((Start of F15 - VOGEL, JESSICA))
Well, shit.
That was the first thing that went through Jessica Vogel's mind when it finally cleared up. She had actually been conscious for about two minutes, her back against the wall of the room she was in the entire time, but the effects of the gas hadn't been kind enough to let her regain come to with a clear head. That was the situation as she stared at the room around her. It was a kitchen. So maybe she would fix herself a good last meal before (probably) dying.
"Well, uh, anyway, the fifty…ish of you are about to be placed inside a large compound over yonder to kill each other to death." Those words came back into her head.
Yeah. Don't tell me. She had too much to do as it was. How was she supposed to deal with this? She thought back to her father. Think of the Program as a privilege, not a punishment. This is your chance to show our nation just how patriotic you are. Those words seemed to be of little comfort - she liked to think of patriots as people who worked for their country and lived to talk about it. She just took a deep breath to (slightly) calm herself down and looked through the green bag beside her.
Map, compass, flashlight, first aid kit, pen, food, water, food, food, more ... shit. That was great. She was stuck in the death game with no weapon (If she had been privy to the other packs, Jessica would have realized that she did receive a weapon of sorts - she was given extra food). She just leaned her head against the wall and pinched the bridge of her nose with her left hand.
God damn it ...
It Had To Be Me
Entrance of F15 (Open)
Moderator: Sh4dE
((F01 Sheri Schachter start))
A dim glow poured through the gap in the pantry door, casting a narrow strip of light across the floor. The gap acted as a window of sorts for Sheri to peer out of. Nosy women in their houses, how their net curtains suddenly twitched when a car pulled up their neighbours drive or if they heard the faint echoes of a conversation. Spying, feeding their own curiosity and intrusive inquisitiveness. Faint memories of an old lady with a sprawling wardrobe and a collection of old movies, sitting in her winged armchair by the window overlooking the street. How she’d take sneaky peeks outside when she thought Sheri was focused on the twisted relationship between the Hudson sisters in their California home.
Mrs. Pasternak, I still remember…
Hidden in the dark shadows of the pantry, amongst shelves of canned food, Sheri peered through into the kitchen. Jessica Vogel stood against a wall, she had seen her face moments ago whilst she was going through her bag. She didn’t appear to have a useful weapon, whereas Sheri had been given a Louisville Slugger. Being the athlete, Sheri was sure it would be more suited to Jessica, she didn’t know if she played baseball or not, it was really more of a masculine thing.
It didn’t take a genius to swing a bat, Sheri knew that, but she couldn’t help feel that she would be more better suited to something else, like a little revolver. The sort of gun kept in a clutch purse, before finding itself in the gloved hand of a femme fatale or a gangster moll. Held at the hip, ready to unload lead into the loverat or home wrecker. She didn’t want to shoot anyone, that was for sure, but maybe if she had a firearm she’d be a little more intimidating. She just wanted to find a safe place to hideout, where she could use this gun if she really, really had to. Maybe she could take on the role of Bonnie Parker, scare some goons off so she could be left in peace, hopefully Faye Dunaway wouldn’t roll over in her grave.
More importantly however, was the situation at hand. Was Jessica hostile or not? She was unarmed and seemed a teensy bit emotional, leaning against the wall like that, but that wasn’t to say she’d go bonkers if Sheri revealed herself. One thing was sure though, she couldn’t sit around in the pantry for ever. Baseball bat held tightly in both hands, ready to swing about and maybe smash into a wall to show she was ready to use it, even if it was a complete bluff. She took two steps backwards, the heels of her black and white brogues making soft taps against the tiled floor. She bit her lip as a petty yet painful realisation came over her.
She needed to ditch the heels.
Not only were they not good for running in, but the heel could snap and she’d break an ankle. They clacked loudly over any hard surface, adding an annoying, repetitive beat to her stride. They looked good, they looked really good, but that wasn’t going to cut it. They needed to go. Slowly crouching down, Sheri tucked the bat into her left armpit, and began easing her heel out from the shoes. She had gotten them as a gift from an aunt in Boston from an independent boutique store. They weren’t the only ones of their kind, but there was no way she was heading all the way up to Boston to check if they had them in the next size up. That and the return voucher had long expired. If she got bunions from the tight heels, so what? She could get them surgically removed when she got rich. Right after she had her nose fixed.
Her foot slid out from the heel, and she slowly lowered it onto the tiles. Her toes met the ground first, before she flattened the rest of her foot against the floor. She held her heel in her right hand, and begun working on the other heel. After some muffled grunting, she slid it off of her foot, holding it in her free hand. She was going to keep them somewhere safe, and if she somehow made it to the final two, she’d come back for them before she went into the last fight. If she somehow survived, she’d take that trip to Boston and get them in the neck size up. Hell, she’d clean out the entire boutique. Sheri flexed her toes before taking some steps backwards, and turning around.
Shelves, shelves all around her stacked high with tin cans and little boxes. Maybe they were empty, maybe they were there for show, maybe they hadn’t bothered to remove them because nobody had been issued a can opener. Sheri’s eyes scanned the rows of cans in the dim light, before spotting a stack of Campbell’s soup just above eyelevel. Perfect. She carefully tucked both shoes behind the cans, taking a mental snapshot of the hiding place. And then she sighed with relief and shrugged her shoulders. Bad mistake. The baseball bat fell from her arm pit, creating a loud bang as it struck the tiled floor. It clattered loudly before rolling into the shadows. Sheri sucked some air in, turning round in shock. Her cover had been blown. She didn’t reach down for the bat, she simply backed against the shelves, her eyes clenched shut. Her French tips dug into the wood as she silently prayed for some kind of divine intervention.
A dim glow poured through the gap in the pantry door, casting a narrow strip of light across the floor. The gap acted as a window of sorts for Sheri to peer out of. Nosy women in their houses, how their net curtains suddenly twitched when a car pulled up their neighbours drive or if they heard the faint echoes of a conversation. Spying, feeding their own curiosity and intrusive inquisitiveness. Faint memories of an old lady with a sprawling wardrobe and a collection of old movies, sitting in her winged armchair by the window overlooking the street. How she’d take sneaky peeks outside when she thought Sheri was focused on the twisted relationship between the Hudson sisters in their California home.
Mrs. Pasternak, I still remember…
Hidden in the dark shadows of the pantry, amongst shelves of canned food, Sheri peered through into the kitchen. Jessica Vogel stood against a wall, she had seen her face moments ago whilst she was going through her bag. She didn’t appear to have a useful weapon, whereas Sheri had been given a Louisville Slugger. Being the athlete, Sheri was sure it would be more suited to Jessica, she didn’t know if she played baseball or not, it was really more of a masculine thing.
It didn’t take a genius to swing a bat, Sheri knew that, but she couldn’t help feel that she would be more better suited to something else, like a little revolver. The sort of gun kept in a clutch purse, before finding itself in the gloved hand of a femme fatale or a gangster moll. Held at the hip, ready to unload lead into the loverat or home wrecker. She didn’t want to shoot anyone, that was for sure, but maybe if she had a firearm she’d be a little more intimidating. She just wanted to find a safe place to hideout, where she could use this gun if she really, really had to. Maybe she could take on the role of Bonnie Parker, scare some goons off so she could be left in peace, hopefully Faye Dunaway wouldn’t roll over in her grave.
More importantly however, was the situation at hand. Was Jessica hostile or not? She was unarmed and seemed a teensy bit emotional, leaning against the wall like that, but that wasn’t to say she’d go bonkers if Sheri revealed herself. One thing was sure though, she couldn’t sit around in the pantry for ever. Baseball bat held tightly in both hands, ready to swing about and maybe smash into a wall to show she was ready to use it, even if it was a complete bluff. She took two steps backwards, the heels of her black and white brogues making soft taps against the tiled floor. She bit her lip as a petty yet painful realisation came over her.
She needed to ditch the heels.
Not only were they not good for running in, but the heel could snap and she’d break an ankle. They clacked loudly over any hard surface, adding an annoying, repetitive beat to her stride. They looked good, they looked really good, but that wasn’t going to cut it. They needed to go. Slowly crouching down, Sheri tucked the bat into her left armpit, and began easing her heel out from the shoes. She had gotten them as a gift from an aunt in Boston from an independent boutique store. They weren’t the only ones of their kind, but there was no way she was heading all the way up to Boston to check if they had them in the next size up. That and the return voucher had long expired. If she got bunions from the tight heels, so what? She could get them surgically removed when she got rich. Right after she had her nose fixed.
Her foot slid out from the heel, and she slowly lowered it onto the tiles. Her toes met the ground first, before she flattened the rest of her foot against the floor. She held her heel in her right hand, and begun working on the other heel. After some muffled grunting, she slid it off of her foot, holding it in her free hand. She was going to keep them somewhere safe, and if she somehow made it to the final two, she’d come back for them before she went into the last fight. If she somehow survived, she’d take that trip to Boston and get them in the neck size up. Hell, she’d clean out the entire boutique. Sheri flexed her toes before taking some steps backwards, and turning around.
Shelves, shelves all around her stacked high with tin cans and little boxes. Maybe they were empty, maybe they were there for show, maybe they hadn’t bothered to remove them because nobody had been issued a can opener. Sheri’s eyes scanned the rows of cans in the dim light, before spotting a stack of Campbell’s soup just above eyelevel. Perfect. She carefully tucked both shoes behind the cans, taking a mental snapshot of the hiding place. And then she sighed with relief and shrugged her shoulders. Bad mistake. The baseball bat fell from her arm pit, creating a loud bang as it struck the tiled floor. It clattered loudly before rolling into the shadows. Sheri sucked some air in, turning round in shock. Her cover had been blown. She didn’t reach down for the bat, she simply backed against the shelves, her eyes clenched shut. Her French tips dug into the wood as she silently prayed for some kind of divine intervention.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Shawnee. 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.
CLANG!
"Huh?"
(F18 - Wendy Fischer Start)
Wendy Fischer's eyes fluttered open from the loud noise. What the heck, was it morning already? Reaching her hand out to her alarm, she instead felt something else, something wooden. Coming to her senses from her gas induced sleep, Wendy realized she wasn't at home, comfortable and safe in bed. Then the horrible memories started coming back to her. The Program! She barely even knew what it was about, and now here she was. She sat up from her laying position, on the tiled floor. Where was she anyway?
Looking side to side, she noticed two things. A green bag marked F18 and a wooden baseball bat. More terrible memories of the day so far filled her mind. They would receive bags, bags filled with weapons, weapons they were gonna use, to KILL each other. Tears started filling her eyes. No No No No No! She wiped her eyes on her fuzzy blue sweater sleeves. She couldn't do this, this was too much! She loved everyone! She couldn't possibly have the nerve to... to KILL! More tears started coming as Wendy wiped more of it on her sleeve.
Was this her weapon? This baseball bat? The words: Louisville Slugger was printed across the side. Closing her eyes, violent images of the weapon smashing her classmate's heads to mush appeared, and it was no where near as how the cartoons made it appear. Cartoons. Why right now watching a cartoon would have made her feel better, they always did.
Wendy grabbed the slugger and looked around, looks like she was in a kitchen, maybe? At least it was something familiar to her, being that her father was a chef. Wendy dried her last tears and stood up.
On the other side of the shelf, she saw the back of someone's head, as a result couldn't identify her. Another girl! Her fingernails with some pretty nicely done french tips seemed to be digging into the shelf. She wasn't sure why she was so focused on the nails, at a time like this. She figured it was, because she was into some fashion, due to her mom and noticed these things. Wendy's hand went straight to her own mouth to keep herself from gasping in surprise. She didn't expect to see someone so soon. She didn't want to get someone's attention just yet, unless she knew they were nice.
Wendy grabbed her duffel bag and quietly crept around the shelf to position herself in a way to get a clear look at the girl's face. In the midst of doing so, she spotted another girl, who also seemed to be alerted from that loud sound earlier. Wendy stayed hidden to avoid the other girl's attention. The first girl's face was in view now and Wendy knew who it was. Sherilyn Schachter! No wonder she recognized those french tips.
Her eyes were closed. Why was Sheri in that position? What was going on here?
"Huh?"
(F18 - Wendy Fischer Start)
Wendy Fischer's eyes fluttered open from the loud noise. What the heck, was it morning already? Reaching her hand out to her alarm, she instead felt something else, something wooden. Coming to her senses from her gas induced sleep, Wendy realized she wasn't at home, comfortable and safe in bed. Then the horrible memories started coming back to her. The Program! She barely even knew what it was about, and now here she was. She sat up from her laying position, on the tiled floor. Where was she anyway?
Looking side to side, she noticed two things. A green bag marked F18 and a wooden baseball bat. More terrible memories of the day so far filled her mind. They would receive bags, bags filled with weapons, weapons they were gonna use, to KILL each other. Tears started filling her eyes. No No No No No! She wiped her eyes on her fuzzy blue sweater sleeves. She couldn't do this, this was too much! She loved everyone! She couldn't possibly have the nerve to... to KILL! More tears started coming as Wendy wiped more of it on her sleeve.
Was this her weapon? This baseball bat? The words: Louisville Slugger was printed across the side. Closing her eyes, violent images of the weapon smashing her classmate's heads to mush appeared, and it was no where near as how the cartoons made it appear. Cartoons. Why right now watching a cartoon would have made her feel better, they always did.
Wendy grabbed the slugger and looked around, looks like she was in a kitchen, maybe? At least it was something familiar to her, being that her father was a chef. Wendy dried her last tears and stood up.
On the other side of the shelf, she saw the back of someone's head, as a result couldn't identify her. Another girl! Her fingernails with some pretty nicely done french tips seemed to be digging into the shelf. She wasn't sure why she was so focused on the nails, at a time like this. She figured it was, because she was into some fashion, due to her mom and noticed these things. Wendy's hand went straight to her own mouth to keep herself from gasping in surprise. She didn't expect to see someone so soon. She didn't want to get someone's attention just yet, unless she knew they were nice.
Wendy grabbed her duffel bag and quietly crept around the shelf to position herself in a way to get a clear look at the girl's face. In the midst of doing so, she spotted another girl, who also seemed to be alerted from that loud sound earlier. Wendy stayed hidden to avoid the other girl's attention. The first girl's face was in view now and Wendy knew who it was. Sherilyn Schachter! No wonder she recognized those french tips.
Her eyes were closed. Why was Sheri in that position? What was going on here?
CLANG
Jessica's attention immediately turned to the sound of metal clattering onto the floor. In a normal situation, it would have been no problem. "Hey, you dropped this." This was most certainly NOT a "normal situation." If something made that kind of a noise, there was probably someone there to make that noise with something dangerous enough to hurt her (It was Sherilyn Schachter dropping her baseball bat, but Jessica didn't know that). She already had too much to contend with: not only was she in the nation's death game (and the words "death" and "game" weren't exactly words one wanted to hear in the same sentence), she was also worried about the situation at home: her dad made good money (as a standout Lieutenant Commander, he was frequently given good jobs), but her mom had MS and needed more care than others.
But anyways, Jessica knew that someone had to be there. The only other way that something could have fallen was if something broke, and the kitchen seemed to be in decent condition. Whomever it was was ether accident prone or a genuine threat. Reaching into her pack, her left hand grasped the first aid kit (which was the hardest material in the bag), and tentatively stepped towards the source of the noise, keeping her hand inside the bag.
"Hello?"
Jessica's attention immediately turned to the sound of metal clattering onto the floor. In a normal situation, it would have been no problem. "Hey, you dropped this." This was most certainly NOT a "normal situation." If something made that kind of a noise, there was probably someone there to make that noise with something dangerous enough to hurt her (It was Sherilyn Schachter dropping her baseball bat, but Jessica didn't know that). She already had too much to contend with: not only was she in the nation's death game (and the words "death" and "game" weren't exactly words one wanted to hear in the same sentence), she was also worried about the situation at home: her dad made good money (as a standout Lieutenant Commander, he was frequently given good jobs), but her mom had MS and needed more care than others.
But anyways, Jessica knew that someone had to be there. The only other way that something could have fallen was if something broke, and the kitchen seemed to be in decent condition. Whomever it was was ether accident prone or a genuine threat. Reaching into her pack, her left hand grasped the first aid kit (which was the hardest material in the bag), and tentatively stepped towards the source of the noise, keeping her hand inside the bag.
"Hello?"
It was too much right now. Something that closing your eyes, hearing the imaginary words of ‘fade in’ and getting into character couldn’t fix. It was a shame really, as that was how Sheri dealt with almost every bump in the road. God damn it, where’s the baseball bat? Sheri dropped to her knees and began frantically clawing at the floor, her nails making quiet, rapid scrapes against the tiles.
“Hello?”
Where’s the fucking baseball bat?!? Sheri’s eyes widened with fear and she knew that she had been found. The baseball bat nowhere to be seen, Sheri lunged forwards in an attempt to grab the doorknob and pull the pantry door shut. Her fingers glided over the doorknob and she fell forwards into the kitchen. Throwing her hands out to protect her face, her palms hit the ground first. There was a sudden stinging pain at the end of one of her fingers causing her to wince.
Her nail had been partially ripped from its bed, revealing the horrible red underneath. Sheri drew her hand inwards, looking at the hopelessly broken nail. Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes watered, her throat gave a rattle and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Things were going horribly, horribly wrong. Braving through the pain, Sheri crawled back into the dark safety of the pantry, pulling the door shut with her free hand.
Maybe Jessica would be okay, maybe she wouldn’t be a psychopath or a hostile. Maybe she’d realise this was all one big misunderstanding and they’d have a silly laugh together. There was also the chance that she might break the door down and rip Sheri’s heart out. Sheri knelt there in the darkness, her injured hand drawn just beneath her chin. With her free hand she blindly rifled through the shelves, looking for a makeshift weapon as she kept her eyes trained on the doorknob.
Something cold, smooth and hard. A bottleneck. Perfect. She held it at eye level and examined it, a slender transparent bottle of distilled white vinegar. Sheri hoped and prayed that Jessica wasn’t looking for trouble, she hoped and prayed. And with that, holding the bottle of vinegar by the neck, she brought it down with all her might against the shelf. Clunk!
She silently swore to herself and tried it again, biting down on her lip. She was rewarded with a smash, the tinkle of glass and the splatter of vinegar on her jacket. Slowly standing up, Sheri held her makeshift stabbing weapon firmly. It was a prop usually found in bar fight scenes in either westerns or violent movies. Hopefully that’s all it would be.
There were some last fleeting thoughts, hoping that once more, Jessica could understand the situation, accompanied by wondering how much force and momentum she’d have to use in order to put the bottle through her lung. It just had to be me, didn’t it?
“Hello?”
Where’s the fucking baseball bat?!? Sheri’s eyes widened with fear and she knew that she had been found. The baseball bat nowhere to be seen, Sheri lunged forwards in an attempt to grab the doorknob and pull the pantry door shut. Her fingers glided over the doorknob and she fell forwards into the kitchen. Throwing her hands out to protect her face, her palms hit the ground first. There was a sudden stinging pain at the end of one of her fingers causing her to wince.
Her nail had been partially ripped from its bed, revealing the horrible red underneath. Sheri drew her hand inwards, looking at the hopelessly broken nail. Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes watered, her throat gave a rattle and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Things were going horribly, horribly wrong. Braving through the pain, Sheri crawled back into the dark safety of the pantry, pulling the door shut with her free hand.
Maybe Jessica would be okay, maybe she wouldn’t be a psychopath or a hostile. Maybe she’d realise this was all one big misunderstanding and they’d have a silly laugh together. There was also the chance that she might break the door down and rip Sheri’s heart out. Sheri knelt there in the darkness, her injured hand drawn just beneath her chin. With her free hand she blindly rifled through the shelves, looking for a makeshift weapon as she kept her eyes trained on the doorknob.
Something cold, smooth and hard. A bottleneck. Perfect. She held it at eye level and examined it, a slender transparent bottle of distilled white vinegar. Sheri hoped and prayed that Jessica wasn’t looking for trouble, she hoped and prayed. And with that, holding the bottle of vinegar by the neck, she brought it down with all her might against the shelf. Clunk!
She silently swore to herself and tried it again, biting down on her lip. She was rewarded with a smash, the tinkle of glass and the splatter of vinegar on her jacket. Slowly standing up, Sheri held her makeshift stabbing weapon firmly. It was a prop usually found in bar fight scenes in either westerns or violent movies. Hopefully that’s all it would be.
There were some last fleeting thoughts, hoping that once more, Jessica could understand the situation, accompanied by wondering how much force and momentum she’d have to use in order to put the bottle through her lung. It just had to be me, didn’t it?
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Shawnee. 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.
As her gassed brain, coupled with confusion, fear and realization started to clear, Wendy started to better examine the area.
The room was dimly lit, with weak fluorescent light situated above her. Most of the light was concentrated among the area the second girl was located, which she now realized was the other side of a door, into an even bigger and more brightly shining room. Most likely the actual kitchen part. Shelves, everywhere, big shelves, with all sorts of supplies meant for cooking, with some ingredients and even some cooking utensils were situated all around her. It was a kitchen storage room of sorts, a pantry, but a much larger one than one would expect for a kitchen, probably one half the size of her apartment back in Grand Rapids when she was a little kid. Probably, needed as a way to house all those supplies that they'd use for cooking, for the hundreds or maybe even a thousand soldiers in this place.
Quiet scratching sounds caught Wendy's attention as her eyes turned back to focus on Sheri. She noticed that Sheri was no longer standing, but on her hands and knees. She looked like she lost a contact or something.
Wendy's attention then shifted to the direction of the other girl, in the cooking area, as that girl called out her hello. Quickly after than, Wendy saw Sheri lunge and fall face forward into the kitchen area. Oh dear, was Sheri hurt? Wendy felt like running to her and helping her up, but in the end didn't have to, as Sheri pulled herself back into the storage area and pull the door shut. The room was now darker than before, with only the very dim lights flickering.
Clunk!
What was that?
CLANK!
No. What was that?
The very familiar smell, of awful distilled white vinegar filled her nose. Wendy always hated that smell, Sheri must have knocked a glass bottle of it down. Wait, why was she so concerned about the smell anyway? What was more important was the noise, the sound of the break, glass made. Wendy knew that Sheri was nice enough and got along fairly well with her, but who knows how dangerous the other girl was. She didn't even get a clear view of who it was. In no mood to see someone she knew get murdered in cold blood, right in front of her as she watched from the shadows, she risked it and emerged forward from her hiding place, her skirt swaying amongst her legs. She whispered in a volume loud enough for Sheri, but too quiet for anyone else.
"Psst.. Sheri. Sheri!"
Staying a small distance between them, she realized she made Sheri jump, out of shock. Sheri, so did not expect anyone else in there with her. Another reason she stayed away, was because Wendy noticed the broken glass bottle in Sheri's hand. Now I know where the vinegar smell is coming from.
"Hey easy, It's me Wendy. Wendy Fischer, uh, Blonde Wendy." She spoke in a most soothing and sweet voice, with an awkward smile, in an attempt to calm Sheri's nerves. There were only two Wendy's in their grade and the other Wendy was chubby, with dark hair and glasses, who was also the "smart" Wendy, while Wendy knew, she was well, she settled on using the term "Blonde" Wendy.
"Sheri, don't worry, I got a wooden bat to protect us!"
Standing next to her peer, Wendy faced the door and put the slugger and her body into the swinging position. This was something weird for her. She wasn't exactly the type to hurt others, in the least. She just hoped that the other girl didn't have a gun and use it to just shoot holes through the door. This way, they could use the element of surprise and maybe make a run for it.
The footsteps got closer. Her hands were trembling. Wendy closed her eyes and let out a nervous whine. "If she opens that door, I'm swinging."
The room was dimly lit, with weak fluorescent light situated above her. Most of the light was concentrated among the area the second girl was located, which she now realized was the other side of a door, into an even bigger and more brightly shining room. Most likely the actual kitchen part. Shelves, everywhere, big shelves, with all sorts of supplies meant for cooking, with some ingredients and even some cooking utensils were situated all around her. It was a kitchen storage room of sorts, a pantry, but a much larger one than one would expect for a kitchen, probably one half the size of her apartment back in Grand Rapids when she was a little kid. Probably, needed as a way to house all those supplies that they'd use for cooking, for the hundreds or maybe even a thousand soldiers in this place.
Quiet scratching sounds caught Wendy's attention as her eyes turned back to focus on Sheri. She noticed that Sheri was no longer standing, but on her hands and knees. She looked like she lost a contact or something.
Wendy's attention then shifted to the direction of the other girl, in the cooking area, as that girl called out her hello. Quickly after than, Wendy saw Sheri lunge and fall face forward into the kitchen area. Oh dear, was Sheri hurt? Wendy felt like running to her and helping her up, but in the end didn't have to, as Sheri pulled herself back into the storage area and pull the door shut. The room was now darker than before, with only the very dim lights flickering.
Clunk!
What was that?
CLANK!
No. What was that?
The very familiar smell, of awful distilled white vinegar filled her nose. Wendy always hated that smell, Sheri must have knocked a glass bottle of it down. Wait, why was she so concerned about the smell anyway? What was more important was the noise, the sound of the break, glass made. Wendy knew that Sheri was nice enough and got along fairly well with her, but who knows how dangerous the other girl was. She didn't even get a clear view of who it was. In no mood to see someone she knew get murdered in cold blood, right in front of her as she watched from the shadows, she risked it and emerged forward from her hiding place, her skirt swaying amongst her legs. She whispered in a volume loud enough for Sheri, but too quiet for anyone else.
"Psst.. Sheri. Sheri!"
Staying a small distance between them, she realized she made Sheri jump, out of shock. Sheri, so did not expect anyone else in there with her. Another reason she stayed away, was because Wendy noticed the broken glass bottle in Sheri's hand. Now I know where the vinegar smell is coming from.
"Hey easy, It's me Wendy. Wendy Fischer, uh, Blonde Wendy." She spoke in a most soothing and sweet voice, with an awkward smile, in an attempt to calm Sheri's nerves. There were only two Wendy's in their grade and the other Wendy was chubby, with dark hair and glasses, who was also the "smart" Wendy, while Wendy knew, she was well, she settled on using the term "Blonde" Wendy.
"Sheri, don't worry, I got a wooden bat to protect us!"
Standing next to her peer, Wendy faced the door and put the slugger and her body into the swinging position. This was something weird for her. She wasn't exactly the type to hurt others, in the least. She just hoped that the other girl didn't have a gun and use it to just shoot holes through the door. This way, they could use the element of surprise and maybe make a run for it.
The footsteps got closer. Her hands were trembling. Wendy closed her eyes and let out a nervous whine. "If she opens that door, I'm swinging."
Standing there alone in the dark pantry, bumped and bruised with a ruined fingernail no less, Sheri silently prayed for mercy to any god that would listen. She didn’t need to be specific, if there was a good lord somewhere up there with a big white beard and the ability to turn virgins pregnant, surely he’d send a lightning bolt down in Jessica’s direction. If that failed, she’d have to resort to thrusting her broken bottle into her belly when she busted the door open.
Her grip was so tight on the neck of the bottle, that she was sure if she tightened it any further the glass would shatter right there in her hand. In the darkness she kept her eyes focused on the light pouring through in the gap under the door, waiting for those damned shadows cast by Jessica’s feet. It was a kill or be killed situation. There was no sugar coating it. Whether or not Jessica overpowered her or not, one of the two girls would soon be lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood. Who said the Program couldn’t be fun?
Gearing herself up for the attack, Sheri could only hope that she’d look back on the incident one day and laugh about it. The door opened and a girl rushed inside with a blunt object. Rather than stabbing the girl in the face Sheri let out a shrill, nasally scream and raised the broken bottle before dropping it to the ground in favour of protecting her face. The glass shattered against the floor and the room was once more plunged into darkness.
"Psst.. Sheri. Sheri!"
Sheri lowered her wrists, squinting over the sleeves of her Houndstooth jacket in an attempt to make out the dark figure who had felt the need to join her in the pantry. Who the hell? This isn’t Jessica…How…How many damned people are there in this kitchen!?! Sheri’s hand reached for a can of chicken soup, just because she could no longer stab the mystery person to death, it certainly did not mean she couldn’t bludgeon them.
"Hey easy, It's me Wendy. Wendy Fischer, uh, Blonde Wendy."
Get out of town! Sheri raised her eyebrows before setting the can of soup back down on the shelf with a soft clunk. Wendy Fischer, peppy, sweet, dumb Wendy…A smile formed on Sheri’s face and she fought against the strong urge to hug Wendy right there on the spot. Jessica Vogel wasn’t exactly a friend, but Wendy? They weren’t best buds, but she was a friend. A cheery, funny, ditzy friend who probably wouldn’t stab her in the back. I’m so happy I could die…
"Sheri, don't worry, I got a wooden bat to protect us!"
You got a what now? And like that the happiness seemed to rinse off as if somebody had dumped a bucket of ice cold water over her head. Wooden bat…Could it be a… “That wouldn’t happen to be a Louisville Slugger, would it?” Sheri asked, squinting in the darkness. Wendy then shifted about awkwardly before mimicking the stance of a baseball player, Sheri’s eyes widened in alarm as she made out the logo and writing in the dim light. She could feel her hands balling themselves into fists.
"If she opens that door, I'm swinging."
“You…You…You idiot!” Sheri cried, quickly bringing her fists down to her midriff. She didn’t care about how she had somehow missed the bat rolling out the door, or the strange physics allowing it to end up on the other side of the room. Wendy Fischer had taken her weapon, it seemed to be a misunderstanding since she seemed so deadest on the idea that the bat belonged to her, but Sheri had had been disarmed in the middle of the Program of all places, if that wasn’t a bad omen then what was? Stab me right in the back why don’t you!
She didn’t care if Jessica was seconds away from tearing the door from its hinges. She was scared, flustered, angry, upset and cheated all at the same time. She was suddenly brought back to her lecture from the snooty drama club director. Emotion? I’ll show you emotion! “That’s my weapon!” Sheri shouted, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. She clawed at the bat, wrapping her fingers around it and trying to pull it from Wendy’s grasp. “It’s mine and you can’t have it! Use your own weapon!” Sheri turned her face to the door, realising the footsteps were drawing closer. “Yes weapons, Jessica! So don’t you think of opening this door unless you want splinters in your brain! Scram! You hear me?”
Her grip was so tight on the neck of the bottle, that she was sure if she tightened it any further the glass would shatter right there in her hand. In the darkness she kept her eyes focused on the light pouring through in the gap under the door, waiting for those damned shadows cast by Jessica’s feet. It was a kill or be killed situation. There was no sugar coating it. Whether or not Jessica overpowered her or not, one of the two girls would soon be lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood. Who said the Program couldn’t be fun?
Gearing herself up for the attack, Sheri could only hope that she’d look back on the incident one day and laugh about it. The door opened and a girl rushed inside with a blunt object. Rather than stabbing the girl in the face Sheri let out a shrill, nasally scream and raised the broken bottle before dropping it to the ground in favour of protecting her face. The glass shattered against the floor and the room was once more plunged into darkness.
"Psst.. Sheri. Sheri!"
Sheri lowered her wrists, squinting over the sleeves of her Houndstooth jacket in an attempt to make out the dark figure who had felt the need to join her in the pantry. Who the hell? This isn’t Jessica…How…How many damned people are there in this kitchen!?! Sheri’s hand reached for a can of chicken soup, just because she could no longer stab the mystery person to death, it certainly did not mean she couldn’t bludgeon them.
"Hey easy, It's me Wendy. Wendy Fischer, uh, Blonde Wendy."
Get out of town! Sheri raised her eyebrows before setting the can of soup back down on the shelf with a soft clunk. Wendy Fischer, peppy, sweet, dumb Wendy…A smile formed on Sheri’s face and she fought against the strong urge to hug Wendy right there on the spot. Jessica Vogel wasn’t exactly a friend, but Wendy? They weren’t best buds, but she was a friend. A cheery, funny, ditzy friend who probably wouldn’t stab her in the back. I’m so happy I could die…
"Sheri, don't worry, I got a wooden bat to protect us!"
You got a what now? And like that the happiness seemed to rinse off as if somebody had dumped a bucket of ice cold water over her head. Wooden bat…Could it be a… “That wouldn’t happen to be a Louisville Slugger, would it?” Sheri asked, squinting in the darkness. Wendy then shifted about awkwardly before mimicking the stance of a baseball player, Sheri’s eyes widened in alarm as she made out the logo and writing in the dim light. She could feel her hands balling themselves into fists.
"If she opens that door, I'm swinging."
“You…You…You idiot!” Sheri cried, quickly bringing her fists down to her midriff. She didn’t care about how she had somehow missed the bat rolling out the door, or the strange physics allowing it to end up on the other side of the room. Wendy Fischer had taken her weapon, it seemed to be a misunderstanding since she seemed so deadest on the idea that the bat belonged to her, but Sheri had had been disarmed in the middle of the Program of all places, if that wasn’t a bad omen then what was? Stab me right in the back why don’t you!
She didn’t care if Jessica was seconds away from tearing the door from its hinges. She was scared, flustered, angry, upset and cheated all at the same time. She was suddenly brought back to her lecture from the snooty drama club director. Emotion? I’ll show you emotion! “That’s my weapon!” Sheri shouted, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. She clawed at the bat, wrapping her fingers around it and trying to pull it from Wendy’s grasp. “It’s mine and you can’t have it! Use your own weapon!” Sheri turned her face to the door, realising the footsteps were drawing closer. “Yes weapons, Jessica! So don’t you think of opening this door unless you want splinters in your brain! Scram! You hear me?”
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Shawnee. 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.
(OOC - I'm assuming we're skipping decoy, so here's a short post before I get to class)
It seemed like a while for the other girl to get to the large pantry area. When suddenly, it, happened.
Sheri took Wendy by surprise and lunged at her. Her hands wrapping around the same bat Wendy held right there. Her hands scratching at the bat, prying Wendy's fingers from the object, trying to wrestle it free. Wendy had a pretty strong grip on it, not because of defense or trying to keep it away from her, but more in fear and instinct. To be honest Wendy did not even know what was going on. Things just seemed to slow down, and all Wendy could hear and see was yelling and tears coming from her immediate acquaintance. Wendy just stood there frozen with confusion and fright with the bat staying firmly between her fingers.
Then: “You…You…You idiot!”
Idiot.
Wendy Fischer felt like she was becoming smaller.
IDIOT.
It hurt. It really did. No matter how many times she heard it before, it never ever hurts any less than when she heard it the first time. Coming from someone she knew like Sheri, made the word sting harder than usual.
Sheri seemed to double in size as her voice changed into a monster like deep bass in Wendy's fragile mind. She shouted sentences about "Weapons" as she kept pulling at the object in Wendy's hand.
No, she wasn't gonna fight it, as Sheri pulled with all her strength... Wendy simply, let go.
Wendy picked up her bag not looking at the girl who had probably backed up or fell due to the unexpected release. There seemed to be a small crash as things from the shelf near them fell.
Whatever, don't think about it. Idiot.
Reaching toward the handle she turned and opened the door, saying absolutely nothing to her friend. Sheri had the baseball bat now, she could take care of herself. She didn't care if the other girl, who was not Sheri was there with a cleaver or whatever. She'll take her chances with it.
Running out into the lit room, she spotted the other girl - Jessica, as Sheri had called her - who looked confused herself, not like someone who was going to kill anyone. The girl just stood there and stared, watching as Wendy made her way through the kitchen.
(Wendy Fischer Continued to: Falling to Pieces.)
It seemed like a while for the other girl to get to the large pantry area. When suddenly, it, happened.
Sheri took Wendy by surprise and lunged at her. Her hands wrapping around the same bat Wendy held right there. Her hands scratching at the bat, prying Wendy's fingers from the object, trying to wrestle it free. Wendy had a pretty strong grip on it, not because of defense or trying to keep it away from her, but more in fear and instinct. To be honest Wendy did not even know what was going on. Things just seemed to slow down, and all Wendy could hear and see was yelling and tears coming from her immediate acquaintance. Wendy just stood there frozen with confusion and fright with the bat staying firmly between her fingers.
Then: “You…You…You idiot!”
Idiot.
Wendy Fischer felt like she was becoming smaller.
IDIOT.
It hurt. It really did. No matter how many times she heard it before, it never ever hurts any less than when she heard it the first time. Coming from someone she knew like Sheri, made the word sting harder than usual.
Sheri seemed to double in size as her voice changed into a monster like deep bass in Wendy's fragile mind. She shouted sentences about "Weapons" as she kept pulling at the object in Wendy's hand.
No, she wasn't gonna fight it, as Sheri pulled with all her strength... Wendy simply, let go.
Wendy picked up her bag not looking at the girl who had probably backed up or fell due to the unexpected release. There seemed to be a small crash as things from the shelf near them fell.
Whatever, don't think about it. Idiot.
Reaching toward the handle she turned and opened the door, saying absolutely nothing to her friend. Sheri had the baseball bat now, she could take care of herself. She didn't care if the other girl, who was not Sheri was there with a cleaver or whatever. She'll take her chances with it.
Running out into the lit room, she spotted the other girl - Jessica, as Sheri had called her - who looked confused herself, not like someone who was going to kill anyone. The girl just stood there and stared, watching as Wendy made her way through the kitchen.
(Wendy Fischer Continued to: Falling to Pieces.)
((Sorry if this post is crap - I'm studying for a huge test))
The smash of glass was all she heard - had she known of what was going on inside Sherilyn's head, she would have realized that Sheri was acting purely out of fear. However, the words that erupted from the other room dashed any thought of a misunderstanding.
“You…You…You idiot! That’s my weapon! It’s mine and you can’t have it! Use your own weapon! Yes weapons, Jessica! So don’t you think of opening this door unless you want splinters in your brain! Scram! You hear me?” Jessica almost smirked at the word "splinters:" was Sheri holding a two-by-four or something (Of course, Jess had no way of knowing that the weapon in Sheri's hands was a baseball bat)? Jessica had it pretty figured out - either she could scare off Sheri (because if she was making a threat like that, she had to be playing), if that didn't work, Jess could simply knock out Sheri in no time - the first aid box she was holding seemed pretty hard (Actually, the odds were about even - while Jessica had athleticism, Sheri had reach). She went for the former option - she didn't want to get into a fight now and go injured against a psycho.
"Now, Sheri, are you really sure about that? My weapon ... well, it puts yours to shame. Now we can either talk this out, or I can beat you into a bloody pulp." Jessica sounded a lot more sure of herself than she was - a first aid kit wan't exactly the feared dealer of death a gun was.
The smash of glass was all she heard - had she known of what was going on inside Sherilyn's head, she would have realized that Sheri was acting purely out of fear. However, the words that erupted from the other room dashed any thought of a misunderstanding.
“You…You…You idiot! That’s my weapon! It’s mine and you can’t have it! Use your own weapon! Yes weapons, Jessica! So don’t you think of opening this door unless you want splinters in your brain! Scram! You hear me?” Jessica almost smirked at the word "splinters:" was Sheri holding a two-by-four or something (Of course, Jess had no way of knowing that the weapon in Sheri's hands was a baseball bat)? Jessica had it pretty figured out - either she could scare off Sheri (because if she was making a threat like that, she had to be playing), if that didn't work, Jess could simply knock out Sheri in no time - the first aid box she was holding seemed pretty hard (Actually, the odds were about even - while Jessica had athleticism, Sheri had reach). She went for the former option - she didn't want to get into a fight now and go injured against a psycho.
"Now, Sheri, are you really sure about that? My weapon ... well, it puts yours to shame. Now we can either talk this out, or I can beat you into a bloody pulp." Jessica sounded a lot more sure of herself than she was - a first aid kit wan't exactly the feared dealer of death a gun was.
Wendy let go of the bat. Sheri was instantly robbed of her balance and teetered backwards, her eyes scrunching themselves shut as she braced herself for the inevitable crash. She lifted her foot, ready to slam it back down to the floor when she felt herself falling. She didn’t know whether it was the distilled vinegar or maybe some other liquid that had slicked the terracotta tiles, but as she put her foot back on the ground she found herself suddenly slipping. Whether or not she had built herself up to be intimidating or hammy, any presence she had over Jessica had been lost.
Sheri’s shoulders hit the shelves, making them buck and slide against the wall and sending several cans and boxes to the floor. She had just regained her balance when she was struck over the back of the head with a can of tomato soup. A sharp, hot pain rang out in her head like an alarm bell and she instinctively dropped the bat, instead bringing her hands down over the bump. She fell back to the floor again. Vinegar seeped into her skirt and shards of glass dug into her thighs, cutting at her pantyhose and drawing tiny droplets of blood. The pantry was suddenly illuminated by light from the kitchen before the door was slammed shut again.
She was alone.
Sheri placed her palm firmly on the floor in an effort to help herself back to her feet, but crumpled downwards again when a fragment of glass cut into her palm. She let a muffled wail hiss through her teeth as she lifted her hand from the floor, examining the wound in the dim light. In her head she could see a behemoth, jagged, unclean shard of glass severing her hand in two, bleeding out rich crimsons and scarlets as disease seeped into her frail, weak body. Maybe the special effects department would be nominated for an award, maybe they’d win it. Either way, Sheri had found another way to ruin her performance.
If she was the star of the movie, it would either be an exploitation film, a slapstick comedy or a mere box-office flop. Back home, people glued to the screens would be watching her with cringes or laughter. Maybe it was hilarious, maybe it was just uncomfortably pathetic, like watching a slug writhe about in a mound of salt. Dark tears flowed down Sheri’s cheeks and she was sure her face was turning red and puffy like a boiled fish. Sheri opened her watery eyes, staring down into her palm. The small shard of glass shimmered in the dim light like a diamond; small and precious.
Sheri may have been over exaggerating, but the glass still hurt like the worst wasp sting she had received as a kid. That was all she could compare it to, that or a burn on her wrist which she could no longer remember when she had got it. Either way, as she slowly calmed herself down, it would be like removing a splinter. Only she had no tweezers and one of her nails had nearly been ripped right from the finger. Mixed with the impending danger of Jessica Vogel, the abandonment of her friend Wendy Fischer and the horrific predicament of The Program, it seemed as if things couldn’t get any worse. And like that, a timer had been added to the mix.
"Now, Sheri, are you really sure about that? My weapon ... well, it puts yours to shame. Now we can either talk this out, or I can beat you into a bloody pulp."
“Shit!” Sheri hissed, fumbling with the glass using the tips of the nails on her thumb and forefinger. She tried to find the balance between the shard clumsily being dislodged from her hand and the pressure being put on her mangled nail. All she could do was murmur swearwords as she raced to pull the glass from her palm so she could swing the bat into Jessica’s face without digging it into her hand any further. Eventually, the glass simply gave way like an old baby tooth and fell to the dark floor.
A thin trickle of blood oozed from the cut and the scratches on her legs were stinging. The bump on the back of her head ached and her ruined nail bed seemed to throb violently. Sheri reached for the strap of her duffel bag, as she lifted it over her shoulder she heard the contents of the medical kit jingle. She made a mental note to disinfect her cuts once she found a safe place to lay low. With the baseball bat in her left hand, Sheri reached for the doorknob before remembering something important.
She turned hastily and swiped at the shelves, sending more supplies tumbling to the floor. Sheri stuffed her beloved shoes into her bag, scolding herself for not thinking of the idea any sooner and opened the door. She imagined that in Jessica’s point of view, she must have looked like she was out fighting rather than hiding in the pantry. The red, puffy face with the stretches of mascara and eyeliner running down her cheeks. The bloody hands, the runs in her pantyhose and the cuts on her legs made her look as if she had been turned into a zombie. A zombie, I’d be the most stylish one in the horde.
Sheri let out a chuckle at her own joke as she opened the door, before pushing it open as she stood in the defensive stance. She maintained a frozen face for a moment or two, remembering to look intimidating before her lip began to quiver and she felt the short-lived period of dryness in her eyes coming to an end. Her breathing started to become shaky and she felt the baseball bat wobble in her grip. Jessica was unarmed, standing there at the end of the kitchen, gawping at her. She wasn’t scary or intimidating, she couldn’t even fake it. All she could do was try and fight back the tears as her voice began to stammer.
“We-Wend-Wendy!”
The first and possibly only person to be nice to her in the game had deserted her, and it was her own fault. She wasn’t sure if it was the anger, fear or paranoia but something had made her snap at her friend like a vicious animal. She may have not been crazy, but she looked, sounded and acted like it. She might not ever see Wendy again, and if she did she’d have to explain why she lost the plot and why she seemed so hostile. Maybe later that day she could look back on what happened and laugh at it. Maybe she could blame it on the gas. Maybe it had in fact left her a little delirious. She needed to find her friends and remind herself not to go at their throats with her manicured talons. She needed Wendy and Stephanie.
She needed Alex.
No longer able to force the intimidating stance, Sheri let out a blubbery cry as she doubled over, sucking in air as she began crying for what seemed to be the thousandth time in five minutes. She tried to make herself stop by creating fuzzy images of a shrivelled up dry corpse in a Houndstooth jacket, but realised she could only comfort herself. There would be no quick fixes or utterances of “And I’m back in the room!”. Letting the baseball bat hang down at her side, Sheri wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket before giving one last look at Jessica. She could only manage a shaky nod of acknowledgment before she raced out the backdoor.
(Sheri Schachter continued in Plenty Death To Go Around)
Sheri’s shoulders hit the shelves, making them buck and slide against the wall and sending several cans and boxes to the floor. She had just regained her balance when she was struck over the back of the head with a can of tomato soup. A sharp, hot pain rang out in her head like an alarm bell and she instinctively dropped the bat, instead bringing her hands down over the bump. She fell back to the floor again. Vinegar seeped into her skirt and shards of glass dug into her thighs, cutting at her pantyhose and drawing tiny droplets of blood. The pantry was suddenly illuminated by light from the kitchen before the door was slammed shut again.
She was alone.
Sheri placed her palm firmly on the floor in an effort to help herself back to her feet, but crumpled downwards again when a fragment of glass cut into her palm. She let a muffled wail hiss through her teeth as she lifted her hand from the floor, examining the wound in the dim light. In her head she could see a behemoth, jagged, unclean shard of glass severing her hand in two, bleeding out rich crimsons and scarlets as disease seeped into her frail, weak body. Maybe the special effects department would be nominated for an award, maybe they’d win it. Either way, Sheri had found another way to ruin her performance.
If she was the star of the movie, it would either be an exploitation film, a slapstick comedy or a mere box-office flop. Back home, people glued to the screens would be watching her with cringes or laughter. Maybe it was hilarious, maybe it was just uncomfortably pathetic, like watching a slug writhe about in a mound of salt. Dark tears flowed down Sheri’s cheeks and she was sure her face was turning red and puffy like a boiled fish. Sheri opened her watery eyes, staring down into her palm. The small shard of glass shimmered in the dim light like a diamond; small and precious.
Sheri may have been over exaggerating, but the glass still hurt like the worst wasp sting she had received as a kid. That was all she could compare it to, that or a burn on her wrist which she could no longer remember when she had got it. Either way, as she slowly calmed herself down, it would be like removing a splinter. Only she had no tweezers and one of her nails had nearly been ripped right from the finger. Mixed with the impending danger of Jessica Vogel, the abandonment of her friend Wendy Fischer and the horrific predicament of The Program, it seemed as if things couldn’t get any worse. And like that, a timer had been added to the mix.
"Now, Sheri, are you really sure about that? My weapon ... well, it puts yours to shame. Now we can either talk this out, or I can beat you into a bloody pulp."
“Shit!” Sheri hissed, fumbling with the glass using the tips of the nails on her thumb and forefinger. She tried to find the balance between the shard clumsily being dislodged from her hand and the pressure being put on her mangled nail. All she could do was murmur swearwords as she raced to pull the glass from her palm so she could swing the bat into Jessica’s face without digging it into her hand any further. Eventually, the glass simply gave way like an old baby tooth and fell to the dark floor.
A thin trickle of blood oozed from the cut and the scratches on her legs were stinging. The bump on the back of her head ached and her ruined nail bed seemed to throb violently. Sheri reached for the strap of her duffel bag, as she lifted it over her shoulder she heard the contents of the medical kit jingle. She made a mental note to disinfect her cuts once she found a safe place to lay low. With the baseball bat in her left hand, Sheri reached for the doorknob before remembering something important.
She turned hastily and swiped at the shelves, sending more supplies tumbling to the floor. Sheri stuffed her beloved shoes into her bag, scolding herself for not thinking of the idea any sooner and opened the door. She imagined that in Jessica’s point of view, she must have looked like she was out fighting rather than hiding in the pantry. The red, puffy face with the stretches of mascara and eyeliner running down her cheeks. The bloody hands, the runs in her pantyhose and the cuts on her legs made her look as if she had been turned into a zombie. A zombie, I’d be the most stylish one in the horde.
Sheri let out a chuckle at her own joke as she opened the door, before pushing it open as she stood in the defensive stance. She maintained a frozen face for a moment or two, remembering to look intimidating before her lip began to quiver and she felt the short-lived period of dryness in her eyes coming to an end. Her breathing started to become shaky and she felt the baseball bat wobble in her grip. Jessica was unarmed, standing there at the end of the kitchen, gawping at her. She wasn’t scary or intimidating, she couldn’t even fake it. All she could do was try and fight back the tears as her voice began to stammer.
“We-Wend-Wendy!”
The first and possibly only person to be nice to her in the game had deserted her, and it was her own fault. She wasn’t sure if it was the anger, fear or paranoia but something had made her snap at her friend like a vicious animal. She may have not been crazy, but she looked, sounded and acted like it. She might not ever see Wendy again, and if she did she’d have to explain why she lost the plot and why she seemed so hostile. Maybe later that day she could look back on what happened and laugh at it. Maybe she could blame it on the gas. Maybe it had in fact left her a little delirious. She needed to find her friends and remind herself not to go at their throats with her manicured talons. She needed Wendy and Stephanie.
She needed Alex.
No longer able to force the intimidating stance, Sheri let out a blubbery cry as she doubled over, sucking in air as she began crying for what seemed to be the thousandth time in five minutes. She tried to make herself stop by creating fuzzy images of a shrivelled up dry corpse in a Houndstooth jacket, but realised she could only comfort herself. There would be no quick fixes or utterances of “And I’m back in the room!”. Letting the baseball bat hang down at her side, Sheri wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket before giving one last look at Jessica. She could only manage a shaky nod of acknowledgment before she raced out the backdoor.
(Sheri Schachter continued in Plenty Death To Go Around)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Shawnee. 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.
Somewhere in the room, there was a loud crash (this was caused by the fight between Sheri and Wendy, causing Sheri to fall into a shelf). Jessica smirked, allowing her empty hand to slip out of her bag. Thank God. At least if there's a fight, it'll be just me punching her in the face and getting the hell out. Then came another crash. Damn, she's clumsy. Then the door opened, and out came Sheri, looking like a mess. And she was bleeding, as if she'd already been in a fight (Of course, it would be pretty accurate to state that thinking about a fight and actually carrying out the threat in this situation were two entirely different things). For a second, Jess actually couldn't bring herself to attack. All she could really do was stare as Sheri broke down right then and there.
“We-Wend-Wendy!” Sheri doubled over, crying, and then stood up, running out through the pantry, giving a nod to Jess as she left. Jessica just stood there for a moment, and sighed for a second before zipping up her bag and walking out. At least she hadn't broken ... yet.
((Jessica Vogel continued in The Opening Faceoff))
“We-Wend-Wendy!” Sheri doubled over, crying, and then stood up, running out through the pantry, giving a nod to Jess as she left. Jessica just stood there for a moment, and sighed for a second before zipping up her bag and walking out. At least she hadn't broken ... yet.
((Jessica Vogel continued in The Opening Faceoff))