Claire only made it halfway there. Ferrara reacted quickly. Claire had known he would. He was a rash boy, an impulsive one, with good reflexes. She just hoped she'd be able to do enough.
Juliet had fired too, but she'd missed. She'd missed, but she was armed again. She was fighting again. Claire had succeeded. She was happy about that, even as she fell backwards, bleeding from the hole in her chest that Ferrara's bullet had punched. The world went black. There was nothing.
Seconds later, she blinked her way back to consciousness. Someone was there. Someone was looking down at her, holding her. It was a nice face. A friendly face. A face that was talking to her, speaking her name. Who was it again? What was happening? Why did everything hurt so much? Her chest hurt, it hurt so badly, right to the left of her heart, right in her lung. She coughed, and the saliva that trickled from her mouth tasted strange, and felt unusually warm.
Juliet.
The face belonged to Juliet.
Memory returned.
Ferrara.
"J-juliet," she said. "I... I'm sorry."
She wasn't sure why she was apologizing. Maybe because she knew Juliet wouldn't be happy about this. Maybe because she wouldn't be able to help her friend anymore. Maybe because she'd let Ferrara use her in the first place. It didn't matter. What she knew was, she wasn't sorry for what she had done. She wasn't sorry that she had traded her life for a few seconds of action on Juliet's part. She just had to trust her friend to handle the rest. She had to hope that she'd make it, make it through this fight and through this whole sick Program.
"Don't... g-give up. And..."
But she didn't finish her sentence. The world vanished again, and this time, it didn't return.
F22, Claire Heartland: DECEASED
A Couple of Cooks in the Kitchen
Open
Moderator: Sh4dE
((Marilyn Williams continued from Nice Morning for a Shootout))
Time was starting to blur. How long had it been since that shoot out she'd been hustled away from? Marilyn couldn't say, not with any certainty, even in spite of the fact that there had been announcements since then. The man on the PA... Adams, he'd said that they were halfway through the game. Could that really even be possible? It didn't seem that way, not to her.
Halfway...? How the hell had Marilyn Williams outlived half of the rest of the people participating? She was the weakest kid in the year, the worst fighter... she'd never so much as raised a fist to anybody else because she'd been taught to understand that it was the status quo. Yet somehow ... she was still alive. Maybe it was pure luck, maybe it was her cowardly streak... Marilyn hadn't ran into anybody out to hurt her, aside from that brief terrifying moment she'd been in the centre of a shoot out.
Living this long... Marilyn didn't feel guilty about it. She wasn't responsible for the deaths, she hadn't even wished it on any of them, except maybe Harris and even then... it had been a spur of the moment, split second desire, hastily rescinded in her head. Marilyn couldn't bear to be around a lot of her classmates, for fear of being insulted, beaten up, or simply the knowledge that they'd stand aside and watch somebody else visit the same on her. But... that didn't mean she wanted them dead. Didn't mean she felt bad about them being gone, either. Marilyn had no emotional connection to any of them.
Marilyn didn't entertain any notions of winning the Program, much as she was terrified of dying. It didn't matter that running and hiding had seen out half the game for her. One simple fact remained that meant there was no way she could come out of this alive. To win, you had to kill a minimum of one person. Marilyn didn't believe she had the guts to even try to do that. Not even with the... thing inside of her bag, which she still barely dared to look at, delaying eating and drinking until the hunger was gnawing at her insides, throat parched because she couldn't stand to see that gun.
For now... she'd just keep her head down and not draw attention to herself, as much as she could. Marilyn was well practiced in that.
A building loomed ahead of her, and Marilyn hesitated. She'd been avoiding entering anywhere, for the most part. It struck her as the most likely place to encounter other people, and that was the last thing she wanted or needed. Equally, although she'd got the opportunity for a nap when going around with Bryant... this running was wearing on her. Going to sleep would be stupid, but maybe a break would be nice...
Suddenly, there was the echo of gunfire. A silhouette outside of the building dropped to the floor, taking cover. Marilyn looked one way, then the other. She was out in the open, the closest point to her was... the building that the shooting was coming from. Equally, what if somebody was drawn by the gunfire?
Before Marilyn knew what she was doing, her legs were carrying her on a mad dash towards the mess hall.
Time was starting to blur. How long had it been since that shoot out she'd been hustled away from? Marilyn couldn't say, not with any certainty, even in spite of the fact that there had been announcements since then. The man on the PA... Adams, he'd said that they were halfway through the game. Could that really even be possible? It didn't seem that way, not to her.
Halfway...? How the hell had Marilyn Williams outlived half of the rest of the people participating? She was the weakest kid in the year, the worst fighter... she'd never so much as raised a fist to anybody else because she'd been taught to understand that it was the status quo. Yet somehow ... she was still alive. Maybe it was pure luck, maybe it was her cowardly streak... Marilyn hadn't ran into anybody out to hurt her, aside from that brief terrifying moment she'd been in the centre of a shoot out.
Living this long... Marilyn didn't feel guilty about it. She wasn't responsible for the deaths, she hadn't even wished it on any of them, except maybe Harris and even then... it had been a spur of the moment, split second desire, hastily rescinded in her head. Marilyn couldn't bear to be around a lot of her classmates, for fear of being insulted, beaten up, or simply the knowledge that they'd stand aside and watch somebody else visit the same on her. But... that didn't mean she wanted them dead. Didn't mean she felt bad about them being gone, either. Marilyn had no emotional connection to any of them.
Marilyn didn't entertain any notions of winning the Program, much as she was terrified of dying. It didn't matter that running and hiding had seen out half the game for her. One simple fact remained that meant there was no way she could come out of this alive. To win, you had to kill a minimum of one person. Marilyn didn't believe she had the guts to even try to do that. Not even with the... thing inside of her bag, which she still barely dared to look at, delaying eating and drinking until the hunger was gnawing at her insides, throat parched because she couldn't stand to see that gun.
For now... she'd just keep her head down and not draw attention to herself, as much as she could. Marilyn was well practiced in that.
A building loomed ahead of her, and Marilyn hesitated. She'd been avoiding entering anywhere, for the most part. It struck her as the most likely place to encounter other people, and that was the last thing she wanted or needed. Equally, although she'd got the opportunity for a nap when going around with Bryant... this running was wearing on her. Going to sleep would be stupid, but maybe a break would be nice...
Suddenly, there was the echo of gunfire. A silhouette outside of the building dropped to the floor, taking cover. Marilyn looked one way, then the other. She was out in the open, the closest point to her was... the building that the shooting was coming from. Equally, what if somebody was drawn by the gunfire?
Before Marilyn knew what she was doing, her legs were carrying her on a mad dash towards the mess hall.
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chitoryu12*
- Posts: 64
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:16 am
Contrary to popular belief, time does not slow down when under stress. While people operating under reflexes and instinct in a high-stress situation, such as gunfights and car crashes, may remember it as going slower than it really did or remember odd details that they ordinarily would not have remembered (such as the shell casings slowly floating by their eyes), they did not truly experience the events in slow motion. To their mind at the time, it was all just as fast as it occurred.
This is how John Ferrara was experiencing everything. While later he may have pictured everything in his mind going far slower, right now it was all real: brutal, fast, rough, and bloody. Nearly half-inch lead slugs zipped by his face and smashed into the wall behind him, cracking the tile and pulverizing the once-pristine white surface. Another one ricocheted off the plastic table he was taking cover behind, gouging a deep gash in the plastic and spraying him with sharp slivers he barely acknowledged. Blood running down his face, he fired back; 9mm Parabellum projectiles turned china and glass into shrapnel and dust behind Juliet, tearing holes into the dish cart and sending it spinning away.
And then he killed another person. The only thing running through his mind was an untranslatable feeling that could roughly be interpreted as "Threat neutralized".
Click
...................no.
John's gun, for the first time in the short time span he had it, was empty. And he didn't know what to do.
So John did the only thing he could do.
Waiting for a pause in the muffled pops, he eyed a window. There was a table pushed up right against it, so one standing on the rough plastic surface would find the bottom of the window at waist height.
Sprinting straight at the table, he hopped on and threw the empty gun at the glass as hard as he could, shattering it into razor-sharp shards. Knowing that white hot death may be following him at any instant, John took a dive right through the ragged hole.
Sharp pain flared along his arms and legs and he landed with a hard thud, knocking the wind from his lungs. He lay gasping on the ground for several moments, in too much agony to think of what to do. Now the pain was coming back; in his face, his limbs, his chest, his head.
Soon, he gathered the strength to leave. With nobody around, he gathered up his gun (surprisingly unmarred from its rough landing) and hobbled toward the first building he saw.
((John Ferrara continued in Let's Make Life a Living Hell))
This is how John Ferrara was experiencing everything. While later he may have pictured everything in his mind going far slower, right now it was all real: brutal, fast, rough, and bloody. Nearly half-inch lead slugs zipped by his face and smashed into the wall behind him, cracking the tile and pulverizing the once-pristine white surface. Another one ricocheted off the plastic table he was taking cover behind, gouging a deep gash in the plastic and spraying him with sharp slivers he barely acknowledged. Blood running down his face, he fired back; 9mm Parabellum projectiles turned china and glass into shrapnel and dust behind Juliet, tearing holes into the dish cart and sending it spinning away.
And then he killed another person. The only thing running through his mind was an untranslatable feeling that could roughly be interpreted as "Threat neutralized".
Click
...................no.
John's gun, for the first time in the short time span he had it, was empty. And he didn't know what to do.
So John did the only thing he could do.
Waiting for a pause in the muffled pops, he eyed a window. There was a table pushed up right against it, so one standing on the rough plastic surface would find the bottom of the window at waist height.
Sprinting straight at the table, he hopped on and threw the empty gun at the glass as hard as he could, shattering it into razor-sharp shards. Knowing that white hot death may be following him at any instant, John took a dive right through the ragged hole.
Sharp pain flared along his arms and legs and he landed with a hard thud, knocking the wind from his lungs. He lay gasping on the ground for several moments, in too much agony to think of what to do. Now the pain was coming back; in his face, his limbs, his chest, his head.
Soon, he gathered the strength to leave. With nobody around, he gathered up his gun (surprisingly unmarred from its rough landing) and hobbled toward the first building he saw.
((John Ferrara continued in Let's Make Life a Living Hell))
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storyspoiler*
- Posts: 49
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:09 am
"Claire!" Juliet was screaming, louder than she thought she could scream. My beauty, my friend, you weren't supposed to die before me. "Claire!"
But she was gone. Blood from her mouth, a lolling head, a sweet, vacant smile.
"Claire!"
China behind her, smashed, powdered. Metal shrapnel had missed her eyes. Karl was nowhere to be seen.
"Claire!"
Give her back to me!
And the dead body was heavy, suddenly, and Juliet collapsed on the sharp ground, scraping her knees, her legs, through the white linen pants that Simon had told her to wear in case, in case she was ever picked for this kind of thing.
"Claire!"
Ferrara was gone. There was someone else walking in the mess hall, hesitant steps, lighter than Karl. She should recognize them from somewhere.
Hurt you.
She bent down over Claire, her bloody, stained blouse you supported me, you helped me, you kept me sane. You knew--like me--you knew I was going nowhere. But you were there.
The footsteps were coming closer. And Juliet wanted to sob over Claire, wanted to fucking curl up in a ball and die right now, but that was a stupid course of action, not when there was still one more person to protect, not when there was still--
--she pushed herself up, put her eyes over the kitchen counter--
"Marilyn."
But she was gone. Blood from her mouth, a lolling head, a sweet, vacant smile.
"Claire!"
China behind her, smashed, powdered. Metal shrapnel had missed her eyes. Karl was nowhere to be seen.
"Claire!"
Give her back to me!
And the dead body was heavy, suddenly, and Juliet collapsed on the sharp ground, scraping her knees, her legs, through the white linen pants that Simon had told her to wear in case, in case she was ever picked for this kind of thing.
"Claire!"
Ferrara was gone. There was someone else walking in the mess hall, hesitant steps, lighter than Karl. She should recognize them from somewhere.
Hurt you.
She bent down over Claire, her bloody, stained blouse you supported me, you helped me, you kept me sane. You knew--like me--you knew I was going nowhere. But you were there.
The footsteps were coming closer. And Juliet wanted to sob over Claire, wanted to fucking curl up in a ball and die right now, but that was a stupid course of action, not when there was still one more person to protect, not when there was still--
--she pushed herself up, put her eyes over the kitchen counter--
"Marilyn."
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
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- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
The shouts and gunshots continued, and Karl just hugged the ground. He was useless here. That was it. He couldn't help Juliet. He was just being pragmatic.
He still felt pretty bad about it.
But all of that changed. Everything went calm. He heard a cry from inside, and also a crash. It sounded like Juliet, at least, was still alive, and like someone else had just blown out a window. That was all of minor importance, though, Karl glanced up and saw someone else, teaing towards the mess hall. He was about to shout out a warning, but he recognized the person. How could he not? After all, he'd seen her run before.
Marilyn.
The other object of Juliet's search. The other person Karl was helping her track down. It looked like, somehow, Juliet had managed to reunite with both of her lost friends. This left Karl in something of an awkward spot. He didn't think she'd shoot him. He didn't even think she'd hurt him. He wasn't really sure that he'd be welcome anymore, though, since he had now outlived his utility. He'd antagonized Marilyn more than his share back at General's Pride. Sure, he'd never done anything directly, never insulted her to her face or pushed her over, but it was no secret that he'd been the one to report her after the hair incident. That wasn't even touching the other occasions.
So he wasn't going to be Marilyn's favorite person to see right now.
Still, he couldn't just vanish. Well, he could, but it felt wrong. Everything inside the building had quieted down, so he pulled himself up and started towards the doors. He'd get there a couple seconds after Marilyn, but that was good. He'd have to be sure not to spook her, not to corner her.
He didn't want to scare her anymore. On some level, he almost wished he'd never scared her.
He still felt pretty bad about it.
But all of that changed. Everything went calm. He heard a cry from inside, and also a crash. It sounded like Juliet, at least, was still alive, and like someone else had just blown out a window. That was all of minor importance, though, Karl glanced up and saw someone else, teaing towards the mess hall. He was about to shout out a warning, but he recognized the person. How could he not? After all, he'd seen her run before.
Marilyn.
The other object of Juliet's search. The other person Karl was helping her track down. It looked like, somehow, Juliet had managed to reunite with both of her lost friends. This left Karl in something of an awkward spot. He didn't think she'd shoot him. He didn't even think she'd hurt him. He wasn't really sure that he'd be welcome anymore, though, since he had now outlived his utility. He'd antagonized Marilyn more than his share back at General's Pride. Sure, he'd never done anything directly, never insulted her to her face or pushed her over, but it was no secret that he'd been the one to report her after the hair incident. That wasn't even touching the other occasions.
So he wasn't going to be Marilyn's favorite person to see right now.
Still, he couldn't just vanish. Well, he could, but it felt wrong. Everything inside the building had quieted down, so he pulled himself up and started towards the doors. He'd get there a couple seconds after Marilyn, but that was good. He'd have to be sure not to spook her, not to corner her.
He didn't want to scare her anymore. On some level, he almost wished he'd never scared her.
Marilyn ran as hard as she could. She was good at that. Probably the only time in her life she'd ever really been able to regard something she'd done and be able to say that she was successful. Not that it had ever done Marilyn any good, but it was... gratifying, for once. Getting into shape had been... a pleasant experience. A goal achieved, if not the overall aim of-
Glass shattered behind her.
She stopped thinking and just kept running, a quick glance fired over her shoulder giving her a glimpse of somebody else fleeing. The instigator of the fight, or the loser? In any case, her mind was made up. Marilyn rounded the corner and found that the entrance to the building was suddenly in front of her.
For a moment, she hesitated.
Running towards the fight? That was a pretty stupid decision to make, wasn't it? But... if she moved away, she might well run into others spooked by the gunfire and wind up getting killed in that way. Best to stay put, but... what if somebody more enterprising came along?
Okay, she needed some cover.
Marilyn tenatively pushed the doors open, peeking around the very edge of them, flinching instinctively, expecting a hail of gunfire from any direction at any moment... Nothing indoors, not that she could see. It had all gone quiet since the abrupt exit she'd witnessed earlier.
Deathly quiet.
She darted inside, ducking behind a table, scrunching her eyes shut and expecting the worst...
Nothing.
Marilyn took a few steps forward, and then suddenly somebody appeared from behind a counter. She gasped, then...
"Juh-Juh-J-Juliet?"
Glass shattered behind her.
She stopped thinking and just kept running, a quick glance fired over her shoulder giving her a glimpse of somebody else fleeing. The instigator of the fight, or the loser? In any case, her mind was made up. Marilyn rounded the corner and found that the entrance to the building was suddenly in front of her.
For a moment, she hesitated.
Running towards the fight? That was a pretty stupid decision to make, wasn't it? But... if she moved away, she might well run into others spooked by the gunfire and wind up getting killed in that way. Best to stay put, but... what if somebody more enterprising came along?
Okay, she needed some cover.
Marilyn tenatively pushed the doors open, peeking around the very edge of them, flinching instinctively, expecting a hail of gunfire from any direction at any moment... Nothing indoors, not that she could see. It had all gone quiet since the abrupt exit she'd witnessed earlier.
Deathly quiet.
She darted inside, ducking behind a table, scrunching her eyes shut and expecting the worst...
Nothing.
Marilyn took a few steps forward, and then suddenly somebody appeared from behind a counter. She gasped, then...
"Juh-Juh-J-Juliet?"
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storyspoiler*
- Posts: 49
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:09 am
"Juh-Juh-J-Juliet?"
Bent over a corpse. Your best friend in the world, dead like a white swan, a swirl of blood on her chest. Stand up. See the girl you've been in love with for what? Too long. Never told her. Always a troublemaker. She wouldn't want you.
And everything, everything hurts, because Claire is gone, and Marilyn is here, and you don't know what to do. And you don't know where Karl is, and you swore you would protect him (did you swear that? You must have, otherwise you wouldn't think you did), but maybe you've sworn to protect too many people, because you can't even protect this one.
And the girl you love is here, and she's beautiful and fragile, and you want to embrace her forever, but you can't do that.
So instead you just gape.
"Marilyn."
And this is a dangerous place. So you drop the gun before you put your hands up, and you say the generic words--"I'm not playing. I'm not going to hurt you."
And you're Juliet Watanabe, and your best friend just died, so you say "My best friend just died--"
------------
"--Claire Heartland. She's, um, right here."
Juliet winced. That wasn't a good way to introduce yourself to the love of your life, the love you'd been too cowardly to talk to in any situation that hadn't been majestically deadly.
But Marilyn didn't flee. If Juliet believed in any gods, she would have thanked them then.
"I want to wrap her corpse," She said, steadily, still with her hands up. "I want to put her on the roof, where she can see the stars. I don't want to leave her here." Among the broken china, broken glass that John Ferrara had shot into when he was aiming for her.
"And once I do that, I want to--" protect you, because I've seen your face light up. But that was the wrong thing to say. "I want to find Karl Chalmers. He was a complete fucking asshole in school, but he seems to be having a crisis of conscience here, and he hasn't got a weapon worth shit so it's not like I'm just going to leave him."
Marilyn was looking at her curiously. Maybe she sounded like a mental patient. Great.
"I've been looking at you. I can't tell you why now--" I could, but I'm a coward still "--but I swear on--on my family that I won't hurt you. After this, I want to go to the officer's quarters, barricade ourselves in a good room, get some time to think. I don't want any more violence."
And all that came out straight and steady, and harsh, with a cool head, like a hardened soldier, like she didn't care at all.
Now if only Marilyn would buy it.
And her head stayed cool, and her voice stayed harsh, as Marilyn walked toward her, and Juliet didn't, wouldn't, look away, touch Claire, the counter, the gun.
And Marilyn was here, so close, and both of them could see Claire's body now, and a table cloth falling from the closet, and Claire's tiny, dreamy, cockeyed smile.
"Will you help me prepare the body?"
(Juliet Watanabe continued in The Burial Of The Dead)
Bent over a corpse. Your best friend in the world, dead like a white swan, a swirl of blood on her chest. Stand up. See the girl you've been in love with for what? Too long. Never told her. Always a troublemaker. She wouldn't want you.
And everything, everything hurts, because Claire is gone, and Marilyn is here, and you don't know what to do. And you don't know where Karl is, and you swore you would protect him (did you swear that? You must have, otherwise you wouldn't think you did), but maybe you've sworn to protect too many people, because you can't even protect this one.
And the girl you love is here, and she's beautiful and fragile, and you want to embrace her forever, but you can't do that.
So instead you just gape.
"Marilyn."
And this is a dangerous place. So you drop the gun before you put your hands up, and you say the generic words--"I'm not playing. I'm not going to hurt you."
And you're Juliet Watanabe, and your best friend just died, so you say "My best friend just died--"
------------
"--Claire Heartland. She's, um, right here."
Juliet winced. That wasn't a good way to introduce yourself to the love of your life, the love you'd been too cowardly to talk to in any situation that hadn't been majestically deadly.
But Marilyn didn't flee. If Juliet believed in any gods, she would have thanked them then.
"I want to wrap her corpse," She said, steadily, still with her hands up. "I want to put her on the roof, where she can see the stars. I don't want to leave her here." Among the broken china, broken glass that John Ferrara had shot into when he was aiming for her.
"And once I do that, I want to--" protect you, because I've seen your face light up. But that was the wrong thing to say. "I want to find Karl Chalmers. He was a complete fucking asshole in school, but he seems to be having a crisis of conscience here, and he hasn't got a weapon worth shit so it's not like I'm just going to leave him."
Marilyn was looking at her curiously. Maybe she sounded like a mental patient. Great.
"I've been looking at you. I can't tell you why now--" I could, but I'm a coward still "--but I swear on--on my family that I won't hurt you. After this, I want to go to the officer's quarters, barricade ourselves in a good room, get some time to think. I don't want any more violence."
And all that came out straight and steady, and harsh, with a cool head, like a hardened soldier, like she didn't care at all.
Now if only Marilyn would buy it.
And her head stayed cool, and her voice stayed harsh, as Marilyn walked toward her, and Juliet didn't, wouldn't, look away, touch Claire, the counter, the gun.
And Marilyn was here, so close, and both of them could see Claire's body now, and a table cloth falling from the closet, and Claire's tiny, dreamy, cockeyed smile.
"Will you help me prepare the body?"
(Juliet Watanabe continued in The Burial Of The Dead)
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MurderWeasel
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Karl waited for a time. It was respect, with a healthy dose of awkward uncertainty.
Eventually, though, he rejoined the group and helped Juliet and Marilyn with their project.
((Karl Chalmers continued in The Burial Of The Dead))
Eventually, though, he rejoined the group and helped Juliet and Marilyn with their project.
((Karl Chalmers continued in The Burial Of The Dead))