pink object floomped directly into his face. He fell backwards, dropping his gun. The other soldier - a kind of gruff, serious-looking dude - visibly flinched somewhat but seemed to recognize that Harland had in fact thrown something that wasn't a grenade.
Harland had been hoping that one of them would have shot him, but instead he watched as one stared at him incredulously while the other fumbled around on the ground. The serious-looking one glanced over at his comrade. "I think he threw a sea urchin at you."
"No, it was a super secret- " Harland interjected before being cut off by the serious-looking soldier. The trigger-happy one slowly stood up, holding on to the koosh ball with one hand and his gun in the other.
"Listen, kid, just cut the shit already, okay. We're here from Britain, and we're here to rescue you people. I'm not gonna force you to come with us, but if you don't, you're probably gonna die."
"Fuck you, I'm staying here."
"Are you sure this is what you want to do?"
Harland nodded his head.
"Okay…" The serious-looking soldier turned to his companion and sighed. "Bye, then."
The two soldiers walked out of the door, leaving Harland standing alone inside the building.
_____________________________________
The magnitude of how much he had just fucked up only really hit Harland as he watched through the window as the last of the British leaving the island. He'd just pretty much committed suicide out of spite, and only now that the choice had been made had he realized just how fucking stupid that was. It was like he'd just shot himself in the head, only everything was in slow-motion so that he could agonize over his dumb fucking mistakes. All he could do now was watch as his only hope faded away into the distance and the metaphorical bullet slowly drilled itself into his head.
_____________________________________
He was weeping, still staring out the window at the now long-gone Brits when the door opened again. He turned to face the door and saw another soldier.
"O-Oh my God please I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry please- "
There was a gunshot and then nothing.
Harland Strange stepped under the falling piano.
((Mary Wieczorek continued from Take Nothing For Granted))
She was exhausted. Every muscle ached. But she couldn't stop. Not now.
When the helicopters appeared in the sky, she thought that would be the end. When she saw the strange soldiers wandering around, she thought she was finished. But she kept running. They didn't catch her.
The helicopters left, and she hoped she was saved. Then, the other soldiers came. The American soldiers. They came after her, too. She felt like she couldn't go on. But she had to try.
Mary ran.
Not fast enough.
F15: Mary Wieczorek - DECEASED
She was exhausted. Every muscle ached. But she couldn't stop. Not now.
When the helicopters appeared in the sky, she thought that would be the end. When she saw the strange soldiers wandering around, she thought she was finished. But she kept running. They didn't catch her.
The helicopters left, and she hoped she was saved. Then, the other soldiers came. The American soldiers. They came after her, too. She felt like she couldn't go on. But she had to try.
Mary ran.
Not fast enough.
F15: Mary Wieczorek - DECEASED
-
Cactus
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2018 6:25 pm
- Location: Toronto, Canada
- Team Affiliation: Malcolm's Mariners
((Continued from here))
So much had happened in such a short time, that it was only natural for some of the stories to go unfinished. Some stories would end more abruptly than the others, and some would tail off, barely worth a mention at all. For two students who had found themselves the unlikeliest of allies, the stories were very similar. They had seen the same people, traveled the same path. But there was one crucial divergence point for both Kate Sanderson and William Apgar, a divergence point that was punctuated with lead.
Neither Kate nor William had expected the gunfire, and when it was all said and done, neither of them had known who was doing the shooting, but that it was going down all the same. It had been in a thick stretch of forest, and they had both scattered in opposite directions.
It hadn't mattered.
The gunfire had taken both of them down.
As the student lay, bleeding, crawling forward and endeavoring to try and escape the thick brush that surrounded them, the sounds of voices were both unfamiliar and hopeful. Maybe someone would be willing to help, someone would be willing to come to their aid.
Kate Sanderson pulled herself to her feet as the soldiers looked at her with cold calculation. It was at that point that she knew - it was all over. They were clad in black, and held wicked-looking assault rifles.
She supposed that it wasn't altogether surprising that she would die here, in this death game that she had all but thrown in the towel for the second that she'd arrived. That she had lasted this long was a testament to William, and his kindness. She allowed herself a moment of reflection on that fact as the pain that encompassed her entire body staggered her and slowed her crawl.
He really was very kind. Kate smiled as the soldiers noticed her, and pointed in her direction.
She was glad to have met him.
As far as final thoughts went, that was a pretty good one.
SANDERSON, KATHRYN -- DECEASED
So much had happened in such a short time, that it was only natural for some of the stories to go unfinished. Some stories would end more abruptly than the others, and some would tail off, barely worth a mention at all. For two students who had found themselves the unlikeliest of allies, the stories were very similar. They had seen the same people, traveled the same path. But there was one crucial divergence point for both Kate Sanderson and William Apgar, a divergence point that was punctuated with lead.
Neither Kate nor William had expected the gunfire, and when it was all said and done, neither of them had known who was doing the shooting, but that it was going down all the same. It had been in a thick stretch of forest, and they had both scattered in opposite directions.
It hadn't mattered.
The gunfire had taken both of them down.
As the student lay, bleeding, crawling forward and endeavoring to try and escape the thick brush that surrounded them, the sounds of voices were both unfamiliar and hopeful. Maybe someone would be willing to help, someone would be willing to come to their aid.
Kate Sanderson pulled herself to her feet as the soldiers looked at her with cold calculation. It was at that point that she knew - it was all over. They were clad in black, and held wicked-looking assault rifles.
She supposed that it wasn't altogether surprising that she would die here, in this death game that she had all but thrown in the towel for the second that she'd arrived. That she had lasted this long was a testament to William, and his kindness. She allowed herself a moment of reflection on that fact as the pain that encompassed her entire body staggered her and slowed her crawl.
He really was very kind. Kate smiled as the soldiers noticed her, and pointed in her direction.
She was glad to have met him.
As far as final thoughts went, that was a pretty good one.
SANDERSON, KATHRYN -- DECEASED
((Scott Pierce continued from Great Minds Think Alike))
"AH!"
Scott quickly woke up from his nap. His face was rather pale and he was sweating. He swept across his surroundings nervously, only to realized that he was still in the study room.
So it was all just a nightmare...
After murdering Truslow, Scott remorsefully left the scene, and wandered across the island, hoping to get a chance of escaping this nightmare. However, after a long day of walking around, he see nothing but more corpses of his classmates. Feeling disturbed, he decided to spend the rest of his day in a church, escaping from reality. As soon as he got into the church, he went towards the study area and dozed off behind the book shelves, being completely exhausted from the long walk.
Speaking of a 'short nap'...
How long did he actually slept?
Scott slowly dragged himself out of the church with his stuff, only to see a group of heavily armed soldiers rushing towards him. He could not held the excitement in him and waved towards them. Is that it? His salvation from this weary bloodbath.
Just as he was about to raise his arms, signalling them to come over, a bullet went through his shoulder blade. Needless to say, Scott was rather shocked and terrified when he saw the so-called "aide" was aiming their weapons at him.
What the actual fuck?
The once peaceful church was suddenly filled with gunshots, as Scott quickly rushed back into the church. The rain of bullets didn't stop there, hitting him several places on both of his legs and his waist area just before he went to hide. In agony, Scott fell to his knees, unable to stand with his legs. He slowly crawled under a pew, hoping that he wasn't spotted as he heard the armies' footsteps into the church.
Unlucky for him, his blood stains had blew his cover.
Hearing that the soldiers were getting closer to his spot, he looked towards his bag, searching for anything useful. This was when he remembered that he had a pistol.
Quickly, he tried to load the pistol, and was planning to fight back when he was found. But just before he managed to do that, the once riotous church went oddly silent in an instant.
Did they left?
Scott hopefully lifted his head up, this time only to be greeted with one of the soldiers, with the end of the rifle pointing towards Scott's head.
Scott squealed in terror, he wanted to yell and beg for mercy but he knew he was a goner at this point.
"...Please...No...."
BANG
M31: SCOTT PIERCE: DECEASED
"AH!"
Scott quickly woke up from his nap. His face was rather pale and he was sweating. He swept across his surroundings nervously, only to realized that he was still in the study room.
So it was all just a nightmare...
After murdering Truslow, Scott remorsefully left the scene, and wandered across the island, hoping to get a chance of escaping this nightmare. However, after a long day of walking around, he see nothing but more corpses of his classmates. Feeling disturbed, he decided to spend the rest of his day in a church, escaping from reality. As soon as he got into the church, he went towards the study area and dozed off behind the book shelves, being completely exhausted from the long walk.
Speaking of a 'short nap'...
How long did he actually slept?
Scott slowly dragged himself out of the church with his stuff, only to see a group of heavily armed soldiers rushing towards him. He could not held the excitement in him and waved towards them. Is that it? His salvation from this weary bloodbath.
Just as he was about to raise his arms, signalling them to come over, a bullet went through his shoulder blade. Needless to say, Scott was rather shocked and terrified when he saw the so-called "aide" was aiming their weapons at him.
What the actual fuck?
The once peaceful church was suddenly filled with gunshots, as Scott quickly rushed back into the church. The rain of bullets didn't stop there, hitting him several places on both of his legs and his waist area just before he went to hide. In agony, Scott fell to his knees, unable to stand with his legs. He slowly crawled under a pew, hoping that he wasn't spotted as he heard the armies' footsteps into the church.
Unlucky for him, his blood stains had blew his cover.
Hearing that the soldiers were getting closer to his spot, he looked towards his bag, searching for anything useful. This was when he remembered that he had a pistol.
Quickly, he tried to load the pistol, and was planning to fight back when he was found. But just before he managed to do that, the once riotous church went oddly silent in an instant.
Did they left?
Scott hopefully lifted his head up, this time only to be greeted with one of the soldiers, with the end of the rifle pointing towards Scott's head.
Scott squealed in terror, he wanted to yell and beg for mercy but he knew he was a goner at this point.
"...Please...No...."
BANG
M31: SCOTT PIERCE: DECEASED