The bullets hit her in the side, one after another, and before she knew it she just toppled over, was on the ground.
Pain. The word itself wasn't good enough. Pain was something like when you got a shot at the doctor's office. It hurt but if you knew it was coming it wasn't all that bad.
Kathy hadn't been expecting it. And it wasn't just pain. More like agony. It hurt and her mind was wiped suddenly blank and all she could do was take a couple pained breaths, lying on the ground. Her hands were clutching her side and she knew - she knew a lot of things.
Her hands were wet, her side was wet. Karen must have shot her. She knew that. She was going to die, probably. She knew that. Why had Karen done it? ...She thought she knew that too. They had just gone over it. It was the only reason, the will to live. The specifics didn't matter, whether Karen shot her because she was too much of a liability, or a threat, or anything in between.
It hurt when she came back to reality, felt the full force of the agony that came from her wounds. For once she was glad she was tired, because it dulled the pain, if but an infinitesmal amount.
Then she realized something else, as she lay there, the red wetness slowly spreading across her shirt.
Her notebook.
Moved her hands a little, her arms. It was so hard now; why was it so hard?
She was on her back now, somehow. But it didn't matter, almost nothing mattered now. Ignore the pain - ignore it for now, please - get that notebook.
How long did she have? Twenty breaths? Thirty breaths? Just one more goal. It was all that mattered now.
Her fingers closed around the notebook.
She lifted it.
Tried to look Karen in the eyes again, one last time.
"Take it," she said, trying to control her voice but failing. "Please - I won't need it anymore."
She felt a little betrayed but she understood, and this wasn't some sort of revenge. She wanted Karen to have it. Wanted her to understand if she didn't already, whatever there was to understand. And because it was final.
No last words, no epilogue. Kathy Clements would write no more.
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MurderWeasel
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Karen watched Kathy fall, watched the blood begin to spread. She held the Glock, kept it pointed at Kathy, but did not pull the trigger again. There was no need, unless Kathy tried for some sort of last-second retribution. Karen didn't expect it of her, though. It didn't seem to fit. Of course, she would still be prepared. She had learned the hard way that she was a poor judge of probable reactions.
It was not particularly comfortable, watching Kathy die. It was awkward, somehow, like she was perhaps intruding on something, or had made some social faux pas that nobody was willing to just come forth and notify her of.
Still, she didn't turn away, and that turned out to be the right choice. Kathy reached out and grabbed something. Karen nearly flinched and fired, but she managed to keep control as she saw that Kathy was holding her notebook. That wasn't right. That made no sense. And as she raised it up, as she held it out to Karen and told her to take it, as she passed what had seemed so important to her on to her killer, Karen wondered if she would ever begin to understand what was happening at this moment. She had no idea what to do, so she just reached out and took hold of the notebook.
She felt like maybe she was supposed to say something here, but nothing made any sense, so she stayed silent.
It was not particularly comfortable, watching Kathy die. It was awkward, somehow, like she was perhaps intruding on something, or had made some social faux pas that nobody was willing to just come forth and notify her of.
Still, she didn't turn away, and that turned out to be the right choice. Kathy reached out and grabbed something. Karen nearly flinched and fired, but she managed to keep control as she saw that Kathy was holding her notebook. That wasn't right. That made no sense. And as she raised it up, as she held it out to Karen and told her to take it, as she passed what had seemed so important to her on to her killer, Karen wondered if she would ever begin to understand what was happening at this moment. She had no idea what to do, so she just reached out and took hold of the notebook.
She felt like maybe she was supposed to say something here, but nothing made any sense, so she stayed silent.
Kathy felt the weight lift off her fingers, and then a weight lifted off of her as well.
Relief. It was an odd feeling, the feeling she had had when she had finished her first novel, typed the last word onto the page. Of course there was always editing, but it was truly exhilarating, in a way, to be finished.
Finished. She was finished. No more words to say. Nothing more to do. No one to lose. She was done.
The pain was numb now, and she felt her body relax, her head finally coming to rest on the ground.
The sky was beautiful - the stars were just beginning to come out.
Life was a series of happy endings, she realized. No one knows how to end the book, but every little victory counted. And she knew why she'd said it all that time ago. Because death didn't matter. Life did - it was the things in life that mattered.
Why dwell on the ending? Did it really matter how you died, when you died?
She had been a coward at times. Unassertive, willing to let others push her around. She'd given off bad signals, maybe. Tim, Renee, Peter, Lynn, Josh... The same litany of names. If she met them again someday, perhaps she'd apologize. Even if there was nothing to apologize for. But for now, she let it go.
She wanted to grow old. She wasn't going to, now. Let it go.
She wanted, maybe, to meet someone, get married, have children eventually. She wasn't going to, now. Let it go.
She wanted to see her parents again, her sisters. She wasn't going to, now. Let it go.
Maybe if she just lay there, and counted each star, and imagined each as a happy ending...
She could see the stars now, winking at her in the night.
One more word. Was it too much to ask for? She was tired - but she would have all eternity to sleep in just a moment. So there was just one more word she wanted to say.
Moved her finger, ever so slightly, the most she was able. The pain was numb now, everything was fading away. Pointed at the smogless sky, at the stars.
"Look."
It wasn't a happy ending, but it was good enough for her.
She closed her eyes.
ORA5: Katherine "Kathy" Clements, Deceased.
Relief. It was an odd feeling, the feeling she had had when she had finished her first novel, typed the last word onto the page. Of course there was always editing, but it was truly exhilarating, in a way, to be finished.
Finished. She was finished. No more words to say. Nothing more to do. No one to lose. She was done.
The pain was numb now, and she felt her body relax, her head finally coming to rest on the ground.
The sky was beautiful - the stars were just beginning to come out.
Life was a series of happy endings, she realized. No one knows how to end the book, but every little victory counted. And she knew why she'd said it all that time ago. Because death didn't matter. Life did - it was the things in life that mattered.
Why dwell on the ending? Did it really matter how you died, when you died?
She had been a coward at times. Unassertive, willing to let others push her around. She'd given off bad signals, maybe. Tim, Renee, Peter, Lynn, Josh... The same litany of names. If she met them again someday, perhaps she'd apologize. Even if there was nothing to apologize for. But for now, she let it go.
She wanted to grow old. She wasn't going to, now. Let it go.
She wanted, maybe, to meet someone, get married, have children eventually. She wasn't going to, now. Let it go.
She wanted to see her parents again, her sisters. She wasn't going to, now. Let it go.
Maybe if she just lay there, and counted each star, and imagined each as a happy ending...
She could see the stars now, winking at her in the night.
One more word. Was it too much to ask for? She was tired - but she would have all eternity to sleep in just a moment. So there was just one more word she wanted to say.
Moved her finger, ever so slightly, the most she was able. The pain was numb now, everything was fading away. Pointed at the smogless sky, at the stars.
"Look."
It wasn't a happy ending, but it was good enough for her.
She closed her eyes.
ORA5: Katherine "Kathy" Clements, Deceased.
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MurderWeasel
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Karen looked. She looked into the sky for a long, long time. She didn't know what she was supposed to see. Maybe she never had. It didn't really matter, though. Kathy was gone. Nothing would change that. Soon enough, Karen would gather up her things, would rifle Kathy's pack for anything worth having, anything that could increase her chances. For now, though, she had something else to occupy her attention. She looked at the journal in her hands. It was strange. It felt wrong for her to have this. It felt like maybe it should have gone to Kathy's family or something. It didn't matter. Karen had it now, so she opened it up and began to read, periodically checking her surroundings.
What she found did not please her. There was not much writing, but there was enough. There was enough to tell Karen that she had made hasty assumptions, that she had been wrong.
Then he tripped, fell on his knife and died. I think I just made it worse - I pressed a button or something on the knife on accident, and that killed him right away.
Karen didn't doubt the truth of the writing for a moment. There was a difference between a hasty lie and a well-orchestrated plan. Had Kathy been lying, she would have produced the journal as evidence before her death. Karen knelt, retrieved Kathy's orange bandanna and her pack, and began sorting through her belongings. She found a blue bandanna, and pocketed it without really thinking. It wasn't what she was looking for. For a moment, she wondered if she would come across it at all. Then, she found something heavier. There it was, wrapped in an orange tank top: some sort of knife. Sure enough, there was a button on it. Pointing it away from herself, Karen pressed the button. Nothing happened. Whatever this weapon was, it was expended. Still good as a knife, though. She tucked it into a pocket without really thinking about it.
She was distracting herself. She was trying to avoid facing unpleasant facts. That was wrong. That was stupid. That was letting her emotions make her weak.
Karen had murdered Kathy. She had gunned down one of the few people she cared about, in cold blood. She had done so on the loosest of conjecture. It was an action born of fear, true, but only in part. It was also an action born of greed.
Seven. She'd been hiding from the numbers, from her kill count. She'd been trying to pretend that all her actions were coldly logical. Shooting for ten was a sucker's game. It was a good way to die. She had chosen, quite consciously, not to do things that way.
Liar.
Her eyes were stinging a little. She wasn't crying. Couldn't be. The truth was, though, she'd been doing things wrong for a long time now. She'd gotten her two opponents. She'd gotten what she needed to be safe. She had just kept pushing, though, had kept goading and attacking, all in the name of keeping safe. Lies. It was all lies. She'd been scared, yes, but not scared that each of those people would or could kill her. She'd been scared—no, she was scared—that she wouldn't be good enough, that she would make it to the end and would die anyways. She knew that each minute here was fraught with danger, with opportunities to die. And so she had taken to murdering. Not killing, not eliminating—that cold and clinical euphemism had no place here, not anymore—but murdering, murdering kids with friends and families and hopes and dreams and fears, fears just like hers.
At some point in there, she'd come halfway to being what she feared.
Karen wiped her eyes, looked at the book. Checked her surroundings. Tied the orange bandanna to her arm, wincing as it pressed on the bruising. It was the first repeated color. Everyone else had been unconnected. She toyed with the idea of contacting Vincent over the walkie-talkie, of harassing him, of trying to distract him in some way, but it seemed petty and pointless.
After all, she'd probably never be meeting Vincent again.
Three opponents. No, three murders.
Three murders was all that stood between Karen and freedom. It might hurt. It might be tough. It might be dangerous. It might be terrifying. She could do it, though. She'd done it in the past, done it more than twice over. She'd held together under fire, in the face of foes she knew and ones she didn't. She had gunned down one of the only people she genuinely liked, in cold blood. She wasn't going off to hide, not after that. If she did, it was the same as throwing all those lives away, the same as smoothing the path out for some sadist to roll their way out of here. Karen wasn't stupid. She could be deceptive, from time to time, especially towards herself, but that was done now. The word murder no longer held the fear it had once carried. She knew exactly what she had to do, and how she had to do it. All that remained was the execution.
She checked her gear, packed it for quick movement, if necessary, then switched to the other side of the bench, so she wouldn't have to look at Kathy. She forced down another generous helping of her hoarded rations, even though she felt absolutely no hunger. What she did feel was a burning anxiety, crossed with something that almost approximated excitement, not at the prospect of more death, but at the possibility of leaving, of living. It was so, so close. Three murders. She could do it.
And as she leaned back, as she considered her next move, a stray thought flashed through her mind:
Maybe I will find out what happens in the end, Kathy.
What she found did not please her. There was not much writing, but there was enough. There was enough to tell Karen that she had made hasty assumptions, that she had been wrong.
Then he tripped, fell on his knife and died. I think I just made it worse - I pressed a button or something on the knife on accident, and that killed him right away.
Karen didn't doubt the truth of the writing for a moment. There was a difference between a hasty lie and a well-orchestrated plan. Had Kathy been lying, she would have produced the journal as evidence before her death. Karen knelt, retrieved Kathy's orange bandanna and her pack, and began sorting through her belongings. She found a blue bandanna, and pocketed it without really thinking. It wasn't what she was looking for. For a moment, she wondered if she would come across it at all. Then, she found something heavier. There it was, wrapped in an orange tank top: some sort of knife. Sure enough, there was a button on it. Pointing it away from herself, Karen pressed the button. Nothing happened. Whatever this weapon was, it was expended. Still good as a knife, though. She tucked it into a pocket without really thinking about it.
She was distracting herself. She was trying to avoid facing unpleasant facts. That was wrong. That was stupid. That was letting her emotions make her weak.
Karen had murdered Kathy. She had gunned down one of the few people she cared about, in cold blood. She had done so on the loosest of conjecture. It was an action born of fear, true, but only in part. It was also an action born of greed.
Seven. She'd been hiding from the numbers, from her kill count. She'd been trying to pretend that all her actions were coldly logical. Shooting for ten was a sucker's game. It was a good way to die. She had chosen, quite consciously, not to do things that way.
Liar.
Her eyes were stinging a little. She wasn't crying. Couldn't be. The truth was, though, she'd been doing things wrong for a long time now. She'd gotten her two opponents. She'd gotten what she needed to be safe. She had just kept pushing, though, had kept goading and attacking, all in the name of keeping safe. Lies. It was all lies. She'd been scared, yes, but not scared that each of those people would or could kill her. She'd been scared—no, she was scared—that she wouldn't be good enough, that she would make it to the end and would die anyways. She knew that each minute here was fraught with danger, with opportunities to die. And so she had taken to murdering. Not killing, not eliminating—that cold and clinical euphemism had no place here, not anymore—but murdering, murdering kids with friends and families and hopes and dreams and fears, fears just like hers.
At some point in there, she'd come halfway to being what she feared.
Karen wiped her eyes, looked at the book. Checked her surroundings. Tied the orange bandanna to her arm, wincing as it pressed on the bruising. It was the first repeated color. Everyone else had been unconnected. She toyed with the idea of contacting Vincent over the walkie-talkie, of harassing him, of trying to distract him in some way, but it seemed petty and pointless.
After all, she'd probably never be meeting Vincent again.
Three opponents. No, three murders.
Three murders was all that stood between Karen and freedom. It might hurt. It might be tough. It might be dangerous. It might be terrifying. She could do it, though. She'd done it in the past, done it more than twice over. She'd held together under fire, in the face of foes she knew and ones she didn't. She had gunned down one of the only people she genuinely liked, in cold blood. She wasn't going off to hide, not after that. If she did, it was the same as throwing all those lives away, the same as smoothing the path out for some sadist to roll their way out of here. Karen wasn't stupid. She could be deceptive, from time to time, especially towards herself, but that was done now. The word murder no longer held the fear it had once carried. She knew exactly what she had to do, and how she had to do it. All that remained was the execution.
She checked her gear, packed it for quick movement, if necessary, then switched to the other side of the bench, so she wouldn't have to look at Kathy. She forced down another generous helping of her hoarded rations, even though she felt absolutely no hunger. What she did feel was a burning anxiety, crossed with something that almost approximated excitement, not at the prospect of more death, but at the possibility of leaving, of living. It was so, so close. Three murders. She could do it.
And as she leaned back, as she considered her next move, a stray thought flashed through her mind:
Maybe I will find out what happens in the end, Kathy.
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MurderWeasel
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Karen had sunk into a strange state, a sort of paranoid reverie, not really thinking, but reflexively checking and rechecking her surroundings. She had Kathy's cane on her lap, now, fiddling with it every few seconds. Something about it struck her as suspicious. Kathy had had a knife, and yet she had chosen to keep the less useful item with her. The cane also had a joint, up near the top, one that twisted easily. Karen was not giving it much attention, because she was hesitant to let the Glock out of her hands for long. She had reloaded it by now, almost automatically. The lone remaining loose bullet was stuffed into one of her pockets.
Several things happened at once. With a final twist, the cane came apart, revealing a blade. A gust of wind swept through the area, blowing Karen's hair into her face, blinding her for half a second. A screech of static came from somewhere nearby, certainly not the announcements. Karen jumped, spun, sword in hand, regretting having laid her Glock down, even momentarily. She was about to be ambushed. It was that easy to screw up, to get killed. She was about to be thrown into yet another desperate struggle for survival.
After the sound continued for a second, Karen noticed that it was coming from her belt, rather than some horrible weapon being pointed in her direction. She pulled the walkie talkie off of it, realizing that she had either neglected to turn it off or it had been reactivated at some point during her scuffles.
Her heart rate began to drop, the adrenaline slowly leaving her system as she gave the immediate area a look. Still quiet. The noise hadn't attracted anyone. She returned the sword to the cane casing and picked her Glock back up as the walkie talkie began to speak.
“Hey Karen. Are you still alive?”
Vincent. For some reason, he'd decided to speak with her. Karen dialed the volume down on the walkie talkie, until it was barely at the level she could hear. The right thing to do here would probably be to be flippant, respond with a witty "Nah, you killed me, remember?" or something like that, but she didn't have the stomach for it. Perhaps she should have simply thrown the thing away, removed it as a liability. Instead, she checked that all her things were in order and ready to be moved quickly if trouble turned up, then lifted it to her mouth, fiddled with it to find the proper button, and replied.
"Yes."
Several things happened at once. With a final twist, the cane came apart, revealing a blade. A gust of wind swept through the area, blowing Karen's hair into her face, blinding her for half a second. A screech of static came from somewhere nearby, certainly not the announcements. Karen jumped, spun, sword in hand, regretting having laid her Glock down, even momentarily. She was about to be ambushed. It was that easy to screw up, to get killed. She was about to be thrown into yet another desperate struggle for survival.
After the sound continued for a second, Karen noticed that it was coming from her belt, rather than some horrible weapon being pointed in her direction. She pulled the walkie talkie off of it, realizing that she had either neglected to turn it off or it had been reactivated at some point during her scuffles.
Her heart rate began to drop, the adrenaline slowly leaving her system as she gave the immediate area a look. Still quiet. The noise hadn't attracted anyone. She returned the sword to the cane casing and picked her Glock back up as the walkie talkie began to speak.
“Hey Karen. Are you still alive?”
Vincent. For some reason, he'd decided to speak with her. Karen dialed the volume down on the walkie talkie, until it was barely at the level she could hear. The right thing to do here would probably be to be flippant, respond with a witty "Nah, you killed me, remember?" or something like that, but she didn't have the stomach for it. Perhaps she should have simply thrown the thing away, removed it as a liability. Instead, she checked that all her things were in order and ready to be moved quickly if trouble turned up, then lifted it to her mouth, fiddled with it to find the proper button, and replied.
"Yes."
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MurderWeasel
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Karen didn't have to wait long for a reply.
“Shame,” Vincent's voice replied, “Though I guess I should be grateful nobody’s killed you yet, means I can still pay you back for running out on our duel. Bet it wasn’t for lack of trying though was it? How many people have you murdered since we last spoke like this?”
An hour ago, Karen would have ended the conversation there, would have tried desperately to distance herself from that simple little word. Murder. An ugly term for an ugly idea. Didn't make it any less necessary. Maybe Vincent knew. Maybe he was posturing. That seemed more likely. Karen hardly cared. She saw an opportunity here, a chance to gain some useful intelligence on a known adversary. Vincent had already given her more information that he had probably counted on. He was after her, coming for revenge. That was a scary concept. Karen was getting just a little bit sick of always being the scared one. Vincent wasn't so tough. Perhaps it was time to spread the fear a little.
It took her a moment to count before replying.
"Three," she said. "One orange. You?"
It felt like a betrayal, using her mistake as a weapon, like a little dig at Kathy. She hadn't deserved her fate, hadn't deserved to be forced onto a team with the likes of Vincent. Karen had a fleeting wish that Kathy's bandanna had been purple. Of course, that would have changed nothing; it was only the killing of Kathy that had led Karen to realize what a waste of energy attacking her teammates was. After all, they didn't count towards the ten. Whatever happened at the end, whatever betrayals were forced to take place, Karen had no intention of being around to see it.
Funny, how priorities could change.
“Shame,” Vincent's voice replied, “Though I guess I should be grateful nobody’s killed you yet, means I can still pay you back for running out on our duel. Bet it wasn’t for lack of trying though was it? How many people have you murdered since we last spoke like this?”
An hour ago, Karen would have ended the conversation there, would have tried desperately to distance herself from that simple little word. Murder. An ugly term for an ugly idea. Didn't make it any less necessary. Maybe Vincent knew. Maybe he was posturing. That seemed more likely. Karen hardly cared. She saw an opportunity here, a chance to gain some useful intelligence on a known adversary. Vincent had already given her more information that he had probably counted on. He was after her, coming for revenge. That was a scary concept. Karen was getting just a little bit sick of always being the scared one. Vincent wasn't so tough. Perhaps it was time to spread the fear a little.
It took her a moment to count before replying.
"Three," she said. "One orange. You?"
It felt like a betrayal, using her mistake as a weapon, like a little dig at Kathy. She hadn't deserved her fate, hadn't deserved to be forced onto a team with the likes of Vincent. Karen had a fleeting wish that Kathy's bandanna had been purple. Of course, that would have changed nothing; it was only the killing of Kathy that had led Karen to realize what a waste of energy attacking her teammates was. After all, they didn't count towards the ten. Whatever happened at the end, whatever betrayals were forced to take place, Karen had no intention of being around to see it.
Funny, how priorities could change.
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MurderWeasel
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“Oh yeah?” Vincent replied, “You really shouldn’t target my teammates because you missed your chance at me Karen, it makes you seem petty. I only killed one, but she put up quite a fight. I probably should have just shot her, but sometimes I just like to get my hands dirty if you know what I mean? Course you do.”—the briefest of pauses, then he continued—“So, was it anyone I knew?”
The amount of bluster and speech was entirely disproportionate to the subject matter, in Karen's mind, entirely at odds with the gravity of the situation. Then again, that was Vincent. He was a bragger, it seemed. He was also doing one of her least favorite things, peppering her with rhetorical questions and generally just talking to hear his own voice. It was one of the few things that had occasionally provoked a negative response from Karen back at school. She would respond as briefly as possible, then watch people trip over themselves trying to figure out what she'd meant.
Here, though, that seemed irrelevant. Vincent was telling her more than he would probably ever know. He had informed her that he had a gun still, that he wasn't using it for some reason. He had let her know that he thought she was specifically going after him, making it personal. He had told her that he liked this all, that he was enjoying himself. That little snippet spiked Karen's irritation, and she very nearly bit back with a retort, very nearly explained that that was exactly why she was nearly done with her tenure here, while he was still poking around getting into fights. The smart thing was not to fight: it was to murder, to ambush, to kill dirty and quick.
Karen said none of this. It was, upon reflection, not something she really wanted to express to Vincent. It was far better for her if he completely failed to grasp those concepts. He was dangerous enough making stupid moves. No reason to prompt him to reconsider.
"Kathy Clements," Karen said. She realized that she only knew Kathy's last name because of the diary. "She killed a boy on Blue Team."
That was an assumption, based on the spare bandanna Karen had found among Kathy's belongings. It didn't really matter what the affiliation of Kathy's erstwhile companion had been, though. The key was to make Vincent think he'd lost a useful ally. Maybe it was partly so he wouldn't insult Kathy, too, wouldn't call her useless or dead weight. Karen wouldn't have liked that, not one bit.
The amount of bluster and speech was entirely disproportionate to the subject matter, in Karen's mind, entirely at odds with the gravity of the situation. Then again, that was Vincent. He was a bragger, it seemed. He was also doing one of her least favorite things, peppering her with rhetorical questions and generally just talking to hear his own voice. It was one of the few things that had occasionally provoked a negative response from Karen back at school. She would respond as briefly as possible, then watch people trip over themselves trying to figure out what she'd meant.
Here, though, that seemed irrelevant. Vincent was telling her more than he would probably ever know. He had informed her that he had a gun still, that he wasn't using it for some reason. He had let her know that he thought she was specifically going after him, making it personal. He had told her that he liked this all, that he was enjoying himself. That little snippet spiked Karen's irritation, and she very nearly bit back with a retort, very nearly explained that that was exactly why she was nearly done with her tenure here, while he was still poking around getting into fights. The smart thing was not to fight: it was to murder, to ambush, to kill dirty and quick.
Karen said none of this. It was, upon reflection, not something she really wanted to express to Vincent. It was far better for her if he completely failed to grasp those concepts. He was dangerous enough making stupid moves. No reason to prompt him to reconsider.
"Kathy Clements," Karen said. She realized that she only knew Kathy's last name because of the diary. "She killed a boy on Blue Team."
That was an assumption, based on the spare bandanna Karen had found among Kathy's belongings. It didn't really matter what the affiliation of Kathy's erstwhile companion had been, though. The key was to make Vincent think he'd lost a useful ally. Maybe it was partly so he wouldn't insult Kathy, too, wouldn't call her useless or dead weight. Karen wouldn't have liked that, not one bit.
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MurderWeasel
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“Kathy huh? Don’t know her. Guess it doesn’t matter now, thanks to you,” Vincent said, and Karen hated him a little more for it.
The jab did not deserve a response. Vincent was a killer, not out of necessity, but out of pleasure. He was exactly the sort of person Karen had always known lurked within the halls of her school and the streets of her city. He was the sort of person who made this game possible. She was guilty in her own ways, of course. After all, she had been the one to kick this entire bloodbath off. The rationale was very different, though. She would never be like Vincent, because she would never enjoy this. She wouldn't even enjoy putting a bullet between Vincent's eyes, not really. The idea held a bit of satisfaction. Only a little.
For a few moments, Karen wondered if that would be the end of the little interlude. Vincent didn't seem the sort to have a long span of patience, and Karen was not being particularly forthcoming with her responses. If Vincent was expecting her to work to hold up her end of the discussion, he was in for a disappointment.
Karen looked around, watching for any signs of movement. Thus far, there was nothing. A few seconds later, she realized, with some horror, that she had been standing for minutes now, silhouetting herself against the sky at the top of a hill. She could have been killed several times over, easily. She knelt down on the ground, hopefully merging her shape with that of the bench enough to avoid a cursory inspection. Once again, she was glad for the dark color of her clothes, despite the heat that had her drinking water fairly constantly.
“What does that make now Karen, six, seven kills?” Vincent's voice said again. “I’ll admit I’m a little impressed. But I’m wondering how a girl like you goes from being the quiet one in the corner to the name on all the announcements, the killer everyone fears. How long did it take you to become a killer Karen, or have you always been this way?”
It was another baiting question, but it was one Karen could actually answer. She had in the past, at that. For a moment, she wondered what had happened to Mason, whether someone had managed to catch and kill him yet. She decided she didn't really care.
"Seven. It took me a few hours to succeed. About thirty minutes to start trying. The reason is simple: I would like to survive."
She took a breath, considered. Information had been paid out; now it was time to take some in.
"And you?"
The jab did not deserve a response. Vincent was a killer, not out of necessity, but out of pleasure. He was exactly the sort of person Karen had always known lurked within the halls of her school and the streets of her city. He was the sort of person who made this game possible. She was guilty in her own ways, of course. After all, she had been the one to kick this entire bloodbath off. The rationale was very different, though. She would never be like Vincent, because she would never enjoy this. She wouldn't even enjoy putting a bullet between Vincent's eyes, not really. The idea held a bit of satisfaction. Only a little.
For a few moments, Karen wondered if that would be the end of the little interlude. Vincent didn't seem the sort to have a long span of patience, and Karen was not being particularly forthcoming with her responses. If Vincent was expecting her to work to hold up her end of the discussion, he was in for a disappointment.
Karen looked around, watching for any signs of movement. Thus far, there was nothing. A few seconds later, she realized, with some horror, that she had been standing for minutes now, silhouetting herself against the sky at the top of a hill. She could have been killed several times over, easily. She knelt down on the ground, hopefully merging her shape with that of the bench enough to avoid a cursory inspection. Once again, she was glad for the dark color of her clothes, despite the heat that had her drinking water fairly constantly.
“What does that make now Karen, six, seven kills?” Vincent's voice said again. “I’ll admit I’m a little impressed. But I’m wondering how a girl like you goes from being the quiet one in the corner to the name on all the announcements, the killer everyone fears. How long did it take you to become a killer Karen, or have you always been this way?”
It was another baiting question, but it was one Karen could actually answer. She had in the past, at that. For a moment, she wondered what had happened to Mason, whether someone had managed to catch and kill him yet. She decided she didn't really care.
"Seven. It took me a few hours to succeed. About thirty minutes to start trying. The reason is simple: I would like to survive."
She took a breath, considered. Information had been paid out; now it was time to take some in.
"And you?"
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3449
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- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Vincent's reply took a little while to come. Karen waited, keeping watch. If anyone started shooting, she would drop the walkie talkie, get under the table for cover, and get a better grip on her Glock. The other pistol was in her left-hand pocket, the knife in the right. The swordcane was on the bench. The rifle was crammed awkwardly into her backpack, the barrel protruding slightly. Her medical supplies, food, and water were all packed away, along with her improvised alarm equipment. She was hoping not to have to use that again. Ideally she would be gone before fatigue overtook her to the point that further rest became necessary.
“I must have woken up after you; it only took me about an hour to get my first kill but it was after yours on the announcement. He had a gun, I didn’t, I knew he would use it so I took it from him; simple as that," Vincent said. "Still, seven kills is a lot more than surviving Karen; it might have started that way but… was it really necessary to keep killing till you got to this point?”
Interesting. Apparently Vincent was not only somewhat dull; he was also unambitious. That, or he'd managed to forget the rules, perhaps too caught up in the thrill of it all. Karen wasn't exactly sure if explaining would be a mistake. Prompting a rampage on Vincent's part would not in any way be beneficial to her, or, for that matter, to the remaining people she held any feelings for on this island.
In this instant, though, she didn't care.
"Seven is nothing," she said. "The only numbers that matter are one and ten."
She wondered if Vincent was perceptive enough to realize why, that they were the numbers of murders required to survive. Kill ten people, go free. Kill the only other person standing, go free. Anything else, anything more or less, any trauma and pain and tension and effort, was entirely pointless. Killing for pointless reasons was very upsetting to Karen. It was what Vincent did, what people who didn't think did. It was all about emotion and sadism, spreading the hurt to feel better about yourself. Karen would take honesty over that any day.
And then, quickly enough, she changed the topic.
"Why are you killing?"
“I must have woken up after you; it only took me about an hour to get my first kill but it was after yours on the announcement. He had a gun, I didn’t, I knew he would use it so I took it from him; simple as that," Vincent said. "Still, seven kills is a lot more than surviving Karen; it might have started that way but… was it really necessary to keep killing till you got to this point?”
Interesting. Apparently Vincent was not only somewhat dull; he was also unambitious. That, or he'd managed to forget the rules, perhaps too caught up in the thrill of it all. Karen wasn't exactly sure if explaining would be a mistake. Prompting a rampage on Vincent's part would not in any way be beneficial to her, or, for that matter, to the remaining people she held any feelings for on this island.
In this instant, though, she didn't care.
"Seven is nothing," she said. "The only numbers that matter are one and ten."
She wondered if Vincent was perceptive enough to realize why, that they were the numbers of murders required to survive. Kill ten people, go free. Kill the only other person standing, go free. Anything else, anything more or less, any trauma and pain and tension and effort, was entirely pointless. Killing for pointless reasons was very upsetting to Karen. It was what Vincent did, what people who didn't think did. It was all about emotion and sadism, spreading the hurt to feel better about yourself. Karen would take honesty over that any day.
And then, quickly enough, she changed the topic.
"Why are you killing?"
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3449
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Karen hadn't been expecting an answer, at least, not much of a coherent one. After all, she knew why Vincent was killing: fun. This was what he'd always yearned for, on some level. This was a chance to live out the sickest of fantasies, to torture and kill to his heart's content. This was why she was a bit surprised by the words that came through the walkie talkie.
“To survive, same as you,” Vincent said, “I may have attacked a few people, stolen their stuff to give myself a better chance, but I’ve only killed when I had to.”
Surprising. Also potentially untrue. It seemed odd for Vincent to downplay his accomplishments, though.
“Like I said, Isaac had a gun and I knew he would use it, so I grabbed him first. And Lynn… Lynn started it, I just finished it. But that’s going to change now; I’ve been too soft so far, I need to start taking out anyone I see. I need to be more like you.”
A brief pause. Vincent's tone was wrong. He was building up steam. Karen waited.
“I’ll stop short of killing teammates though,” Vincent continued, “that’s too cold even for me. I’ll stop before I reach ten kills as well, if I can help it; I like the idea of making it out of here with my teammates, the idea of winning. That ten kills shit? That’s the cowards way out, that’s for people who don’t think they can last. Who knows Karen, maybe we’ll both get out of this alive? Maybe we’ll see each other again in the outside world? Then we can settle this once and for all.
“Goodbye Karen. It’s been nice talking to you but I want to get the fuck off this mountain, I’m freezing my ass off up here.”
Karen didn't bother with a response. He'd given her a lot to mull over, to worry about. He was playing with her. That much was clear. It was also worrying. There was at least one person who wasn't buying the idea that Karen was dangerous. He was trying to goad her, in a fashion so obvious even she could pick it apart. Vincent had threatened her survival, not in the immediate future, but outside the game. He'd implied that escaping this wouldn't be enough to ensure her safety, that she'd never be able to sleep easy until he was dead.
Then he'd given her his location.
The implications were obvious: Karen was to go hunt him down. She was supposed to try to get rid of him now, in order to save herself trouble later on. Here, she could kill Vincent with impunity. Outside of the game, such an action would no longer be safe.
Of course, she would have to be insane to actually go after Vincent. It was the same trick all over again, the same challenge as back at the lake. It boiled down to a very simple idea: "Come get me." He was just being a bit more canny in its presentation, using her fears against her. He was right about some of what he said, too. That was also upsetting. He'd pegged her worries about lasting fairly accurately. He knew she was afraid. In other respects, he had been less insightful; he'd called her cold, which meant absolutely nothing to her. He'd said he liked the idea of winning. That was a big part of it, Karen was sure. She doubted Vincent cared in the slightest what happened to his teammates. He just wanted to win, to bask in the glory. It was a contest to him.
That, or he was better at math than Karen was giving him credit for being.
Achieving ten kills was not an easy proposition, especially given that teammates didn't count towards that goal. At the start of the game, it was difficult but not impossible. Now, though, they had to be approaching the halfway point, meaning that the number of potential targets had drastically decreased. Unless someone had committed some kind of massacre, Karen wasn't even sure if anyone else stood a chance of hitting that target.
Vincent had stopped talking a long time ago. Karen set the walkie talkie down, then scratched the back of her head, which was itching slightly. She felt something in her hair and jumped a bit, expecting some kind of horrible bug or poisonous animal, but whatever it was wasn't moving on its own. Pulling it away, she found a small chip of bark, and realized it must have flown off the trees she was standing in front of back at the beach. She'd solved the mystery of her momentary distraction. It was so minimal she almost wanted to laugh.
She didn't. She didn't even smile.
She wondered what the viewers thought of her right now, whether they had branded her a sociopath, whether she was popular or not. She wondered if people were hoping for her to succeed.
Probably not. Probably, they wanted her to get nine and then die, some sort of karmic justice, falling just short of the goal. She hoped that was what they wanted. Hoped she could disappoint them.
She sighed, shifted, and looked around. Nobody. Her Glock was at the ready. She had another gun and two blades within easy reach. She'd just wait a little, calm down and stop worrying about Vincent, then get back to business. She had a new challenge. She had to find and murder three people, not only before the end of this mess, but before Vincent found her.
She was, after all, pretty sure he'd be looking.
“To survive, same as you,” Vincent said, “I may have attacked a few people, stolen their stuff to give myself a better chance, but I’ve only killed when I had to.”
Surprising. Also potentially untrue. It seemed odd for Vincent to downplay his accomplishments, though.
“Like I said, Isaac had a gun and I knew he would use it, so I grabbed him first. And Lynn… Lynn started it, I just finished it. But that’s going to change now; I’ve been too soft so far, I need to start taking out anyone I see. I need to be more like you.”
A brief pause. Vincent's tone was wrong. He was building up steam. Karen waited.
“I’ll stop short of killing teammates though,” Vincent continued, “that’s too cold even for me. I’ll stop before I reach ten kills as well, if I can help it; I like the idea of making it out of here with my teammates, the idea of winning. That ten kills shit? That’s the cowards way out, that’s for people who don’t think they can last. Who knows Karen, maybe we’ll both get out of this alive? Maybe we’ll see each other again in the outside world? Then we can settle this once and for all.
“Goodbye Karen. It’s been nice talking to you but I want to get the fuck off this mountain, I’m freezing my ass off up here.”
Karen didn't bother with a response. He'd given her a lot to mull over, to worry about. He was playing with her. That much was clear. It was also worrying. There was at least one person who wasn't buying the idea that Karen was dangerous. He was trying to goad her, in a fashion so obvious even she could pick it apart. Vincent had threatened her survival, not in the immediate future, but outside the game. He'd implied that escaping this wouldn't be enough to ensure her safety, that she'd never be able to sleep easy until he was dead.
Then he'd given her his location.
The implications were obvious: Karen was to go hunt him down. She was supposed to try to get rid of him now, in order to save herself trouble later on. Here, she could kill Vincent with impunity. Outside of the game, such an action would no longer be safe.
Of course, she would have to be insane to actually go after Vincent. It was the same trick all over again, the same challenge as back at the lake. It boiled down to a very simple idea: "Come get me." He was just being a bit more canny in its presentation, using her fears against her. He was right about some of what he said, too. That was also upsetting. He'd pegged her worries about lasting fairly accurately. He knew she was afraid. In other respects, he had been less insightful; he'd called her cold, which meant absolutely nothing to her. He'd said he liked the idea of winning. That was a big part of it, Karen was sure. She doubted Vincent cared in the slightest what happened to his teammates. He just wanted to win, to bask in the glory. It was a contest to him.
That, or he was better at math than Karen was giving him credit for being.
Achieving ten kills was not an easy proposition, especially given that teammates didn't count towards that goal. At the start of the game, it was difficult but not impossible. Now, though, they had to be approaching the halfway point, meaning that the number of potential targets had drastically decreased. Unless someone had committed some kind of massacre, Karen wasn't even sure if anyone else stood a chance of hitting that target.
Vincent had stopped talking a long time ago. Karen set the walkie talkie down, then scratched the back of her head, which was itching slightly. She felt something in her hair and jumped a bit, expecting some kind of horrible bug or poisonous animal, but whatever it was wasn't moving on its own. Pulling it away, she found a small chip of bark, and realized it must have flown off the trees she was standing in front of back at the beach. She'd solved the mystery of her momentary distraction. It was so minimal she almost wanted to laugh.
She didn't. She didn't even smile.
She wondered what the viewers thought of her right now, whether they had branded her a sociopath, whether she was popular or not. She wondered if people were hoping for her to succeed.
Probably not. Probably, they wanted her to get nine and then die, some sort of karmic justice, falling just short of the goal. She hoped that was what they wanted. Hoped she could disappoint them.
She sighed, shifted, and looked around. Nobody. Her Glock was at the ready. She had another gun and two blades within easy reach. She'd just wait a little, calm down and stop worrying about Vincent, then get back to business. She had a new challenge. She had to find and murder three people, not only before the end of this mess, but before Vincent found her.
She was, after all, pretty sure he'd be looking.
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3449
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
With the passage of time, Karen's nerves calmed. She prepared herself mentally for what she was going to do. It wouldn't be that hard, not if she was smart about it. So far, she had been hurt moderately twice, both times by larger boys in close combat situations. She knew her weaknesses on that front. True, she was now better prepared, with two suitable mêlée weapons, but that did nothing to compensate for her physical deficiencies. No matter what, she would never overpower someone significantly larger than her.
On the other hand, she had to get somewhat close, since her aim was still not amazing. She wasn't about to trust that falling back upon the new pistol would improve it. She was tempted to use the rifle for a bit, but she wasn't used to it either, and a live fire situation was not a good time to be learning a new weapon. It disturbed her a little that her Glock was so close to empty. The gun had seen her this far. It was familiar. She could work with it with relatively few surprises. If she rationed her ammunition properly, it might even be able to carry her to the end, but she wasn't about to develop a frugal streak at the risk of her life.
Three opponents. Three murders. Then she was safe. She didn't feel very safe right now. She was feeling pretty desperate, pretty powerless. She had come so far, but she was very aware that someone could take it all away from her in an instant, with a simple pull of the trigger. They'd be lauded as a hero for their actions, too. Karen wasn't really sure what life was like for the winners and survivors. She didn't have much experience with the show. All she knew was that they weren't prosecuted for their actions on the island, and that was good enough for her.
She would miss her family. That was her one major regret. They would never want to see her again, to even acknowledge her existence. It didn't matter if half the country found her actions acceptable. They never would. They had probably been forced to move and change their phone numbers by now. She was hurting them, too, just like she was hurting her classmates. It was too bad that was the way it had to be.
It was, though, and she wasn't sorry for her actions. She hadn't asked to be thrown here. She would have left in an instant, given the opportunity.
That meant she shouldn't be wasting time with her nerves and her reflections. Three more murders. No one was going to come to her. Glancing around, searching for movement, Karen made sure no one was headed her way. Then, once she was certain, she carefully made her way away from the bench, searching for someone relatively undefended.
((Karen Ruiz continued in It's Easier To Leave Than To Be Left Behind))
On the other hand, she had to get somewhat close, since her aim was still not amazing. She wasn't about to trust that falling back upon the new pistol would improve it. She was tempted to use the rifle for a bit, but she wasn't used to it either, and a live fire situation was not a good time to be learning a new weapon. It disturbed her a little that her Glock was so close to empty. The gun had seen her this far. It was familiar. She could work with it with relatively few surprises. If she rationed her ammunition properly, it might even be able to carry her to the end, but she wasn't about to develop a frugal streak at the risk of her life.
Three opponents. Three murders. Then she was safe. She didn't feel very safe right now. She was feeling pretty desperate, pretty powerless. She had come so far, but she was very aware that someone could take it all away from her in an instant, with a simple pull of the trigger. They'd be lauded as a hero for their actions, too. Karen wasn't really sure what life was like for the winners and survivors. She didn't have much experience with the show. All she knew was that they weren't prosecuted for their actions on the island, and that was good enough for her.
She would miss her family. That was her one major regret. They would never want to see her again, to even acknowledge her existence. It didn't matter if half the country found her actions acceptable. They never would. They had probably been forced to move and change their phone numbers by now. She was hurting them, too, just like she was hurting her classmates. It was too bad that was the way it had to be.
It was, though, and she wasn't sorry for her actions. She hadn't asked to be thrown here. She would have left in an instant, given the opportunity.
That meant she shouldn't be wasting time with her nerves and her reflections. Three more murders. No one was going to come to her. Glancing around, searching for movement, Karen made sure no one was headed her way. Then, once she was certain, she carefully made her way away from the bench, searching for someone relatively undefended.
((Karen Ruiz continued in It's Easier To Leave Than To Be Left Behind))