She cried a lot, when she was young. Not around others, not for real. But when she was all alone, she wept. The loneliness, the pain, and the confusion were always filling her thoughts. A lifetime of self pity and regret was all she had.
But that all seemed unimportant when he died. The tears and pain were so much greater then. She had never cared about anyone else as much as she did for Shawn. Maybe that was why she fractured like she did. Maybe.
Or maybe she was already broken beyond belief before the boy who became her boyfriend bit the big one. Bitch blasted him with bullets before they became one. Blood boiled in her, bile burned her body.
More b-words.
She gave a twirl and laughed. Where was all this introspection coming from? Wasn't she already done with it by now?
"The dead are dead girl, get on with your goal. You got a few more people to add to the corpse pile before you're done. Hrmm, maybe it might be fun to torture a few before they die." She twirled again and laughed.
"Yeah, make them scream and beg for death. But no respite from the pain for them. Not until I get bored anyway." She brought the sword up to her face. She gently pressed the edge against her cheek until she felt a little warmth from her blood. A little pain now, a lifetime of ecstasy later.
She kissed the flat of the blade. Her blood was disgustingly tasty.
"I want you inside, well not me, but everyone else here but me. Your evil nature completes my lust for violence. Stick with me kiddo, we'll go places. Like through someone's vitals. Won't that be fun."
She walked around oblivious to her surroundings. She nearly tripped over something on the ground next to a big wheel. She took a look at the obstruction. Some dead girl. Neat. She gave her a poke with the sword to see if she was still fresh. The blood wasn't but the body was still okay. Recently dead, couple hours at best. It almost looked familiar. She lifted the mess on the sword tip to her mouth. She spat it out rather than swallowed.
Note to self. Only do ritual within minutes of death.
Bella.
Why did she think that now? What was a Bella? Why does that make her a little sad?
She shuddered and moved on before she thought about it more.
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.
Corin’s walk was slowly crawling to a stop, for a moment he was just trying to catch the noise she made on the fringe of his hearing but it seemed like she was too far to tell the direction. Fantastic, he thought, as he had this gun all fired up and now there was nowhere to go with it.
Her sound was fading, and it left him alone in the middle of the casino halls.
It was almost unwelcome; it gave him a moment to think to himself about the time since Cathryn had shot him. It gave him time to think more about the wound, the worries and concerns that brimmed from it and the things he’d been trying to shove to the fringe of his mind for some time.
For a long time he’d ignored the cameras, it wasn’t that he’d forgotten them, but they hadn’t really been important to his world. He actually wanted to be near someone, even if it was Anarchy since he could just keep going on with his grudge; at this point the retribution was probably disproportionate. He didn’t care about that though; it saved him from thinking about how he almost died without giving his parents any sort of farewell. It saved him from the thought, or the fact that he was struggling to push any words out of his mouth now that he did have one last chance to leave them with something.
He glanced up towards one of the cameras, biting the inside of his cheek and wearing a distressed expression as it observed him. The words were waiting to come out of his throat, but he couldn’t really choke them out. He would probably cry if he started anyway, and at this point he was over it. So he just stood there looking directly at the lens, to others it probably looked like he was gazing at it without purpose for a few minutes.
Then he shut his eyes, he muttered to himself about how fucked he was before he started to move again.
Her sound was fading, and it left him alone in the middle of the casino halls.
It was almost unwelcome; it gave him a moment to think to himself about the time since Cathryn had shot him. It gave him time to think more about the wound, the worries and concerns that brimmed from it and the things he’d been trying to shove to the fringe of his mind for some time.
For a long time he’d ignored the cameras, it wasn’t that he’d forgotten them, but they hadn’t really been important to his world. He actually wanted to be near someone, even if it was Anarchy since he could just keep going on with his grudge; at this point the retribution was probably disproportionate. He didn’t care about that though; it saved him from thinking about how he almost died without giving his parents any sort of farewell. It saved him from the thought, or the fact that he was struggling to push any words out of his mouth now that he did have one last chance to leave them with something.
He glanced up towards one of the cameras, biting the inside of his cheek and wearing a distressed expression as it observed him. The words were waiting to come out of his throat, but he couldn’t really choke them out. He would probably cry if he started anyway, and at this point he was over it. So he just stood there looking directly at the lens, to others it probably looked like he was gazing at it without purpose for a few minutes.
Then he shut his eyes, he muttered to himself about how fucked he was before he started to move again.
Talk? Talking was good. Better than dying. Jackson was down for everything that wasn't dying.
Jackson curled up behind the slot machine, trying to make himself smaller. While he did, he called back.
"Sure." He said, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. He couldn't think of much to talk about, but he at least could manage small talk.
"None of them were a kill shot, huh?" He said, looking down at the gun in his good hand. He shook his head at it, like it was to blame for the current predicament.
Jackson curled up behind the slot machine, trying to make himself smaller. While he did, he called back.
"Sure." He said, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. He couldn't think of much to talk about, but he at least could manage small talk.
"None of them were a kill shot, huh?" He said, looking down at the gun in his good hand. He shook his head at it, like it was to blame for the current predicament.
"Not a single one. Although."
She stepped closer. Smiled with the left side of her lip.
"You did get me pretty good."
And looked Jackson in the eyes, took in his expression, searched for even the slightest trace of fear, the slightest validation that she was in control. And then, if things went right, he would take in her eyes. Look at the anger radiating from it, behind that crooked smile. He would take in every bit of malice Cathryn meant him.
And it would be the last thing he'd ever see. She hoped.
Cathryn had realized, in that space of a few seconds after the first gunshot, that talking was not what she needed from him. She was in want of a voice, of a human conversation, but not from him, not from the man who disfigured her. As she came closer, her fear subsided, was replaced with that familiar rage, a rage which she no longer fought but welcomed. Besides, there was nothing to be said. She knew his reasons, didn't need to ask the why's. A single look, a single snivel, a single shudder from him would suffice, would be enough to tell her that everything would be alright, that she was in the clear now. She thought.
What she didn't realize was that it would never be enough. Even if Jackson screamed for mercy, begged at her knees, she would always need a bit more reassurance.
And what she forgot, just for a few seconds, a few steps, was that she was not close to being in the clear. As she stepped closer, and closer, and closer to him, she let something very important slip from her mind.
He still had the gun. He could still destroy her. He was still in control.
She stepped closer. Smiled with the left side of her lip.
"You did get me pretty good."
And looked Jackson in the eyes, took in his expression, searched for even the slightest trace of fear, the slightest validation that she was in control. And then, if things went right, he would take in her eyes. Look at the anger radiating from it, behind that crooked smile. He would take in every bit of malice Cathryn meant him.
And it would be the last thing he'd ever see. She hoped.
Cathryn had realized, in that space of a few seconds after the first gunshot, that talking was not what she needed from him. She was in want of a voice, of a human conversation, but not from him, not from the man who disfigured her. As she came closer, her fear subsided, was replaced with that familiar rage, a rage which she no longer fought but welcomed. Besides, there was nothing to be said. She knew his reasons, didn't need to ask the why's. A single look, a single snivel, a single shudder from him would suffice, would be enough to tell her that everything would be alright, that she was in the clear now. She thought.
What she didn't realize was that it would never be enough. Even if Jackson screamed for mercy, begged at her knees, she would always need a bit more reassurance.
And what she forgot, just for a few seconds, a few steps, was that she was not close to being in the clear. As she stepped closer, and closer, and closer to him, she let something very important slip from her mind.
He still had the gun. He could still destroy her. He was still in control.
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
Yagmur swallowed a gulp of whisky the wrong way, and tried in vain to suppress the coughing fit that followed. His attempts to silence it completely was just agitating his throat more, just threatening to incapacitate him even more so. So he settled for allowing himself to hack and wheeze into his fist, concealing the more embarrassing parts of his efforts to clear out his throat. After a few seconds, the worst was over.
He decided to let his voice rest. It still hurt a bit.
He contemplated letting his throat rest a bit.
Nah.
Another swig of whisky.
This was good stuff. Or he was drunk.
So it took him a few seconds to determine if those noises were footsteps or just his senses playing tricks on him. All things considered, they were probably footsteps. Made the most logical sense. The producers were probably steering the idiots - you know, the ones that made good TV, the ones that appealed to the lowbrow idiots, the lowest common denominator, that watched this show - towards each other.
Probably hoped he'd choke to death on his whisky. That way, they wouldn't need to waste valuable screentime on his pointless philosophising, on his structured critiques of the show format. No reason to give a platform to a guy who would get your audience to realise just how shit your show was, you know?
Eh, was worth checking out anyway.
He'd forgotten what it was that he was debating whether to check out or not.
Oh right, footsteps.
So he walked in their direction.
And saw Corin. A short distance away.
Near enough to grab his attention by curtly stating "Corin".
So that's what Yagmur did.
He decided to let his voice rest. It still hurt a bit.
He contemplated letting his throat rest a bit.
Nah.
Another swig of whisky.
This was good stuff. Or he was drunk.
So it took him a few seconds to determine if those noises were footsteps or just his senses playing tricks on him. All things considered, they were probably footsteps. Made the most logical sense. The producers were probably steering the idiots - you know, the ones that made good TV, the ones that appealed to the lowbrow idiots, the lowest common denominator, that watched this show - towards each other.
Probably hoped he'd choke to death on his whisky. That way, they wouldn't need to waste valuable screentime on his pointless philosophising, on his structured critiques of the show format. No reason to give a platform to a guy who would get your audience to realise just how shit your show was, you know?
Eh, was worth checking out anyway.
He'd forgotten what it was that he was debating whether to check out or not.
Oh right, footsteps.
So he walked in their direction.
And saw Corin. A short distance away.
Near enough to grab his attention by curtly stating "Corin".
So that's what Yagmur did.
-
Lord_Shadow
- Posts: 536
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:43 am
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
"If I were dead would anyone miss me? If I were alive would anyone care? Were I not both already, would it matter?" She shook her head. She had long since stopped hearing anyone else around. Perhaps she had strayed too far. It felt like she was going to meet the gunfire, but the layout was different than what she remembered. She stopped to kick at an overturned table.
"But if I were dead, would that not be wonderful? And if I were alive, would that not be torture? I am both. I am alive and dead. For my body lives but my soul has departed. Wretched demon am I, that even now draws breath when others more worthy of life have departed. "
She put a hand over her chest. Lament the dead, curse the living. She shook her head. No.
"Who cares? I'm alive. That's what matters now."
That is all that matters now.
"But if I were dead, would that not be wonderful? And if I were alive, would that not be torture? I am both. I am alive and dead. For my body lives but my soul has departed. Wretched demon am I, that even now draws breath when others more worthy of life have departed. "
She put a hand over her chest. Lament the dead, curse the living. She shook her head. No.
"Who cares? I'm alive. That's what matters now."
That is all that matters now.
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 turned abruptly to see Yagmur, he was much more silent till that point than Corin was and he didn’t expect his voice. Yagmur’s voice was curt but not so sudden as to startle him, it wasn’t like he was screaming bloody murder, and it almost seemed like a continuation of before so Corin's body didn't react very strongly.
“I see you’re still drinking, Yagmur.” He responded, his tone equally curt.
He didn’t actually care if he was drinking; to Corin the alcohol only represented a greater probability of error in case Yagmur decided to do anything. In a twisted way, Corin preferred the presence of Yagmur, he was familiar though neither of them had business being friends. If it weren’t for the whole endgame thing he probably would consider the drinking idea himself, and he sort of wished he was the sort of person who could just spend his possible last few minutes chugging alcohol.
Corin figured that least he could have enjoyed something before probably dying, but it just wasn’t his nature.
“Beats what I’ve been doing.” He lifted the hand he used to compress his shoulder wound, turning it so that Yagmur could view the red print on his palm.
“So, are you planning on becoming the first person to die of alcohol poisoning on the show?” He smiled insincerely; it was hard to even tell if he was kidding.
He knew it was a possibility that Yagmur would just pick him off from where he was, but Corin was willing to fire back and he didn’t have whiskey rushing through his blood stream. Yagmur probably would have fired by now if that was the case, at least that was how Corin’s mind reasoned through it.
But if all Yagmur wanted was to drown himself in his whiskey and misery, it was fine by Corin.
“I see you’re still drinking, Yagmur.” He responded, his tone equally curt.
He didn’t actually care if he was drinking; to Corin the alcohol only represented a greater probability of error in case Yagmur decided to do anything. In a twisted way, Corin preferred the presence of Yagmur, he was familiar though neither of them had business being friends. If it weren’t for the whole endgame thing he probably would consider the drinking idea himself, and he sort of wished he was the sort of person who could just spend his possible last few minutes chugging alcohol.
Corin figured that least he could have enjoyed something before probably dying, but it just wasn’t his nature.
“Beats what I’ve been doing.” He lifted the hand he used to compress his shoulder wound, turning it so that Yagmur could view the red print on his palm.
“So, are you planning on becoming the first person to die of alcohol poisoning on the show?” He smiled insincerely; it was hard to even tell if he was kidding.
He knew it was a possibility that Yagmur would just pick him off from where he was, but Corin was willing to fire back and he didn’t have whiskey rushing through his blood stream. Yagmur probably would have fired by now if that was the case, at least that was how Corin’s mind reasoned through it.
But if all Yagmur wanted was to drown himself in his whiskey and misery, it was fine by Corin.
"Not good enough." Jackson replied, almost inaudibly. She was getting closer, that much he could tell by her voice. He was fucked if he was just going to sit here.
He didn't know if it was right to take a chance. Didn't know if there was a chance. But at this point, he didn't have much other than the grace of God and a pistol.
Jackson lurched out toward his side, jarring his shoulder as he landed hard enough to choke a cry out of him. He squeezed the trigger of the pistol, the barrel pointed toward Cathryn. He didn't know this was the last mistake he'd ever make.
He didn't know if it was right to take a chance. Didn't know if there was a chance. But at this point, he didn't have much other than the grace of God and a pistol.
Jackson lurched out toward his side, jarring his shoulder as he landed hard enough to choke a cry out of him. He squeezed the trigger of the pistol, the barrel pointed toward Cathryn. He didn't know this was the last mistake he'd ever make.
((GMing approved.))
It was.
It was also the best mistake he'd make.
The gun flashed. Bang. Ringing. Cathryn looked below.
Crimson veins and vines streaming from her torso, right side. A splotch growing bigger and bigger.
He'd broken her again.
Her eyes grew even wider. She let out something between a scream, a growl, and a gasp. She rose her right arm and pointed the gun at Jackson, and did what she should've done the first time. She pulled the trigger. It hit. Where it hit, she didn't care, but it hit, and Jackson was down.
But he'd already done his damage.
She walked backwards, eyes still wide open, pointing the gun at Jackson. No more tricks. Once she was satisfied that he wouldn't go for her again, she turned the corner, walked some more, and found an isolated little corner.
And then she held her breath. Held her breath, removed her jacket blouse. Raised her tank top.
It was deep. A hole, another hole was inside her, and red rivers were pouring from it, pumping blood outwards.
Everything had changed.
Cathryn hadn't been up for one last talk. She thought she was, but she wasn't even close to ready. Jackson was. He still had the gun. Still controlled her. She walked towards him. She walked towards her last mistake. Then, he broke her, destroyed her.
This was her fault. She walked into this. She wasn't sure she could ever fix this again. She waited for that big resounding 'no' to come once more, to save her, restore her, but it would never come again. Instead, she tried to put the pieces together again. Took off her bag, and fumbled for the first-aid kit. She got all the remaining gauze and tried wrapping it tightly around her midsection, against the wound. She placed more bandages against it. But it meant nothing. The rivers still flowed. The splotches still grew.
And Cathryn started sobbing.
It was.
It was also the best mistake he'd make.
The gun flashed. Bang. Ringing. Cathryn looked below.
Crimson veins and vines streaming from her torso, right side. A splotch growing bigger and bigger.
He'd broken her again.
Her eyes grew even wider. She let out something between a scream, a growl, and a gasp. She rose her right arm and pointed the gun at Jackson, and did what she should've done the first time. She pulled the trigger. It hit. Where it hit, she didn't care, but it hit, and Jackson was down.
But he'd already done his damage.
She walked backwards, eyes still wide open, pointing the gun at Jackson. No more tricks. Once she was satisfied that he wouldn't go for her again, she turned the corner, walked some more, and found an isolated little corner.
And then she held her breath. Held her breath, removed her jacket blouse. Raised her tank top.
It was deep. A hole, another hole was inside her, and red rivers were pouring from it, pumping blood outwards.
Everything had changed.
Cathryn hadn't been up for one last talk. She thought she was, but she wasn't even close to ready. Jackson was. He still had the gun. Still controlled her. She walked towards him. She walked towards her last mistake. Then, he broke her, destroyed her.
This was her fault. She walked into this. She wasn't sure she could ever fix this again. She waited for that big resounding 'no' to come once more, to save her, restore her, but it would never come again. Instead, she tried to put the pieces together again. Took off her bag, and fumbled for the first-aid kit. She got all the remaining gauze and tried wrapping it tightly around her midsection, against the wound. She placed more bandages against it. But it meant nothing. The rivers still flowed. The splotches still grew.
And Cathryn started sobbing.
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
"Hmm. Would be interesting."
Dying of alcohol poisoning, that is.
"Would definitely add an element of real life that this show is-" A burp. "Currently lacking."
"Stanislavski!" he said, raising his glass, to the pioneer of realist theatre.
He was quite drunk. He reckoned he was acting drunker than he actually was. Playing into the role of comic relief, of drunken master, finally embracing the over-the-top macabre spirit of the show with all the required enthusiasm. Maybe he wanted to be drunk, to numb the pain, to try and distract from the looming risk of death.
There were many theories why Yagmur was acting drunker than he actually was.
There was also the theory he was acting as drunk as he was and was just deluding himself into thinking he'd be able to snap back into his competent zone when need be, but....
Eh, he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.
Dying of alcohol poisoning, that is.
"Would definitely add an element of real life that this show is-" A burp. "Currently lacking."
"Stanislavski!" he said, raising his glass, to the pioneer of realist theatre.
He was quite drunk. He reckoned he was acting drunker than he actually was. Playing into the role of comic relief, of drunken master, finally embracing the over-the-top macabre spirit of the show with all the required enthusiasm. Maybe he wanted to be drunk, to numb the pain, to try and distract from the looming risk of death.
There were many theories why Yagmur was acting drunker than he actually was.
There was also the theory he was acting as drunk as he was and was just deluding himself into thinking he'd be able to snap back into his competent zone when need be, but....
Eh, he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.
-
Lord_Shadow
- Posts: 536
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:43 am
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
"Well helloooo there!" Ana said in a sing song voice, waving her blade. She watched the girl try to stop the river of crimson flowing from out of her. It looked delectable. She smiled.
The gunshot earlier had snapped her out of her daze. When she heard it, she ran towards the sound, not caring about anything else. Her diligence had rewarded her, it seemed.
"Hi. Anastasia Arcadia, normal girl doing normal things. Nice to meet you." She bowed slightly. She glanced at the wound. The blood was fresh and full of fading life. She wanted it. She wanted to cut the girl open and drink straight from the tap, so to speak. "Having a bad day?"
Another smile, and a lick of the lips
Beautiful.
The gunshot earlier had snapped her out of her daze. When she heard it, she ran towards the sound, not caring about anything else. Her diligence had rewarded her, it seemed.
"Hi. Anastasia Arcadia, normal girl doing normal things. Nice to meet you." She bowed slightly. She glanced at the wound. The blood was fresh and full of fading life. She wanted it. She wanted to cut the girl open and drink straight from the tap, so to speak. "Having a bad day?"
Another smile, and a lick of the lips
Beautiful.
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 sensed that Yagmur was probably nearing the end of his own rope, not that he could understand what the guy was thinking, but he simply expected it from everyone. For a brief moment Corin didn’t really want to fight Yagmur, or do anything. His lip twitched as a small bit of pity crept onto his features, knowing that he’d been partly responsible.
Not that he knew what he was doing then, or what had been doing ever since he landed on the show.
Yagmur did a lot of things, he provided a special brand of vitriolic company that very few people would ever experience. It was like the last thread of sympathy he had was for this guy, and Corin would never let him know it. Maybe it was because Corin projected what he wanted onto Yagmur at this point, pretended that there was a mutual understanding somewhere between the layers of hate. Somehow talking to Yagmur stopped his mind from fraying as fast, gave him someone to talk to before the end would arrive. Part of Corin decided that Yagmur wasn’t going to die slowly, not like Bella, and that was something he was going to keep silent about.
“Even though you’re shit faced you look like you could use another glass.” His voice was soft, drained of the aggression it had been rife with for the last day. His eyes were looking through him, keeping a grim expression as he considered his options.
Corin’s finger grazed the cool metal of the trigger guard, as his eyes looked over at Yagmur thoughtfully. He felt like he was observing someone eating their last meal before they went to a chopping block. It didn’t have to be right then and there, he reasoned, but it was going to happen. Corin’s finger subtly moved to a less trigger happy position, as he decided to take advantage of the lull in events and tend to the oozing wound over his shoulder.
Yagmur could stand to have a few more glasses, and Corin could stand a moment of being idle. Simply fighting quietly with himself and the compulsions that ran through his head, even if the show wasn't going to give him the time to wrestle with himself.
Not that he knew what he was doing then, or what had been doing ever since he landed on the show.
Yagmur did a lot of things, he provided a special brand of vitriolic company that very few people would ever experience. It was like the last thread of sympathy he had was for this guy, and Corin would never let him know it. Maybe it was because Corin projected what he wanted onto Yagmur at this point, pretended that there was a mutual understanding somewhere between the layers of hate. Somehow talking to Yagmur stopped his mind from fraying as fast, gave him someone to talk to before the end would arrive. Part of Corin decided that Yagmur wasn’t going to die slowly, not like Bella, and that was something he was going to keep silent about.
“Even though you’re shit faced you look like you could use another glass.” His voice was soft, drained of the aggression it had been rife with for the last day. His eyes were looking through him, keeping a grim expression as he considered his options.
Corin’s finger grazed the cool metal of the trigger guard, as his eyes looked over at Yagmur thoughtfully. He felt like he was observing someone eating their last meal before they went to a chopping block. It didn’t have to be right then and there, he reasoned, but it was going to happen. Corin’s finger subtly moved to a less trigger happy position, as he decided to take advantage of the lull in events and tend to the oozing wound over his shoulder.
Yagmur could stand to have a few more glasses, and Corin could stand a moment of being idle. Simply fighting quietly with himself and the compulsions that ran through his head, even if the show wasn't going to give him the time to wrestle with himself.
Most of Jackson's reflection was completed in the space of his gunshot to Cathryn's bullet taking him in chest, through his left lung. Most of it was revisiting old worries. Hoping the kids at the library weren't watching. Hoping his parents could deal with whatever happened.
Then shock had set in as the bullet took his breath away and replaced it with an odd, sucking feeling in his chest with each inhale. It didn't take long for asphyxia and blood loss to kill him. He still had enough time to see Cathryn slink away, wounded
I got her, was his last thought before he died. It was a small comfort.
GH5, Jackson King: DECEASED
Then shock had set in as the bullet took his breath away and replaced it with an odd, sucking feeling in his chest with each inhale. It didn't take long for asphyxia and blood loss to kill him. He still had enough time to see Cathryn slink away, wounded
I got her, was his last thought before he died. It was a small comfort.
GH5, Jackson King: DECEASED
Cathryn continued wrapping the bandages around her stomach, but her final mistake wouldn't go away. Drip. Drop. It continued flowing down her stomach, onto the floor. Accumulating into puddles.
She was fading. Slowly. In many ways, really. The color of her skin. The rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled. Even the pain from her wounds was fading. The stab wounds, bruises, gunshot wounds, holes, scratches all pulsed a little less with each beat.
Even her oldest foes/companions, anger, regret, fear stirred in her a little less. They were slowly getting overwhelmed by that five-letter word, doubt. No, not just doubt. It had morphed into something more sinister: certainty. With Jackson's last laugh, last wound came certainty that she wouldn't make it out of this game alive. Certainty that she'd never get to call a place other than Whittree home. Certainty of the end, a few minutes from now.
And all because she took a few too many steps.
This last thought, along with that certainty, dominated Cathryn's mind even as she wrapped the gauze around her stomach, again and again, trying to plug a hole that couldn't stop leaking. Tears dripped from her cheek, soaking into another piece of gauze around her cheek and mixing with the blood.
And then some girl came brandishing some sort of sword. And this is how the end would come, right? Cathryn no longer got the sole right to dictate anything, to say who died and who screamed. Sure, bullets beat blades. But Cathryn was still fading, growing weaker, and weaker, and weaker. If ghosts existed, then Lucia's was probably laughing in her ear. Jackson's too, in fact. And Bella's. And Alice's. All her ghosts noting how the tables have turned, how the hunter has become the hunted, et cetera, et cetera.
Cathryn felt oddly disrespected by Ana, really. Her death was an eventuality she never wanted to consider, but if it were to occur, she'd hoped that it would be like that of a villain. One final showdown among the final two, some gun battle, really. Like with Corin. Not this, never this, being the plaything of some psycho, being put in Lucia's exact position. She wanted to die with the slightest semblance of dignity, of control. After all, isn't this what her time in SOTF had been about? Control?
She stopped crying a bit, looked at Anastasia with her eyebrows scrunched. She sighed, and held her head in her hands. "God, just fucking get to it already."
Her breath shook, a bit more than the other times.
"If you want to shoot me, stab me, punch me, hell, fucking eat me, just do it!"
The last three words hung in the air. The gravity of it all was not lost on Cathryn. From contender to fodder. Just a few steps did it, Cathryn. She thought back to her 'conversation' with Dougie, when her mind briefly wandered on about lasts. Those words might be among her lasts. Very soon.
She leaned back against the corner she sat against, covered her face in her hand and started crying again.
"God, I don't need this," she muttered to herself.
She was fading. Slowly. In many ways, really. The color of her skin. The rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled. Even the pain from her wounds was fading. The stab wounds, bruises, gunshot wounds, holes, scratches all pulsed a little less with each beat.
Even her oldest foes/companions, anger, regret, fear stirred in her a little less. They were slowly getting overwhelmed by that five-letter word, doubt. No, not just doubt. It had morphed into something more sinister: certainty. With Jackson's last laugh, last wound came certainty that she wouldn't make it out of this game alive. Certainty that she'd never get to call a place other than Whittree home. Certainty of the end, a few minutes from now.
And all because she took a few too many steps.
This last thought, along with that certainty, dominated Cathryn's mind even as she wrapped the gauze around her stomach, again and again, trying to plug a hole that couldn't stop leaking. Tears dripped from her cheek, soaking into another piece of gauze around her cheek and mixing with the blood.
And then some girl came brandishing some sort of sword. And this is how the end would come, right? Cathryn no longer got the sole right to dictate anything, to say who died and who screamed. Sure, bullets beat blades. But Cathryn was still fading, growing weaker, and weaker, and weaker. If ghosts existed, then Lucia's was probably laughing in her ear. Jackson's too, in fact. And Bella's. And Alice's. All her ghosts noting how the tables have turned, how the hunter has become the hunted, et cetera, et cetera.
Cathryn felt oddly disrespected by Ana, really. Her death was an eventuality she never wanted to consider, but if it were to occur, she'd hoped that it would be like that of a villain. One final showdown among the final two, some gun battle, really. Like with Corin. Not this, never this, being the plaything of some psycho, being put in Lucia's exact position. She wanted to die with the slightest semblance of dignity, of control. After all, isn't this what her time in SOTF had been about? Control?
She stopped crying a bit, looked at Anastasia with her eyebrows scrunched. She sighed, and held her head in her hands. "God, just fucking get to it already."
Her breath shook, a bit more than the other times.
"If you want to shoot me, stab me, punch me, hell, fucking eat me, just do it!"
The last three words hung in the air. The gravity of it all was not lost on Cathryn. From contender to fodder. Just a few steps did it, Cathryn. She thought back to her 'conversation' with Dougie, when her mind briefly wandered on about lasts. Those words might be among her lasts. Very soon.
She leaned back against the corner she sat against, covered her face in her hand and started crying again.
"God, I don't need this," she muttered to herself.
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
"You ever wish-" Yagmur replied, not really registering Corin's words as he sipped the beginnings of another glass. He paused mid-sentence, processing the whiskey spilling down his throat, patting his chest a couple of times to help smooth the hot liquid's journey. "You ever wish," he restarted, "that we knew how to escape?"
That's right. Delude everyone into thinking he had been spending his final moments thinking productively, turning to the bottle for an extra edge of creative flair, and not just getting shit-faced and selfishly mourning his inevitable demise. It'd give his parents and brother a brief morsel of hope, that maybe he was working on a genius strategy, that maybe he still had enough humanity in him to offer that same out to someone who circumstances had made a mortal enemy.
But he had spent no thought on escape for some time now. No thought on protest, no thought on undermining the system, no thought on delivering a powerful philosophical treatise that would ultimately undermine this awful show.
Nope. He had spent his energy on drinking and thoughts of violence.
He swayed to the side slightly, before restoring his balance.
That's right. Delude everyone into thinking he had been spending his final moments thinking productively, turning to the bottle for an extra edge of creative flair, and not just getting shit-faced and selfishly mourning his inevitable demise. It'd give his parents and brother a brief morsel of hope, that maybe he was working on a genius strategy, that maybe he still had enough humanity in him to offer that same out to someone who circumstances had made a mortal enemy.
But he had spent no thought on escape for some time now. No thought on protest, no thought on undermining the system, no thought on delivering a powerful philosophical treatise that would ultimately undermine this awful show.
Nope. He had spent his energy on drinking and thoughts of violence.
He swayed to the side slightly, before restoring his balance.