[Clara Fox, continued from Miles to Go Before I Sleep.]
“Okay-- this looks bad.” Clara grunted, keeping her weight on her right leg as she left the canopy behind. “Like, really bad.”
Returning to the forest was a terrible idea.
Exhausted, Clara slumped down on her thick blanket of pine needles and rested her head against the trunk of a conifer tree, stretching her injured legs out in front of her and throwing her canvas duffle bag to her right side. She shook her head lightly and watched the needles fall from the curls of her tangled hair onto the ground, brushing and picking out the more persistant ones. Clara exhaled sharply, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited for the pain in her legs to go away. Her left was worse than her right- with good reason- but she tried to forget about it for a moment. Her arm moved to her daypack, grabbing her revolver for security, and Clara sat there, for a moment, hoping her legs would stop hurting.
She opened her eyes a moment later and eyed the open wound on her left leg with contempt. If it were a wound from a person, she would not have felt as much embarrassment, but it was a tree branch that had gotten the better of her. As she ran through the forest, one of her tights had snagged against it, tearing the fabric open and leaving a large, bloody gash across her thigh. It was, thankfully, too shallow to leave any real damage, but even the slowest trickle of blood down her leg deserved attention. She was a runner, plain and simple. If she lost her mobility, she was dead. Clara placed her revolver- uncocked on an empty chamber- in her lap and pulled one of her first aid kits from her bag. There were bandages and dressings missing from the other first aid kit, so Clara threw the stranger’s pack back into her bag and unzipped her own.
Clara had never received formal first aid training. None of her classmates could have, she believed. She remembered her mother saying that it was impossible to take one- a proper one- until you were eighteen, when Clara had asked if she could. It hadn’t bothered her at the time. Now, she felt clumsy as she tried to clean and dress her wound, bandaging over the tights to keep them from falling around her ankles when she stood back up. It looked like a mess, because it was.
Clara still felt well enough to move- admittedly, the wound was only a temporary distraction- but she decided to give herself a few minutes before she got back in the game. Enough, at least, so her heartbeat could return to rest. She fetched a bottle of water from her bag, uncapping it with her teeth, and drank from it until her throat no longer felt hoarse. Then, she pulled the stray bullets from her pockets and loaded them into her revolver one at a time. She may have been down, but she certainly wasn't out.
Vagabond Code
Closed
Vagabond Code
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
[[M18: Garritt Baker - Program Start.]]
Garritt Baker had nearly shit himself when the announcement was made. The soldiers with high caliber rifles crowding around and grabbing him didn't help much either and neither were those gunshots he heard the moment he was brought onto the bus.
This whole thing was way too surreal. He had never in a million years thought that his school, much less himself would ever be shoved into The Program. Garritt always knew what he would do if he ever got selected to participate in the Program. That would of course be to win the damn game and wipe out all the fucking coloreds, gingers, faggots, fatties, ugly chicks and anyone else who got in the way of his victory. He just didn't think that he'd actually have to play out this little tough talking fantasy for real.
If he had a machine gun or something with fire-power, then maybe he could do it, but he didn't. It was a crowbar, which was a great draw for clobbering people, but if he met up against someone bigger with something stronger, than he was pretty much screwed. That wasn't even taking into account that there might be some scary ass nigger ready to tear his head off for all the shit he probably said at one time.
Damn it. He needed some people like one of Patriot High's Minutemen for ally protection and a bad-ass firearm to feel comfortable, but he was much too scared to make any progress. He couldn't even find his way out of this big ass pine forest. Not that he was brave enough to leave its protective shelter, if he was completely honest. The pine kept him safe so far after all. It was dense in some places and had many trees, which made for great cover and decent hiding places.
He'd seen a few people running back and forth throughout the forest and even heard a few gunshots which still continued to freak him out whenever he heard one during his stay here, but he hadn't actually came in direct contact with anyone as of yet. In a way he hoped to keep it that way. After all, they couldn't kill him if they couldn't find him, right? Heck, who was he to trust anyway? Everyone knew they had to kill everyone else, unless they were really stupid.
Right now, looking out for Garritt Baker was all Garritt Baker was concerned about. Whenever he saw people, he hid. Whenever he heard a gunshot somewhere, he'd run the other way. It kept him warm, but it was still very tiring.
Garritt sat at the trunk of a large pine tree, leaning completely back against it as he foraged through his bag for something to eat. Garritt shivered a little as he felt a breeze while drinking from his liter of water, cursing the fact that he chose to wear ripped jeans on this particular day. At least he still had his long beanie to keep his ears warm.
Gosh, he really needed a cigarette break or he was pretty sure he was going to lose his mind out here.
Garritt Baker had nearly shit himself when the announcement was made. The soldiers with high caliber rifles crowding around and grabbing him didn't help much either and neither were those gunshots he heard the moment he was brought onto the bus.
This whole thing was way too surreal. He had never in a million years thought that his school, much less himself would ever be shoved into The Program. Garritt always knew what he would do if he ever got selected to participate in the Program. That would of course be to win the damn game and wipe out all the fucking coloreds, gingers, faggots, fatties, ugly chicks and anyone else who got in the way of his victory. He just didn't think that he'd actually have to play out this little tough talking fantasy for real.
If he had a machine gun or something with fire-power, then maybe he could do it, but he didn't. It was a crowbar, which was a great draw for clobbering people, but if he met up against someone bigger with something stronger, than he was pretty much screwed. That wasn't even taking into account that there might be some scary ass nigger ready to tear his head off for all the shit he probably said at one time.
Damn it. He needed some people like one of Patriot High's Minutemen for ally protection and a bad-ass firearm to feel comfortable, but he was much too scared to make any progress. He couldn't even find his way out of this big ass pine forest. Not that he was brave enough to leave its protective shelter, if he was completely honest. The pine kept him safe so far after all. It was dense in some places and had many trees, which made for great cover and decent hiding places.
He'd seen a few people running back and forth throughout the forest and even heard a few gunshots which still continued to freak him out whenever he heard one during his stay here, but he hadn't actually came in direct contact with anyone as of yet. In a way he hoped to keep it that way. After all, they couldn't kill him if they couldn't find him, right? Heck, who was he to trust anyway? Everyone knew they had to kill everyone else, unless they were really stupid.
Right now, looking out for Garritt Baker was all Garritt Baker was concerned about. Whenever he saw people, he hid. Whenever he heard a gunshot somewhere, he'd run the other way. It kept him warm, but it was still very tiring.
Garritt sat at the trunk of a large pine tree, leaning completely back against it as he foraged through his bag for something to eat. Garritt shivered a little as he felt a breeze while drinking from his liter of water, cursing the fact that he chose to wear ripped jeans on this particular day. At least he still had his long beanie to keep his ears warm.
Gosh, he really needed a cigarette break or he was pretty sure he was going to lose his mind out here.
-
Sideliner*
- Posts: 47
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 8:12 am
(Lenny continued from Wash Away)
The more he marched, the less he could hear himself. Dense piles of needles collected under Lenny's feet as he walked down the hill. Somewhere along the line, the rumbling of his own stomach started getting in on the fun. A beam of light suddenly met his eyes, and he raised an arm, eyes unaccustomed to the lack of shade blocking the sun from his eyes. Lenny mumbled. Out from the corner of his eye, he spotted a stump. Somewhat weary, he planted himself on the stump with his stick and his bag on either side of him, his head pointing down like the path of a misfired rocket.
"Being pissed off at the program is a nigger thing, you know."
He growled like a coyote who had his snack stolen by...some raccoon or some shit. Lenny was a bit too hungry to come up with wordplay, so he opened the bag. Two packaged meals, two bags of crackers, a loaf of bread, and 4 bottles of water. Lenny peeled open one of the packaged meals. There was chicken. He started snarfing it down, unaware of how much noise he was making.
The more he marched, the less he could hear himself. Dense piles of needles collected under Lenny's feet as he walked down the hill. Somewhere along the line, the rumbling of his own stomach started getting in on the fun. A beam of light suddenly met his eyes, and he raised an arm, eyes unaccustomed to the lack of shade blocking the sun from his eyes. Lenny mumbled. Out from the corner of his eye, he spotted a stump. Somewhat weary, he planted himself on the stump with his stick and his bag on either side of him, his head pointing down like the path of a misfired rocket.
"Being pissed off at the program is a nigger thing, you know."
He growled like a coyote who had his snack stolen by...some raccoon or some shit. Lenny was a bit too hungry to come up with wordplay, so he opened the bag. Two packaged meals, two bags of crackers, a loaf of bread, and 4 bottles of water. Lenny peeled open one of the packaged meals. There was chicken. He started snarfing it down, unaware of how much noise he was making.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Sideliner. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Clara slammed her fifth bullet into the chamber of the revolver and spun the cylinder with her palm, placing the sixth bullet in her jacket pocket. The battered paperback copy of the Colt Single-Action Army Owner's Manual in her day-pack had recommended, among innumerable other safety precautions, chambering five bullets rather than six. Keeping the book’s advice in mind, Clara cocked the hammer on the empty chamber and held the revolver tight in both hands, right index finger curled around the trigger guard. Clara quickly counted her bullets in her head. Five in the chamber and I've fired three, she thought. That makes twenty-eight left.
Clara cursed under her breath. She was burning through her ammunition too quickly, with only a poet’s grazed arm and a half-empty first aid kit to show for it. Clara felt the eyes watching her with disdain, pencils waiting to scratch a tally mark next to her name, fingers waiting to type her name among the other killers, maybe Tas or Angel. There was, after all, an expectation for minorities in this game. She was just a spoke in the wheel. Nothing she could do would change that. If she played, every corpse in her wake became a martyr for the American Dream. If she ran, if she tried to escape, or if she put her gun in her mouth and blew her brains out, then she would be a propagandist's dream.
Fuck them, she thought. Fuck all of them.
Exhaling sharply, she placed her free arm against the trunk of the spruce tree and pushed herself up.
It was time for Clara Fox to get back on her feet.
The pain in her legs had subsided, which meant that Clara needed to get moving. She kept her pistol raised, cocked on the empty chamber. It was unlikely that she could have sat in one place for so long without attracting any attention. There were always people fishing for alliances, or sharks converging on blood in the water. People rarely stayed alone for long. Clara spotted figures lurking among the pines. Of course, she realized. It was always like this.
Clara cocked back the hammer of her revolver, seething with anger.
"C'mon, assholes." She spat. "Just fucking try me."
Clara cursed under her breath. She was burning through her ammunition too quickly, with only a poet’s grazed arm and a half-empty first aid kit to show for it. Clara felt the eyes watching her with disdain, pencils waiting to scratch a tally mark next to her name, fingers waiting to type her name among the other killers, maybe Tas or Angel. There was, after all, an expectation for minorities in this game. She was just a spoke in the wheel. Nothing she could do would change that. If she played, every corpse in her wake became a martyr for the American Dream. If she ran, if she tried to escape, or if she put her gun in her mouth and blew her brains out, then she would be a propagandist's dream.
Fuck them, she thought. Fuck all of them.
Exhaling sharply, she placed her free arm against the trunk of the spruce tree and pushed herself up.
It was time for Clara Fox to get back on her feet.
The pain in her legs had subsided, which meant that Clara needed to get moving. She kept her pistol raised, cocked on the empty chamber. It was unlikely that she could have sat in one place for so long without attracting any attention. There were always people fishing for alliances, or sharks converging on blood in the water. People rarely stayed alone for long. Clara spotted figures lurking among the pines. Of course, she realized. It was always like this.
Clara cocked back the hammer of her revolver, seething with anger.
"C'mon, assholes." She spat. "Just fucking try me."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
(Tori Gavlik continued from Inventory Check)
Tori had to learn how to keep her mouth shut.
The Stephanie Moon Incident (as what Tori would now call it) would definitely come back and bite her in the ass later on, but that could be days away. Tori had to prevent future incidents like that from happening, and that began with getting quiet. Tori didn’t know if it was the Program stress or the desire to make alliances (probably a combination of both) that made her mouth run a mile a minute, but she had to cap both in order to get her shit together. She was never like this in school, and if she did socialize there, it would probably go down something like that.
The girl shook her head and tried to clear her mind and appreciate the change of scenery. Towering pine trees beat thorny gorse bushes any day, and she was slowly adjusting to the dim surroundings of the forest. She expected to hear birds chirping, but the forest was eerily silent. They probably got rid of all the wildlife prior to the Program. Shame, she needed something to induce an aura of normalcy. The quiet seemed to unnerve Tori even more, and she mistook her own footsteps as enemies encroaching her one too many times. She managed to keep a swift pace despite the difficulty of navigating the forest and the challenge of moving soundlessly, but something eventually bogged her down. Thick foliage, for example. Or maybe she saw or heard fellow students and had to go around in circles to get away from them. Or maybe she was going in the wrong direction.
Or maybe she was hopelessly lost.
Tori eventually stumbled upon a boy eating his rations like a rabid wolf. She recognized Lenny in his football jersey, that sexist prick. Tori was never on good terms with him, mostly because he was a sexist prick. She never really knew if the fellow was racist or not, but it was safer to watch from a distance. She briefly considered jumping the guy (he seemed vulnerable), but a voice in the distance jarred Tori from her scheming.
"C'mon, assholes. Just fuckin' try me."
Tori squeaked and ducked into the bushes, scooting her butt behind a tree. The voice sounded like Clara, a girl from school. She also knew very little about her and her political views, but she was a person to avoid. Mostly because of the gun. She wanted to run, but that would make to much noise. She was wedged in between a tree and a bush, not to mention that the ground was littered with small sticks. And then there's Lenny. If Tori could sink into the ground, she would do it right now. Sink to the bottom of the earth and escape the damn Program. Maybe the other ground-sinking people were nice and friendly...
Tori drifted off into her own imagination, thinking up a magical story about herself and a bunch of other ground-sinking teens. She was extremely vulnerable at this point, but at least she wasn't making any noise.
Tori had to learn how to keep her mouth shut.
The Stephanie Moon Incident (as what Tori would now call it) would definitely come back and bite her in the ass later on, but that could be days away. Tori had to prevent future incidents like that from happening, and that began with getting quiet. Tori didn’t know if it was the Program stress or the desire to make alliances (probably a combination of both) that made her mouth run a mile a minute, but she had to cap both in order to get her shit together. She was never like this in school, and if she did socialize there, it would probably go down something like that.
The girl shook her head and tried to clear her mind and appreciate the change of scenery. Towering pine trees beat thorny gorse bushes any day, and she was slowly adjusting to the dim surroundings of the forest. She expected to hear birds chirping, but the forest was eerily silent. They probably got rid of all the wildlife prior to the Program. Shame, she needed something to induce an aura of normalcy. The quiet seemed to unnerve Tori even more, and she mistook her own footsteps as enemies encroaching her one too many times. She managed to keep a swift pace despite the difficulty of navigating the forest and the challenge of moving soundlessly, but something eventually bogged her down. Thick foliage, for example. Or maybe she saw or heard fellow students and had to go around in circles to get away from them. Or maybe she was going in the wrong direction.
Or maybe she was hopelessly lost.
Tori eventually stumbled upon a boy eating his rations like a rabid wolf. She recognized Lenny in his football jersey, that sexist prick. Tori was never on good terms with him, mostly because he was a sexist prick. She never really knew if the fellow was racist or not, but it was safer to watch from a distance. She briefly considered jumping the guy (he seemed vulnerable), but a voice in the distance jarred Tori from her scheming.
"C'mon, assholes. Just fuckin' try me."
Tori squeaked and ducked into the bushes, scooting her butt behind a tree. The voice sounded like Clara, a girl from school. She also knew very little about her and her political views, but she was a person to avoid. Mostly because of the gun. She wanted to run, but that would make to much noise. She was wedged in between a tree and a bush, not to mention that the ground was littered with small sticks. And then there's Lenny. If Tori could sink into the ground, she would do it right now. Sink to the bottom of the earth and escape the damn Program. Maybe the other ground-sinking people were nice and friendly...
Tori drifted off into her own imagination, thinking up a magical story about herself and a bunch of other ground-sinking teens. She was extremely vulnerable at this point, but at least she wasn't making any noise.
((Caleb continued from Uncle Sam Says))
Caleb was still running. Like he'd expected, Dylan hadn't been able to keep up, which meant, well, just something out of his hair. That had been discomfiting, considerably, actually. Doing nothing was... strictly speaking, against the rules - no, against orders, that was a better way of putting it. And someone like her... that was the type of person that Caleb shouldn't have cared about. Not like... Marley or Karl or whoever. Just some half-cast chick in denial.
And... fuck he hadn't even choked. He'd not even come close to raising a hand to her, that was how little he'd really done.
And Caleb didn't know how to feel about that. It wasn't like he had a placard saying "In this situation, you must take this action". There was no gameplan, and the only concrete objective he could see was one that crawled under his skin, made him ... christ. He was just... trying to get by.
Running made things easier, like the work-out. Meant he didn't have to think. He'd lost the path somewhere in the middle of the forest, and his pace had slowed down, but it was quite frankly better than walking. Dodging trees here and there focused his concentration on evading obstacles, keeping his breathing in order, running based things. That was easier. More straightforward.
Caleb feet took him into a semblance of a clearing so quickly his mind wasn't even processing that there were people around until he was running between two sets of classmates.
Caleb was still running. Like he'd expected, Dylan hadn't been able to keep up, which meant, well, just something out of his hair. That had been discomfiting, considerably, actually. Doing nothing was... strictly speaking, against the rules - no, against orders, that was a better way of putting it. And someone like her... that was the type of person that Caleb shouldn't have cared about. Not like... Marley or Karl or whoever. Just some half-cast chick in denial.
And... fuck he hadn't even choked. He'd not even come close to raising a hand to her, that was how little he'd really done.
And Caleb didn't know how to feel about that. It wasn't like he had a placard saying "In this situation, you must take this action". There was no gameplan, and the only concrete objective he could see was one that crawled under his skin, made him ... christ. He was just... trying to get by.
Running made things easier, like the work-out. Meant he didn't have to think. He'd lost the path somewhere in the middle of the forest, and his pace had slowed down, but it was quite frankly better than walking. Dodging trees here and there focused his concentration on evading obstacles, keeping his breathing in order, running based things. That was easier. More straightforward.
Caleb feet took him into a semblance of a clearing so quickly his mind wasn't even processing that there were people around until he was running between two sets of classmates.
Oh fuuuuuuck!
Garritt jumped to his feet, dropping his half empty bottle of water onto the grass and made a mad dash away from it. It was just his damn luck, that the first person he encountered who actually saw him was an angry beaner chick with a gun, spitting threats.
He moved forward, doing his best to avoid some badly placed trees which kept getting in his way, only to stumble into two more people. Garritt watched the girl dive right into the bushes the moment he saw her, while the idiot boy nearby sat there on a freaking stump, with a ray of sun poking through the trees right on him like a spotlight, scarfing down lunch in clear view of everyone who'd pass by. Lunch!
As he neared closer to the boy, Garritt realized the idiot was Lenny Osborne. Lenny happened to be one of Patriot High's Minutemen, a big strong jock who he got along with at school and was exactly the type of ally he needed, even if he was a dummy. But Lenny wasn't going to be useful dead, unless...
The Minuteman could be used as a distraction or something so he could escape.
Garritt didn't have much time to consider his options, being that he was running for his life, with the crazy spic no doubt gaining on him. He didn't actually know that, but he wasn't about to turn around and go check. He was about to pass Lenny any second and had to make a decision on what he was going to do right now.
"Run, you doofus!"
There, he gave Lenny fair enough warning as he continued to run, quickly losing his energy while carrying the heavy bag and crowbar with him. He didn't make much distance at all, choosing instead to make a sharp turn in a different direction rather than a straight line to perhaps trick the girl and lose her.
Garritt could feel himself swiftly losing his breath, a really lame side effect from his daily smoking habit. If he ever made it out of here he was quitting right away like his mom asked him to, for real this time. He skidded to a halt, to catch some air, panting and silently cursing his below-average stamina, and started up again, when out of nowhere, some other guy popped up in front of him, nearly giving Garritt a heart-attack.
"Caleb," Garritt gasped as he put the brakes onto his heels, causing balance to shift lopsided on one side of his body and making himself fall backwards onto his own pack. Lucky for Garritt, Caleb was another of the Patriot High Minutemen, who could maybe help protect him from the gun-toting Mexican.
"H-He-Help!" Garritt said between breaths as he scurried around Caleb, grabbing at his sleeves. "There's a crazy Mexi-ho with a gun. A gun, man!"
Garritt scanned around the area in a panic for some place to hide in case things made a turn for the worse. He saw a large conifer trunk with boulders and overgrowth next to it. "Hope you have something good to kick her ass! Um, don't worry, I have your back!"
With that, Garritt let go of Caleb's sleeve and stepped back, crowbar in hand - ready to dart behind the tree at a moment's notice.
Garritt jumped to his feet, dropping his half empty bottle of water onto the grass and made a mad dash away from it. It was just his damn luck, that the first person he encountered who actually saw him was an angry beaner chick with a gun, spitting threats.
He moved forward, doing his best to avoid some badly placed trees which kept getting in his way, only to stumble into two more people. Garritt watched the girl dive right into the bushes the moment he saw her, while the idiot boy nearby sat there on a freaking stump, with a ray of sun poking through the trees right on him like a spotlight, scarfing down lunch in clear view of everyone who'd pass by. Lunch!
As he neared closer to the boy, Garritt realized the idiot was Lenny Osborne. Lenny happened to be one of Patriot High's Minutemen, a big strong jock who he got along with at school and was exactly the type of ally he needed, even if he was a dummy. But Lenny wasn't going to be useful dead, unless...
The Minuteman could be used as a distraction or something so he could escape.
Garritt didn't have much time to consider his options, being that he was running for his life, with the crazy spic no doubt gaining on him. He didn't actually know that, but he wasn't about to turn around and go check. He was about to pass Lenny any second and had to make a decision on what he was going to do right now.
"Run, you doofus!"
There, he gave Lenny fair enough warning as he continued to run, quickly losing his energy while carrying the heavy bag and crowbar with him. He didn't make much distance at all, choosing instead to make a sharp turn in a different direction rather than a straight line to perhaps trick the girl and lose her.
Garritt could feel himself swiftly losing his breath, a really lame side effect from his daily smoking habit. If he ever made it out of here he was quitting right away like his mom asked him to, for real this time. He skidded to a halt, to catch some air, panting and silently cursing his below-average stamina, and started up again, when out of nowhere, some other guy popped up in front of him, nearly giving Garritt a heart-attack.
"Caleb," Garritt gasped as he put the brakes onto his heels, causing balance to shift lopsided on one side of his body and making himself fall backwards onto his own pack. Lucky for Garritt, Caleb was another of the Patriot High Minutemen, who could maybe help protect him from the gun-toting Mexican.
"H-He-Help!" Garritt said between breaths as he scurried around Caleb, grabbing at his sleeves. "There's a crazy Mexi-ho with a gun. A gun, man!"
Garritt scanned around the area in a panic for some place to hide in case things made a turn for the worse. He saw a large conifer trunk with boulders and overgrowth next to it. "Hope you have something good to kick her ass! Um, don't worry, I have your back!"
With that, Garritt let go of Caleb's sleeve and stepped back, crowbar in hand - ready to dart behind the tree at a moment's notice.
Clara cursed under her breath as she watched multiple figures dart between the trees, some hiding behind the pines, others among the foliage. An ambush? No, she realized. Not organised enough. These people were unconnected, drawn out by the sound of her voice. Why am I surprised? She thought. In a class that was well on their way to proving themselves the dullest tools in the box, it was almost predictable that someone would try something. In the distance, Clara could spot a boy running around, trying to get the others to move. She recognized his stupid beanie instantly, even if she couldn't see his face. Garritt, she recalled. Though he was doing an admirable job of getting people to leave, running and shouting was probably the stupidest thing he could have done if he wanted to keep his head. Maybe Clara was biased, though. She was still the one holding the gun.
Clara pushed her doubts to the back of her mind and realized that she needed to take him out as quickly as possible if she wanted to keep her low profile. Everyone he sent from the forest was a potential threat to Clara. They had already seen her threaten, and wave her gun around. It would not be a stretch for them to assume that she was playing. Clara pursued him, ignoring the pain in her injured leg. Her gun was held tight in her hands as she ran. She kept her gun trained on him for as long as possible, but he must have realized she was tailing him. He was smart, swerving to avoid her every time it looked like she could get a clean shot.
Clever bastard, Clara thought.
She skidded to a halt twenty feet away from the two boys, shifting her weight onto her good leg and lining up the sights on her revolver. Her brisk read-through of the Owner’s Guide had taught her that the primary reason for her inaccuracy with her revolver was her reliance on a technique the book called “point shooting”: pointing her gun at something and hoping for the best. One of the manual’s hand-drawn diagrams had shown her how to sight shoot- lining up the sights properly. Clara knew that knowing how to aim would be invaluable.
No time to think. Her arms instinctively braced for the kick of the revolver. A stray breath caught in her throat and Clara held it there as she squeezed the trigger, wincing as the revolver tried to tear itself away from her hands.
The whip crack of the gunshot rang loud in her ears. She began to think about an escape.
Clara pushed her doubts to the back of her mind and realized that she needed to take him out as quickly as possible if she wanted to keep her low profile. Everyone he sent from the forest was a potential threat to Clara. They had already seen her threaten, and wave her gun around. It would not be a stretch for them to assume that she was playing. Clara pursued him, ignoring the pain in her injured leg. Her gun was held tight in her hands as she ran. She kept her gun trained on him for as long as possible, but he must have realized she was tailing him. He was smart, swerving to avoid her every time it looked like she could get a clean shot.
Clever bastard, Clara thought.
She skidded to a halt twenty feet away from the two boys, shifting her weight onto her good leg and lining up the sights on her revolver. Her brisk read-through of the Owner’s Guide had taught her that the primary reason for her inaccuracy with her revolver was her reliance on a technique the book called “point shooting”: pointing her gun at something and hoping for the best. One of the manual’s hand-drawn diagrams had shown her how to sight shoot- lining up the sights properly. Clara knew that knowing how to aim would be invaluable.
No time to think. Her arms instinctively braced for the kick of the revolver. A stray breath caught in her throat and Clara held it there as she squeezed the trigger, wincing as the revolver tried to tear itself away from her hands.
The whip crack of the gunshot rang loud in her ears. She began to think about an escape.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
Caleb had to stop so suddenly that he almost tripped over; he was running at pace and then all of a sudden here was Garritt, grabbing at his sleeves, babbling something about someone with a gun.
This was moving too quickly for him. He'd gone from running through the woods to - apparently protecting someone? Hey up yours Garritt, Caleb had never said that he was going to babysit him!
"Hey! Slow down for a second!"
A figure emerged from behind one of the trees in front of him.
Oh.
Shit.
Caleb's head snapped back as the bullet tore through his cheek en route to smashing out of the back of his skull at high velocity. Without a sound he fell, backwards.
It was a pretty good shot.
M15: CALEB SMARTT: DECEASED
This was moving too quickly for him. He'd gone from running through the woods to - apparently protecting someone? Hey up yours Garritt, Caleb had never said that he was going to babysit him!
"Hey! Slow down for a second!"
A figure emerged from behind one of the trees in front of him.
Oh.
Shit.
Caleb's head snapped back as the bullet tore through his cheek en route to smashing out of the back of his skull at high velocity. Without a sound he fell, backwards.
It was a pretty good shot.
M15: CALEB SMARTT: DECEASED
(I've completely lost track of post order, and I go after Moonlight Drive)
Tori was suddenly yanked out of her fantasy (Dammit, Suzy was going to kiss Troy!) by a loud gunshot, probably 10 feet away from where she was now. Trying to refocus her vision, she made out a figure holding a gun (Clara Fox), another figure wearing a beanie (Garritt Baker, most likely) and another figure lying on the ground...
Oh.
Fuck.
There was a gaping hole in the boy's cheek, and it was a very revealing hole. You could very clearly see the boy's cheek muscle and teeth, the entire thing bathed in red. A look of surprise was locked onto the boy's face, who Tori now identified as Caleb Smartt. It looked more realistic than anything Tori had ever saw in a horror movie, and they were pretty intense. This wasn't a horror movie.
This was the real fucking deal.
Tori went rigid. Sure, it was pretty intense, but she'd already seen some gruesome things on TV. It wasn't too much of a jump up from somebody like Louisa Bloom, who probably has never seen things like this in her life. Under normal circumstances, Tori would've thrown up and screamed. But she didn't throw up. She went rigid instead. But she still screamed.
Loudly.
Tori was suddenly yanked out of her fantasy (Dammit, Suzy was going to kiss Troy!) by a loud gunshot, probably 10 feet away from where she was now. Trying to refocus her vision, she made out a figure holding a gun (Clara Fox), another figure wearing a beanie (Garritt Baker, most likely) and another figure lying on the ground...
Oh.
Fuck.
There was a gaping hole in the boy's cheek, and it was a very revealing hole. You could very clearly see the boy's cheek muscle and teeth, the entire thing bathed in red. A look of surprise was locked onto the boy's face, who Tori now identified as Caleb Smartt. It looked more realistic than anything Tori had ever saw in a horror movie, and they were pretty intense. This wasn't a horror movie.
This was the real fucking deal.
Tori went rigid. Sure, it was pretty intense, but she'd already seen some gruesome things on TV. It wasn't too much of a jump up from somebody like Louisa Bloom, who probably has never seen things like this in her life. Under normal circumstances, Tori would've thrown up and screamed. But she didn't throw up. She went rigid instead. But she still screamed.
Loudly.
[[Minor GM-ing Approved.]]
The moment Garritt saw America's shadowy figure approach, was the moment when Garritt left Caleb and immediately turned tail and ran for cover behind his intended hiding spot.
"Hey! Slow down for a second!" Caleb was saying, but it was all a blur due to the gunshot that followed.
Garritt poked his head up from behind the tree and saw Caleb on the ground. His hands went straight to his head, tugging at the hairs peeking out from under his beanie as he hid back behind the trunk of the tree and nearby rocks.
Oh shit man, you-you killed him! Oh my god. - It was the only words that kept going on loop within his thoughts.
Did she see him? He hoped not, America "Clara" or whatever it was she called herself was really willing to kill people. Real Americans like Caleb and himself. If she found him, he was dead. Dead and he knew it. He closed his eyes and put his hands together over his crowbar, which he was never letting go.
"Jesus. Jesus please," Garritt prayed in whispers, and he never prayed. "If you help me get out of this place alive, I promise, I promise I'll be good and quit smoking and listen to my mom. Please-oh-please."
There was a loud scream, a shriek that sounded female. He looked over the side of the tree to see what it was, hoping that beaner-bitch was being mauled by a rabid taco-bear or something. Turns out it wasn't that, but it was good enough. Thank you Jesus! Hallelujah!
Clara had turned her attention away from Caleb's corpse and most importantly, from him! The crazy Mexican slut left him alone to find whoever that chick was who screamed. He couldn't believe it. Garritt was about turn around and run when he remembered that Caleb still had his stuff with him. Who knows what kind weapon Caleb had in there before he died?
Garritt quickly popped out of his hiding place and crept to the bag still strapped onto Caleb's back. He tried hard not to look at the corpse, thinking only about survival and the presence of Caleb's murderer still around the scene of the crime. He unzipped the bag as quietly as possible to avoid detection and saw what looked like a camouflage outfit of some kind? He didn't know what it was just by looking at it especially under pressure, but it looked warm and possibly useful.
He didn't have time to do anything else as he thought he heard footsteps coming around. Garritt in response pulled out the camouflaged ... onesie?!
Whatever, he didn't have time to be picky with his life possibly on the line. He held it in one arm, partially draped over his shoulder, then fled for his life, leaving the rest of the bag and Caleb's body behind.
[[Garritt Baker Continued To: It's Cold Outside, But I Have Nowhere To Go.]]
The moment Garritt saw America's shadowy figure approach, was the moment when Garritt left Caleb and immediately turned tail and ran for cover behind his intended hiding spot.
"Hey! Slow down for a second!" Caleb was saying, but it was all a blur due to the gunshot that followed.
Garritt poked his head up from behind the tree and saw Caleb on the ground. His hands went straight to his head, tugging at the hairs peeking out from under his beanie as he hid back behind the trunk of the tree and nearby rocks.
Oh shit man, you-you killed him! Oh my god. - It was the only words that kept going on loop within his thoughts.
Did she see him? He hoped not, America "Clara" or whatever it was she called herself was really willing to kill people. Real Americans like Caleb and himself. If she found him, he was dead. Dead and he knew it. He closed his eyes and put his hands together over his crowbar, which he was never letting go.
"Jesus. Jesus please," Garritt prayed in whispers, and he never prayed. "If you help me get out of this place alive, I promise, I promise I'll be good and quit smoking and listen to my mom. Please-oh-please."
There was a loud scream, a shriek that sounded female. He looked over the side of the tree to see what it was, hoping that beaner-bitch was being mauled by a rabid taco-bear or something. Turns out it wasn't that, but it was good enough. Thank you Jesus! Hallelujah!
Clara had turned her attention away from Caleb's corpse and most importantly, from him! The crazy Mexican slut left him alone to find whoever that chick was who screamed. He couldn't believe it. Garritt was about turn around and run when he remembered that Caleb still had his stuff with him. Who knows what kind weapon Caleb had in there before he died?
Garritt quickly popped out of his hiding place and crept to the bag still strapped onto Caleb's back. He tried hard not to look at the corpse, thinking only about survival and the presence of Caleb's murderer still around the scene of the crime. He unzipped the bag as quietly as possible to avoid detection and saw what looked like a camouflage outfit of some kind? He didn't know what it was just by looking at it especially under pressure, but it looked warm and possibly useful.
He didn't have time to do anything else as he thought he heard footsteps coming around. Garritt in response pulled out the camouflaged ... onesie?!
Whatever, he didn't have time to be picky with his life possibly on the line. He held it in one arm, partially draped over his shoulder, then fled for his life, leaving the rest of the bag and Caleb's body behind.
[[Garritt Baker Continued To: It's Cold Outside, But I Have Nowhere To Go.]]
-
Sideliner*
- Posts: 47
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 8:12 am
"Run, you doofus!"
What? Huh? oh fuck somebody's shooting
Lenny stuffed his tray into his bag, took his stick and ran into the woods. Ran far away. Far, far away from whoever was shooting at him.
(Lenny continued in A Swamp Without Moisture)
What? Huh? oh fuck somebody's shooting
Lenny stuffed his tray into his bag, took his stick and ran into the woods. Ran far away. Far, far away from whoever was shooting at him.
(Lenny continued in A Swamp Without Moisture)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Sideliner. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Clara lowered her gun and cursed under her breath. Despite her best attempts at improving her aim, her shot had gone wide, missing her intended target but hitting the other boy dead in the face. Clara watched wide-eyed as he fell to the floor, spitting bloody chunks of red gelatin- fractured bone and muscle fiber, probably- from the wound in his face. The color faded from Clara’s face as she examined the crumpled corpse at her feet. Blood poured from the wound in his head, red wine staining the carpet of needles. She felt sick to her stomach. Clara had never been afraid of blood, and it was not the sight of the corpse that had unsettled her. It was the fact that she had put it there. She had played into their hands and made him a martyr.
They made me do this, She thought. Sixteen years of bullying at school, sixteen years of being told she was inferior because her mother was a spic-fucking whore. Sixteen years of keeping her mouth shut, for fear of repercussions, pretending that everything at school was okay. Sixteen years of watching her parents sit at home, shaking; praying that someone else’s son or daughter was picked. All of it, every single second, had led her to where she was now.
Standing over a corpse with a smoking gun in her hand.
Piercing, echoing screams burrowed deep into Clara’s ears, dragging her back into reality. She flinched in anticipation of an attack that thankfully never came. She mentally scolded herself for forgetting the other people in the forest. There were more than two of them, she remembered, tightening her grip on the revolver’s handle and cocking the hammer back with her thumb. Four, at least. One dead meant they knew what she was capable of. When the announcement sounded, all bets were off. She needed a deterrent, not more deaths.
Focus on the banshee, then. Clara swung around, arms stretched out, turning her back on the other boy. She kept her weight on her good leg as she edged forwards, trying to line up the sights on her revolver. Nothing flashy, she thought. No more red jello. Her finger was curled around the trigger guard to prevent a misfire, but there was no reason for the other girl to know that.
“Start running,” Clara yelled, her voice barely audible over the girl’s shrill shriek. “Go!”
Her arm fell limply by her side. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Blood pooled around Caleb’s body, but Clara was the one who felt drained.
They made me do this, She thought. Sixteen years of bullying at school, sixteen years of being told she was inferior because her mother was a spic-fucking whore. Sixteen years of keeping her mouth shut, for fear of repercussions, pretending that everything at school was okay. Sixteen years of watching her parents sit at home, shaking; praying that someone else’s son or daughter was picked. All of it, every single second, had led her to where she was now.
Standing over a corpse with a smoking gun in her hand.
Piercing, echoing screams burrowed deep into Clara’s ears, dragging her back into reality. She flinched in anticipation of an attack that thankfully never came. She mentally scolded herself for forgetting the other people in the forest. There were more than two of them, she remembered, tightening her grip on the revolver’s handle and cocking the hammer back with her thumb. Four, at least. One dead meant they knew what she was capable of. When the announcement sounded, all bets were off. She needed a deterrent, not more deaths.
Focus on the banshee, then. Clara swung around, arms stretched out, turning her back on the other boy. She kept her weight on her good leg as she edged forwards, trying to line up the sights on her revolver. Nothing flashy, she thought. No more red jello. Her finger was curled around the trigger guard to prevent a misfire, but there was no reason for the other girl to know that.
“Start running,” Clara yelled, her voice barely audible over the girl’s shrill shriek. “Go!”
Her arm fell limply by her side. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Blood pooled around Caleb’s body, but Clara was the one who felt drained.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
Tori was vaguely aware that a girl was screaming at her to run away. She didn't know why the girl was telling her to run. It could've easily been an excuse for her to walk into a trap and kill herself. Either way, it was an excuse to run. Jumping out of the bushes, Tori ran away from the scene, heading in a vaguely north direction, screaming until her voice went hoarse.
(Tori Gavlik continued elsewhere)
(Tori Gavlik continued elsewhere)
Clara carefully made her way back over to the corpse, choking as her mouth and nostrils filled with the suffocating stench of blood and rancid meat. She was repulsed by everything the corpse represented; that Clara Fox, only ever rebellious inside her head, had finally and conclusively given into the system. There was nothing glamourous about murder, she was making no statements with her bullets. She had played right into their hands and she had lost. Clara avoided retching for the moment, holding an acrid breath tight in her chest as she knelt down beside her former classmate.
Clara was grave robbing. The thought had initially sickened her, but Clara had ultimately become aware that it would be a necessity for her to strip the corpse- and its bag- of anything that could help her survive. It was worth fighting the smell and the guilt now, Clara decided, if she got something that would save her life later. She knelt down beside the corpse, forgetting that it was a person with family and friends that would miss it, and heaved it onto its front. Clara let go of her breath, before clinically patting it down for weapons. She found nothing.
She climbed back to her feet, annoyed that her morals had been sacrificed for what had ultimately been a waste of time. She had rifled through the pockets of a dead classmate and had nothing to show for it but bloodied hands. Pushing that thought to the back of her mind, Clara moved towards the corpse’s unzipped, discarded bag.
Cautiously, Clara kicked the canvas bag, again checking if it had been rigged to explode. When her paranoid urge had again been satisfied, Clara sat cross-legged on her carpet of needles and rummaged through the bag’s contents. She took the tuppaware box of rations and placed them in her own bag. She opened the first aid kit and took the plastic lighter- translucent green- and placed it in the back pocket of her shorts. There were no weapons. I’ll have to rely on the revolver for a while longer, she thought.
There was nothing nearby that Clara could use as kinderling. Pine needles would not burn well, and the branches that had fell from the trees were either damp and rotten, or too large to catch easily. If she doused the bag in enough lighter fuel, Clara decided, it would be enough to burn it and the rest of the surrounding area. The problem came from her lack of fuel. Without an adequate source- she had two disposable lighters, one half-full- all she could do was burn a hole in the corner of the bag. Deciding to save the lighters for a more important problem, Clara hefted the bag to a nearby tree. She left it there, missing its rations and half its first aid kit but ostensibly intact.
Clara was past covering her tracks. Knowing that it was only minutes before the announcement sounded and the entire valley knew she was a killer, Clara warmed herself up, pulled her hair back and did what she did best.
She ran.
[Clara Fox, continued elsewhere.]
Clara was grave robbing. The thought had initially sickened her, but Clara had ultimately become aware that it would be a necessity for her to strip the corpse- and its bag- of anything that could help her survive. It was worth fighting the smell and the guilt now, Clara decided, if she got something that would save her life later. She knelt down beside the corpse, forgetting that it was a person with family and friends that would miss it, and heaved it onto its front. Clara let go of her breath, before clinically patting it down for weapons. She found nothing.
She climbed back to her feet, annoyed that her morals had been sacrificed for what had ultimately been a waste of time. She had rifled through the pockets of a dead classmate and had nothing to show for it but bloodied hands. Pushing that thought to the back of her mind, Clara moved towards the corpse’s unzipped, discarded bag.
Cautiously, Clara kicked the canvas bag, again checking if it had been rigged to explode. When her paranoid urge had again been satisfied, Clara sat cross-legged on her carpet of needles and rummaged through the bag’s contents. She took the tuppaware box of rations and placed them in her own bag. She opened the first aid kit and took the plastic lighter- translucent green- and placed it in the back pocket of her shorts. There were no weapons. I’ll have to rely on the revolver for a while longer, she thought.
There was nothing nearby that Clara could use as kinderling. Pine needles would not burn well, and the branches that had fell from the trees were either damp and rotten, or too large to catch easily. If she doused the bag in enough lighter fuel, Clara decided, it would be enough to burn it and the rest of the surrounding area. The problem came from her lack of fuel. Without an adequate source- she had two disposable lighters, one half-full- all she could do was burn a hole in the corner of the bag. Deciding to save the lighters for a more important problem, Clara hefted the bag to a nearby tree. She left it there, missing its rations and half its first aid kit but ostensibly intact.
Clara was past covering her tracks. Knowing that it was only minutes before the announcement sounded and the entire valley knew she was a killer, Clara warmed herself up, pulled her hair back and did what she did best.
She ran.
[Clara Fox, continued elsewhere.]
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.