"Yeah I have!" She smiled. Her eyes briefly darted to the weapon on Jackson's back. How nice it would be to have that herself. "I had a bit of an existential crisis but I'm okay now. You see, the solution to all my problems became very clear."
"I just need to kill anyone and everyone who gets in my way. I've been repressing the urge to just murderate everybody. But no longer! Now I'm gonna go and maim and kill and stab every idiot bastard that saw fit to ruin my utopia. And once all of them are gone I can get back to working on it for the people left. A brilliant solution, no?"
One so simple and great she wondered why she had ever stopped herself from implementing it before. That previous mindset of hers was a silly one wasn't it? Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Production Costs
-
Lord_Shadow
- Posts: 536
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:43 am
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
There was once a dumb psuedo-news line here. Now there's this pretentious nonsense. YOU1 DID THIS, YOU1 KNOW WHO YOU1 ARE!
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
She pressed the button and it just clicked, he only needed a bit of urging in order to let the scale of violence tip. Corin’s finger rested on the trigger as his brain prepared itself for what he was about to do. He glanced over at the rows of machines, thinking briefly about what his next step would be. He didn’t know if she was only trying to look tough, or just looking for a fight, but if it was the latter it had worked. As for anything else, he had given her a chance to delay this for just a while longer – but now it was time to bite the bullet and face the inevitable.
She had literally asked for it just now anyway.
“Yeah,” He sneered as inclined his head towards her, “thanks for the suggestion.”
The force of the recoil pushed his body back some as he slammed the trigger, he fired from the hip without mind for accuracy. There wasn’t time for him to properly align his shot, not without it looking conspicuous, not without giving her even more time to react. It didn’t really matter where the bullet landed, as long as it was near her, or ideally her body caught it. He didn’t mind the ringing in his ears; he didn’t have time to think about the ache from the boom – the dullness of his hearing.
He figured that he wouldn’t make it to the point where his long term health would matter.
In the end, the interaction between him and Cathryn carried no social significance for him. He was too sick of everything, and he was just waiting for the end. He only looked to get as far as he could, and she didn’t mean a thing to him, at this point they were just canvases set up by the show to carry out the medium of violence. Likely she felt the same towards him, and somewhere in his subconscious he thought as much.
He didn’t stop to pause after firing that gun; he started to move for cover. No surveying the damage, no standing around like he had a target painted on his front, no more assessment of the situation was needed.
He wanted to wipe her presence away so he could be alone and vent in relative safety.
She had literally asked for it just now anyway.
“Yeah,” He sneered as inclined his head towards her, “thanks for the suggestion.”
The force of the recoil pushed his body back some as he slammed the trigger, he fired from the hip without mind for accuracy. There wasn’t time for him to properly align his shot, not without it looking conspicuous, not without giving her even more time to react. It didn’t really matter where the bullet landed, as long as it was near her, or ideally her body caught it. He didn’t mind the ringing in his ears; he didn’t have time to think about the ache from the boom – the dullness of his hearing.
He figured that he wouldn’t make it to the point where his long term health would matter.
In the end, the interaction between him and Cathryn carried no social significance for him. He was too sick of everything, and he was just waiting for the end. He only looked to get as far as he could, and she didn’t mean a thing to him, at this point they were just canvases set up by the show to carry out the medium of violence. Likely she felt the same towards him, and somewhere in his subconscious he thought as much.
He didn’t stop to pause after firing that gun; he started to move for cover. No surveying the damage, no standing around like he had a target painted on his front, no more assessment of the situation was needed.
He wanted to wipe her presence away so he could be alone and vent in relative safety.
Alright. Jackson thought he had gone over the edge a little bit ago. But faced with Ana, he realized he'd just taken a peek and didn't like the looks of the rocks at the bottom. Ana had taken a running leap off and rented a condo.
It was a warped mirror he was looking into, and reminded him that he could go further. Also that he was now standing on eggshells.
"Makes sense." He said. It seemed the only thing he could say.
It was a warped mirror he was looking into, and reminded him that he could go further. Also that he was now standing on eggshells.
"Makes sense." He said. It seemed the only thing he could say.
Well, what else should Cathryn have expected?
It would've happened anyways, to be honest, be it now or in the last seconds of endgame. She just hastened the inevitable. And while intimidation hadn't worked in the slightest, at least she'd been able to gauge his behavior Unfortunately for her, Corin was ready and able to shoot.
The bullet missed Cathryn's head by inches. She fired two shots back, pointing them in Corin's general direction, then took cover behind one of the many casino machines. And as she leaned back in her tiny, fleeting shelter, one that could be invaded any second, she hoped, she prayed, even, for mercy, for reprieve. Like anything else in this resort and in this game and in this world, it would probably be futile, especially for Cathryn. What had mercy done for any of the thousands of kids that preceded her, and why should it choose her, out of the six people that remained? And she hated that she was praying because it meant she was doubting, and doubt was worse than those three demons she'd been fighting for the past three days, equivalent to pressing her own gun against her temple. But there was no room for anything else. If ghosts existed, then Lucia's was probably right next to her, cackling in her ear. Corin was dictating the pace of events now, when to make her scream, when to shoot, when to kill, and we all knew what position Cathryn was in.
She waited for that big NO to come again, despite the fact that it had failed her a bit back, because this entire game had just been a struggle between hopelessness and that 'NO'. And to her luck, it came. It was weak, but it came. The slight, vague beginnings of some plan started forming in her head. But she needed time, so much more time. She ran forward in a crouching position and hid behind another machine, firing two more shots in Corin's direction.
It would've happened anyways, to be honest, be it now or in the last seconds of endgame. She just hastened the inevitable. And while intimidation hadn't worked in the slightest, at least she'd been able to gauge his behavior Unfortunately for her, Corin was ready and able to shoot.
The bullet missed Cathryn's head by inches. She fired two shots back, pointing them in Corin's general direction, then took cover behind one of the many casino machines. And as she leaned back in her tiny, fleeting shelter, one that could be invaded any second, she hoped, she prayed, even, for mercy, for reprieve. Like anything else in this resort and in this game and in this world, it would probably be futile, especially for Cathryn. What had mercy done for any of the thousands of kids that preceded her, and why should it choose her, out of the six people that remained? And she hated that she was praying because it meant she was doubting, and doubt was worse than those three demons she'd been fighting for the past three days, equivalent to pressing her own gun against her temple. But there was no room for anything else. If ghosts existed, then Lucia's was probably right next to her, cackling in her ear. Corin was dictating the pace of events now, when to make her scream, when to shoot, when to kill, and we all knew what position Cathryn was in.
She waited for that big NO to come again, despite the fact that it had failed her a bit back, because this entire game had just been a struggle between hopelessness and that 'NO'. And to her luck, it came. It was weak, but it came. The slight, vague beginnings of some plan started forming in her head. But she needed time, so much more time. She ran forward in a crouching position and hid behind another machine, firing two more shots in Corin's direction.
SC3:
Matias Juarez is fed up. He is currently walking home.
Pregame: now that you are broken by the seas, in the depths of the waters,
Memories: Vamô Detonar essa Porra!
Diego Larrosa is lost. pls give my kids friends tv3 version
Stephanie's Cuckaneers Today at 12:29 AM
maraoone was a mistake - cicada 2021
Matias Juarez is fed up. He is currently walking home.
Pregame: now that you are broken by the seas, in the depths of the waters,
Memories: Vamô Detonar essa Porra!
Diego Larrosa is lost. pls give my kids friends tv3 version
Stephanie's Cuckaneers Today at 12:29 AM
maraoone was a mistake - cicada 2021
-
General Goose
- Posts: 318
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:51 pm
He heard gunshots.
But they were not whizzing past his ear, or hitting anything in his immediate vision, so they could be ignored. He would eat until he was bloated, and drink until his inhibitions were on the floor.
Damn, that baconnaise scar hurt.
He looked at it. It was not discoloured. Well, unless blood red counted as discolouration. Then it was pretty discoloured.
He tried clenching his fist and reopening it again, the stretching of the skin prompting a slight discharge of blood from the wound. Perhaps he had bungled up the cleaning. Perhaps this was the natural progression of wounds - the last time he had a big injury, he had been too distracted by the removal of his fingers to pay attention to the stages of blood clotting and the like that the body automatically went through.
Or maybe it was some damn baconnaise, infecting his bloodstream, clogging his arteries without even the side benefits of sustenance or nutrition.
He sighed.
But they were not whizzing past his ear, or hitting anything in his immediate vision, so they could be ignored. He would eat until he was bloated, and drink until his inhibitions were on the floor.
Damn, that baconnaise scar hurt.
He looked at it. It was not discoloured. Well, unless blood red counted as discolouration. Then it was pretty discoloured.
He tried clenching his fist and reopening it again, the stretching of the skin prompting a slight discharge of blood from the wound. Perhaps he had bungled up the cleaning. Perhaps this was the natural progression of wounds - the last time he had a big injury, he had been too distracted by the removal of his fingers to pay attention to the stages of blood clotting and the like that the body automatically went through.
Or maybe it was some damn baconnaise, infecting his bloodstream, clogging his arteries without even the side benefits of sustenance or nutrition.
He sighed.
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Lord_Shadow
- Posts: 536
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:43 am
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
"Doesn't it?" She beamed proudly. Then the familiar sound of gunfire cracked. She smiled wide. "On my god! Is it that time already? Well, we should get started too I guess." She placed a hand over her sword's hilt.
"Now I know I told you that you'd be in danger if you ever ran across me again. But that was the past me. Present me would never harm her friend." She smiled again. "But I know we both gotta do our own thing. You go your way and I go mine. Try not to die, okay?" She didn't wait for a reply. She turned and started on her way toward the sound of battle.
Spill all their blood. ALL OF IT! Drown in the sweet stench of their viscera and the ambrosial vileness of the gore. Ascend! Descend! Transcend! Corrupt! Void!
"No gods, no angels, no demons. Shadow, abyss, nothing." She muttered to herself.
Blight is just another word for existence. Wipe theirs and sanctify their essence.
"Now I know I told you that you'd be in danger if you ever ran across me again. But that was the past me. Present me would never harm her friend." She smiled again. "But I know we both gotta do our own thing. You go your way and I go mine. Try not to die, okay?" She didn't wait for a reply. She turned and started on her way toward the sound of battle.
Spill all their blood. ALL OF IT! Drown in the sweet stench of their viscera and the ambrosial vileness of the gore. Ascend! Descend! Transcend! Corrupt! Void!
"No gods, no angels, no demons. Shadow, abyss, nothing." She muttered to herself.
Blight is just another word for existence. Wipe theirs and sanctify their essence.
There was once a dumb psuedo-news line here. Now there's this pretentious nonsense. YOU1 DID THIS, YOU1 KNOW WHO YOU1 ARE!
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
He dove for behind a machine, feeling as though something punched the air just above his shoulder and dug itself deep into a display. His body didn’t stop to see what shattered from either bullet; it wasn’t of interest as he dove and hit the floor, finding a temporary safety behind the rows of poker machines. He didn’t really pause, there wasn’t time when the rising urgency inside him was biting at his limbs and telling him to move. He had to agree with his sense of urgency, since there were worse things that could bite or puncture him at the moment.
Despite how cold it was beads of sweat were starting to gather on his face and trickle down. He was losing his cool, and through waves of emotion there was still a fear of being shot. Through all the self-loathing, misery and rage, that weak part of him still managed to peek through a gap in the noise. He counted another two as he tried to hide himself further back in the rows, a sharp ache awakening in his back as he leaned against the back of a machine to reload his rifle.
Corin’s mind was like a record that just skipped, and for a brief second he didn’t do anything as realisation set in. He placed a hand on his back, feeling a warm oozing wetness that ran over his shoulder blade; it left a moist patch in the fibres of his coat. As his hand returned to his vision, it shook as the realisation that he had actually been shot set in for him. His teeth clenched and he let out what could only be described as a guttural grunt, it was beyond him to voice his realisation or anger, any verbal expression of his was incoherent.
But he was still alive, and there wasn’t time think and wonder about his chances.
When his hands moved to eject the brass they were slick, his movement slowed by the numb feeling he had in his hands. It was slower than he usually did it; he was too shaken to work efficiently as he could and a boiling frustration burned up until he could feel it in his cheeks. There was a slight moment where he risked a glance, caught some movement and fired. He didn’t expect to hit her, but at the least there was a possibility that she would falter whilst he sought himself a better point of vantage.
His ears were still ringing as he tried to obscure his exit behind the rows of machines and made for a nearby exit. He didn’t trust any of the machines to hold any of the lead they were spewing out and he wasn’t willing to play hide and seek till someone took a pot shot at the right one. Considering the setting, it was fitting that this was just a game of risk.
Despite how cold it was beads of sweat were starting to gather on his face and trickle down. He was losing his cool, and through waves of emotion there was still a fear of being shot. Through all the self-loathing, misery and rage, that weak part of him still managed to peek through a gap in the noise. He counted another two as he tried to hide himself further back in the rows, a sharp ache awakening in his back as he leaned against the back of a machine to reload his rifle.
Corin’s mind was like a record that just skipped, and for a brief second he didn’t do anything as realisation set in. He placed a hand on his back, feeling a warm oozing wetness that ran over his shoulder blade; it left a moist patch in the fibres of his coat. As his hand returned to his vision, it shook as the realisation that he had actually been shot set in for him. His teeth clenched and he let out what could only be described as a guttural grunt, it was beyond him to voice his realisation or anger, any verbal expression of his was incoherent.
But he was still alive, and there wasn’t time think and wonder about his chances.
When his hands moved to eject the brass they were slick, his movement slowed by the numb feeling he had in his hands. It was slower than he usually did it; he was too shaken to work efficiently as he could and a boiling frustration burned up until he could feel it in his cheeks. There was a slight moment where he risked a glance, caught some movement and fired. He didn’t expect to hit her, but at the least there was a possibility that she would falter whilst he sought himself a better point of vantage.
His ears were still ringing as he tried to obscure his exit behind the rows of machines and made for a nearby exit. He didn’t trust any of the machines to hold any of the lead they were spewing out and he wasn’t willing to play hide and seek till someone took a pot shot at the right one. Considering the setting, it was fitting that this was just a game of risk.
Jackson had decided he had about enough crazy for another five minutes when Ana had decided the gunfire was her cue to take her leave.
"You...have a good day." He muttered, but she was off before she could hear much.
Ana was walking toward the gunfire. Jackson took that to mean he'd be moving the other way. Maybe everyone would clean each other out and he could wash his hands of this whole thing.
Jackson turned down another aisle of slot machines, face lit by the neons as he kept low in case one of those bullets was coming his way. He only hoped the aisle led him somewhere he could take a moment.
"Christ."
"You...have a good day." He muttered, but she was off before she could hear much.
Ana was walking toward the gunfire. Jackson took that to mean he'd be moving the other way. Maybe everyone would clean each other out and he could wash his hands of this whole thing.
Jackson turned down another aisle of slot machines, face lit by the neons as he kept low in case one of those bullets was coming his way. He only hoped the aisle led him somewhere he could take a moment.
"Christ."
Every second that passed without Cathryn getting injured, she felt herself believing that lie of hers even more. That she'd win, that this broken, injured, torn girl could beat five other people. So far, so good, right? But how far could this go before it all came crashing down again, before someone else shattered her again? If it happened once more, she'd never be able to put together the pieces once more, not in time for this fight.
She fired a few more shots, having roughly aimed her gun at where she thought she saw Corin. She waited a few more seconds, anticipated that loud bang, the ringing that followed. Maybe her last moment. But it didn't come, not yet. The casino didn't feel so claustrophobic anymore. She was no longer confined to her tiny, tiny shelter.
She slowly peeked out, checked for Corin, but saw no signs of him. She risked coming out from her cover and made some distance, going to the row of casino machines behind her.
And then she saw Jackson close by. Still whole, still relatively alright, while she was nothing but pieces stuck together with tape, just a parody of what it meant to be one object, one being. Her eyebrows scrunched and her lips quivered once more, but this was no trick. All of her wounds flared at once, the cut-off nerves and torn flesh burned tenfold, begged for revenge. She almost bent over in pain, but she stopped herself.
Her eyes drifted to the handgun in his hands. Her biggest failure. The thing that broke her. And her breathing, she struggled so hard to control it, to keep him from hearing. If he heard her, he could do it again. He had no injuries, nothing to hinder him from pulling the trigger, from perhaps taking the other ear, or tearing holes in her heart. He could ruin her once more. Permanently.
Even after all these things she'd done, someone still had control over her. It was all she needed to hate him.
So, the first thing she did was raise the gun. Point it at the center, at his chest. Her arm, it wobbled so much, felt so unsteady. Maybe it wouldn't hit him there. Maybe it would go wild. Maybe it would hit him in the stomach, instead of the chest. A slower death, like Lucia's.
What the hell was she thinking?
One or two days ago, dread filled her every moment before, during, and after the act of murder. She hated herself every second she deprived Nina of oxygen, every second she watched Alice's essence spill on the ground, red on white. She hated herself the days afterward, this hate simply adding onto the rage and fear and regret she knew too well. But things were changing in her.
Perhaps, it had started with Zoe, at how she gleefully sent her spear towards her. But no, perhaps not there, because this was something she'd awaited for years, getting her revenge against Zoe. There would never be any regret with the act itself, only with how she'd fucked it up so badly, and how Zoe had fucked her up in the process. But not with killing her in itself. No, it was definitely with Lucia. Not one of Lucia's cries, begs for help meant a thing. The sight of Lucia bleeding out did not repeat itself over and over again, it did not haunt her like Nina did. It did not do anything. The same could be said for Jackson, although the act hadn't been done yet.
What it meant was that she'd done it. She finally confirmed it to herself. She was the soulless monster, the one who didn't blink when she pulled the trigger, the one who reveled in the dark. She was Jewel. She was Vahka. She was like so many of the SOTF villains.
She was a villain. And yet there was one thing she wasn't. She wasn't fearless, and she wasn't in control. And the reason, the one she could lay all the blame onto, was right in front of her.
She pulled the trigger.
She fired a few more shots, having roughly aimed her gun at where she thought she saw Corin. She waited a few more seconds, anticipated that loud bang, the ringing that followed. Maybe her last moment. But it didn't come, not yet. The casino didn't feel so claustrophobic anymore. She was no longer confined to her tiny, tiny shelter.
She slowly peeked out, checked for Corin, but saw no signs of him. She risked coming out from her cover and made some distance, going to the row of casino machines behind her.
And then she saw Jackson close by. Still whole, still relatively alright, while she was nothing but pieces stuck together with tape, just a parody of what it meant to be one object, one being. Her eyebrows scrunched and her lips quivered once more, but this was no trick. All of her wounds flared at once, the cut-off nerves and torn flesh burned tenfold, begged for revenge. She almost bent over in pain, but she stopped herself.
Her eyes drifted to the handgun in his hands. Her biggest failure. The thing that broke her. And her breathing, she struggled so hard to control it, to keep him from hearing. If he heard her, he could do it again. He had no injuries, nothing to hinder him from pulling the trigger, from perhaps taking the other ear, or tearing holes in her heart. He could ruin her once more. Permanently.
Even after all these things she'd done, someone still had control over her. It was all she needed to hate him.
So, the first thing she did was raise the gun. Point it at the center, at his chest. Her arm, it wobbled so much, felt so unsteady. Maybe it wouldn't hit him there. Maybe it would go wild. Maybe it would hit him in the stomach, instead of the chest. A slower death, like Lucia's.
What the hell was she thinking?
One or two days ago, dread filled her every moment before, during, and after the act of murder. She hated herself every second she deprived Nina of oxygen, every second she watched Alice's essence spill on the ground, red on white. She hated herself the days afterward, this hate simply adding onto the rage and fear and regret she knew too well. But things were changing in her.
Perhaps, it had started with Zoe, at how she gleefully sent her spear towards her. But no, perhaps not there, because this was something she'd awaited for years, getting her revenge against Zoe. There would never be any regret with the act itself, only with how she'd fucked it up so badly, and how Zoe had fucked her up in the process. But not with killing her in itself. No, it was definitely with Lucia. Not one of Lucia's cries, begs for help meant a thing. The sight of Lucia bleeding out did not repeat itself over and over again, it did not haunt her like Nina did. It did not do anything. The same could be said for Jackson, although the act hadn't been done yet.
What it meant was that she'd done it. She finally confirmed it to herself. She was the soulless monster, the one who didn't blink when she pulled the trigger, the one who reveled in the dark. She was Jewel. She was Vahka. She was like so many of the SOTF villains.
She was a villain. And yet there was one thing she wasn't. She wasn't fearless, and she wasn't in control. And the reason, the one she could lay all the blame onto, was right in front of her.
She pulled the trigger.
SC3:
Matias Juarez is fed up. He is currently walking home.
Pregame: now that you are broken by the seas, in the depths of the waters,
Memories: Vamô Detonar essa Porra!
Diego Larrosa is lost. pls give my kids friends tv3 version
Stephanie's Cuckaneers Today at 12:29 AM
maraoone was a mistake - cicada 2021
Matias Juarez is fed up. He is currently walking home.
Pregame: now that you are broken by the seas, in the depths of the waters,
Memories: Vamô Detonar essa Porra!
Diego Larrosa is lost. pls give my kids friends tv3 version
Stephanie's Cuckaneers Today at 12:29 AM
maraoone was a mistake - cicada 2021
-
General Goose
- Posts: 318
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:51 pm
And while all this was going on, a slightly drunken Yagmur was rambling to the camera, a melancholy attitude looming over every word, exasperation pervading through his tone. His glass of whisky was balanced between his thumb and index finger, being tilted to side, a little slosh of the drink tumbling out intermittently. He'd filled it all the way to the top, the wastefulness a sin Yags had never committed before.
"There's gotta be some way of stopping this shit," he pondered, adopting the posture and the vacant stare of an intoxicated philosopher, an archetype that in his life he had previously shown nothing but disdain for. "The development of new social norms, some kind of spontaneous shift away from this barbarous practice, some kind of new civil society push that reminds people just how fucked up this is."
"No, the moral argument's been lost for the foreseeable future." Long gone had the times when Yagmur kept his musings on the ethics of SOTF-TV to himself. He was an open book at this point, and had devolved into one of those fourth-wall-breaking assholes that spoke to the camera, yet another trope he hated. He now understood the appeal. "Maybe try using business. Law."
"Maybe my family should sue these fucks if they try to use my image for profit. Force them to respect their right to control how my image is used commercially." The thought came to him fast, but a chorus of doubts, of pragmatic recollections of the world's harsh realities, of accepting that his family would not be able to match their lawyers, of realising that even if they did one court case would represent a drop in the ocean.
"No, that won't work."
He didn't know why, but he assumed it wouldn't. Still, he decided to make one concession to optimism.
"Maybe. I don't know."
The appeal-to-better-entertainment strategy might carry some worth.
"This is shit TV. Stop watching it. Please. My recommendations for good entertainment options are probably already over the web by now."
He knew no-one was watching him. The editors probably wouldn't give him much air time. Not with gunshots in the other parts of the casino.
Yags was ignoring them. But he was angry at them.
Stealing his spot light.
"There's gotta be some way of stopping this shit," he pondered, adopting the posture and the vacant stare of an intoxicated philosopher, an archetype that in his life he had previously shown nothing but disdain for. "The development of new social norms, some kind of spontaneous shift away from this barbarous practice, some kind of new civil society push that reminds people just how fucked up this is."
"No, the moral argument's been lost for the foreseeable future." Long gone had the times when Yagmur kept his musings on the ethics of SOTF-TV to himself. He was an open book at this point, and had devolved into one of those fourth-wall-breaking assholes that spoke to the camera, yet another trope he hated. He now understood the appeal. "Maybe try using business. Law."
"Maybe my family should sue these fucks if they try to use my image for profit. Force them to respect their right to control how my image is used commercially." The thought came to him fast, but a chorus of doubts, of pragmatic recollections of the world's harsh realities, of accepting that his family would not be able to match their lawyers, of realising that even if they did one court case would represent a drop in the ocean.
"No, that won't work."
He didn't know why, but he assumed it wouldn't. Still, he decided to make one concession to optimism.
"Maybe. I don't know."
The appeal-to-better-entertainment strategy might carry some worth.
"This is shit TV. Stop watching it. Please. My recommendations for good entertainment options are probably already over the web by now."
He knew no-one was watching him. The editors probably wouldn't give him much air time. Not with gunshots in the other parts of the casino.
Yags was ignoring them. But he was angry at them.
Stealing his spot light.
-
Lord_Shadow
- Posts: 536
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:43 am
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
What is your name?
Anastasia Arcadia.
What is your name?
AnArchy.
What is your name?
Broken.
What is your name?
Broken.
I'm broken.
The girl cried and cried. She buried her head in her hands and wept. She didn't understand. Why was she so different? Why couldn't she just be like everyone else? Surely they didn't have to deal with this. They didn't need to—
You're weak. Fragile. Pathetic.
What? Why would you say that? She cried even more.
Because it's true. I was so stupid. So disgustingly frail. Guess I still am. Why else would I be remembering this feeling in the back of my mind?
I don't like you. Shut up. You're cruel. Just like everyone else.
That was all I ever wanted. All I ever wanted was to be like everyone else.
She walked in silence. But her mind buzzed with those thoughts. What a beautifully silly ideal she had as a child. Now she was like everyone else, a monster of a person, and it was just so stupid and silly that she had wanted this.
And she really was the same as everyone now. No joke, no parody, no imitation. She just openly displayed her rotten soul, the wretched being that was her humanity.
She stopped in her tracks, and burst out laughing. She laughed so hard her side ached. She didn't stop. Tears streamed down her face. She gripped her sword and ran it over her dress. Light enough not to cut her but into the fabric. She giggled as she cut over and over again, changing directions and angles, shredding the poor dress from the knees down. She gave a good downward cut between her legs from where she started cutting.
Better freedom of movement.
She stopped laughing.
"What's my name now? What's my fucking name?" She smiled and kept walking.
Anastasia Arcadia.
What is your name?
AnArchy.
What is your name?
Broken.
What is your name?
Broken.
I'm broken.
The girl cried and cried. She buried her head in her hands and wept. She didn't understand. Why was she so different? Why couldn't she just be like everyone else? Surely they didn't have to deal with this. They didn't need to—
You're weak. Fragile. Pathetic.
What? Why would you say that? She cried even more.
Because it's true. I was so stupid. So disgustingly frail. Guess I still am. Why else would I be remembering this feeling in the back of my mind?
I don't like you. Shut up. You're cruel. Just like everyone else.
That was all I ever wanted. All I ever wanted was to be like everyone else.
She walked in silence. But her mind buzzed with those thoughts. What a beautifully silly ideal she had as a child. Now she was like everyone else, a monster of a person, and it was just so stupid and silly that she had wanted this.
And she really was the same as everyone now. No joke, no parody, no imitation. She just openly displayed her rotten soul, the wretched being that was her humanity.
She stopped in her tracks, and burst out laughing. She laughed so hard her side ached. She didn't stop. Tears streamed down her face. She gripped her sword and ran it over her dress. Light enough not to cut her but into the fabric. She giggled as she cut over and over again, changing directions and angles, shredding the poor dress from the knees down. She gave a good downward cut between her legs from where she started cutting.
Better freedom of movement.
She stopped laughing.
"What's my name now? What's my fucking name?" She smiled and kept walking.
There was once a dumb psuedo-news line here. Now there's this pretentious nonsense. YOU1 DID THIS, YOU1 KNOW WHO YOU1 ARE!
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
Corin kept running, it didn’t matter if the audience didn’t get the show they were anticipating. They could have called him so many things and he wouldn’t have cared, he was doing what made sense to him and everyone else’s expectations could be damned. He was clear of that space, that’s what mattered, and that’s when he stopped to glance behind him. Gunfire cracked through the air in the distance, and he knew that it probably wasn’t meant for him, he had been gone far too long. Another fight was probably breaking out.
He stopped to catch his breath, by now sure that he hadn’t so much as clipped Cathryn. He didn’t think that his luck that stellar, his heuristic judgement told him as much, not to check on this occasion. He didn’t need to affirm it at that time. Now that there was time to pause he moved his shoulder, feeling around the fabric for the hole. Even with all the distance, his heart kept beating, as he examined the wound all he could feel was a mounting anxiety. It felt deeper than it was, but the wound was oozing with the agitation, it definitely tore through the integumentary layer. Not that he would have been aware of the technicalities, all he acknowledged was the pain and a gap somewhere that part of his body used to fill. Corin hissed as he tried to lift his arm, it was tender.
It was when he considered taking a moment to tend to it that he could hear an all too familiar laughter in the distance. The sound of Anarchy made him wince, and he exhaled deeply before muttering an assortment of expletives under his breath. He simply wanted time to check the wound, and she just had to show up. Whatever Anarchy was saying was unintelligible to him, she was too far to hear the exact conversation but it didn’t matter. His knee jerk response was to try and get her attention, and he almost caved into the urge to scream at her and insult her, but on second thought he stifled the words in his mouth. Instead he decided to listen for the sounds; hopefully she wouldn’t even know that he was coming after her. He couldn't see her, so he started moving based on an approximation of where the sound had come from.
He started to walk in an aggressive stride, reloading the gun as he wondered where she was exactly.
He stopped to catch his breath, by now sure that he hadn’t so much as clipped Cathryn. He didn’t think that his luck that stellar, his heuristic judgement told him as much, not to check on this occasion. He didn’t need to affirm it at that time. Now that there was time to pause he moved his shoulder, feeling around the fabric for the hole. Even with all the distance, his heart kept beating, as he examined the wound all he could feel was a mounting anxiety. It felt deeper than it was, but the wound was oozing with the agitation, it definitely tore through the integumentary layer. Not that he would have been aware of the technicalities, all he acknowledged was the pain and a gap somewhere that part of his body used to fill. Corin hissed as he tried to lift his arm, it was tender.
It was when he considered taking a moment to tend to it that he could hear an all too familiar laughter in the distance. The sound of Anarchy made him wince, and he exhaled deeply before muttering an assortment of expletives under his breath. He simply wanted time to check the wound, and she just had to show up. Whatever Anarchy was saying was unintelligible to him, she was too far to hear the exact conversation but it didn’t matter. His knee jerk response was to try and get her attention, and he almost caved into the urge to scream at her and insult her, but on second thought he stifled the words in his mouth. Instead he decided to listen for the sounds; hopefully she wouldn’t even know that he was coming after her. He couldn't see her, so he started moving based on an approximation of where the sound had come from.
He started to walk in an aggressive stride, reloading the gun as he wondered where she was exactly.
Jackson didn't see the shooter, not at first, as he slinked between the slot machines. The muzzle flash took precedence in his vision, filled his eyes before there was a sharp pain, a heat, and then, numbness. He had enough time to parse that it was Cathryn.
Christ, I didn't get her
before he threw himself behind a machine with a gaudy neon Stetson hat topping its marquis. The blood was running down and staining the right arm of his jacket, below a hole that looked like it lined up with one of the bones. It certainly felt like it hit the bone. Jackson couldn't move it under his own power, so it hung, limply, to meet the carpet. His other hand, still holding the gun, clasped there as he grit his teeth against the dull, throbbing pain. He wondered dimly how much blood he could lose before dying.
He tried to weigh his options, an escape route, a chance to shoot back, but he was coming up empty. Instead, Jackson bled and waited.
Christ, I didn't get her
before he threw himself behind a machine with a gaudy neon Stetson hat topping its marquis. The blood was running down and staining the right arm of his jacket, below a hole that looked like it lined up with one of the bones. It certainly felt like it hit the bone. Jackson couldn't move it under his own power, so it hung, limply, to meet the carpet. His other hand, still holding the gun, clasped there as he grit his teeth against the dull, throbbing pain. He wondered dimly how much blood he could lose before dying.
He tried to weigh his options, an escape route, a chance to shoot back, but he was coming up empty. Instead, Jackson bled and waited.
((Contents of post subject to change.))
"They match."
Cathryn pointed with her gun at Jackson's wound, then looked at her own right arm. This was the first thing she noticed, the wounds. Maybe she should make the wounds match even more. Fire another bullet below that wound. Blow off a bit of his ear. That would be nice.
The second thing she noticed was that, even though he was slumped against the machine, cornered, trapped, he still held some semblance of control. Not like Lucia at all. His handgun was still in his hands, still ready to obliterate her at any moment. She still shook when looking at him, at this gun. And she hated him for that, hated this living representation of everything that had pursued Cathryn on the island. She hated him, feared him, regretted messing up with him. Regret, hate, terror, all lying before Cathryn at this very moment, ready to be destroyed.
What she should have done next was just that. She should have aimed better, pulled the trigger, and moved on to the next person, the next obstacle. It would've been simpler, safer. But she didn't. She let her gun hang at the side. Perhaps it was because she deserved to talk for a while with the man who broke her. Let him know how she felt, maybe. Maybe talking to him, ruling over him would vanquish the last remnants of fear, she thought. A few more words wouldn't hurt, right?
"So, what, you up for one last talk before I get it over with?"
"They match."
Cathryn pointed with her gun at Jackson's wound, then looked at her own right arm. This was the first thing she noticed, the wounds. Maybe she should make the wounds match even more. Fire another bullet below that wound. Blow off a bit of his ear. That would be nice.
The second thing she noticed was that, even though he was slumped against the machine, cornered, trapped, he still held some semblance of control. Not like Lucia at all. His handgun was still in his hands, still ready to obliterate her at any moment. She still shook when looking at him, at this gun. And she hated him for that, hated this living representation of everything that had pursued Cathryn on the island. She hated him, feared him, regretted messing up with him. Regret, hate, terror, all lying before Cathryn at this very moment, ready to be destroyed.
What she should have done next was just that. She should have aimed better, pulled the trigger, and moved on to the next person, the next obstacle. It would've been simpler, safer. But she didn't. She let her gun hang at the side. Perhaps it was because she deserved to talk for a while with the man who broke her. Let him know how she felt, maybe. Maybe talking to him, ruling over him would vanquish the last remnants of fear, she thought. A few more words wouldn't hurt, right?
"So, what, you up for one last talk before I get it over with?"
SC3:
Matias Juarez is fed up. He is currently walking home.
Pregame: now that you are broken by the seas, in the depths of the waters,
Memories: Vamô Detonar essa Porra!
Diego Larrosa is lost. pls give my kids friends tv3 version
Stephanie's Cuckaneers Today at 12:29 AM
maraoone was a mistake - cicada 2021
Matias Juarez is fed up. He is currently walking home.
Pregame: now that you are broken by the seas, in the depths of the waters,
Memories: Vamô Detonar essa Porra!
Diego Larrosa is lost. pls give my kids friends tv3 version
Stephanie's Cuckaneers Today at 12:29 AM
maraoone was a mistake - cicada 2021
-
General Goose
- Posts: 318
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:51 pm
((Apologise for short length))
Yagmur, in contrast, couldn't be making more boring television if he tried. He was sitting there, drinking, thinking up insults for Ana.
Yagmur, in contrast, couldn't be making more boring television if he tried. He was sitting there, drinking, thinking up insults for Ana.