And there Wendy went too, turning their trio into a duet and leaving Panya and Bridgette with nothing but some airy-fairy words in her wake. A regular Ophelia right there. Had the game really gotten to her so quickly? Poor sod. Luckily Panya was made of stronger stuff, and that was what really mattered, right?
Bridgette just had to go and give some snarky little comeback to Panya’s perfectly pleasant greeting. Jeeze, couldn’t she just lighten up just a little? Then again, they were in a death game, and if Bridgette couldn't muster up a break from the cloud of seriousness she shrouded herself in back home, then why would the Bridgette of Murder Island be any different?
Swallowing her pride and the jab about Bridgette’s questionable colour coordination (teal and pink? Yawn), Panya prepared a more pleasant response. Before it could fly from her lips, however, Bridgette made another offer – this one far more juicy and ripe with potential.
A crossroad. To answer truthfully and admit she'd not yet looked at her weapon, or to lie and claim she had?
What would be more interesting? What would the famous Bishara Motormouth, owner of countless witty comebacks, bring to this scene?
“Honestly?” Panya murmured, tugging at the end of her ponytail and digging her heel into the ground, “I haven’t quite had the stomach to check inside just yet.”
A glimmer of genuine vulnerability, just enough so that she didn’t look like some robot nobody would root for, but not so much that she’d seem weak. (Honestly, though – why wouldn’t they root for her? She was charismatic, unique, talented, and had nerve by the bucketload; the perfect protagonist. The perfect winner.)
Panya slipped her dufflebag from her shoulder as gracefully as the bulky canvas sack would allow, and tugged open the zipper. Her hands dived inside in search of the lone unique item her erroneously-given bag possessed. Once her hands clutched around it, she resisted the urge to knit her eyebrows together or betray the momentary confusion that threatened to wash across her face.
Fucking HEELIES?!?!
Well, clearly the people in charge here just thought she didn't need any extra help getting on in this game. To imply she was inept enough to need a boost from the start would've been an insult, to be honest. It was nice to know they had enough faith in her to succeed on her own merits.
She pulled them up by the knotted-up laces, dangling them from the end of one finely-manicured nail.
“Just these. Who’d have thought terrorists would have such terrible fashion sense, huh?“
I Am The Lie, I Am The Liar
Warning: insect abuse
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SansaSaver
- Posts: 197
- Joined: Wed Sep 05, 2018 9:15 pm
“What a shame,” Bridgette replied, forcing a chuckle. Panya’s unfortunate draw made her realize just how lucky she was to draw an actual weapon. It may not have been a gun, but at least Bridgette didn’t have to try to kill someone with heelies.
Wendy wandered off to who knows where, and unless some other kid popped out of the flowers, Bridgette was alone with Panya. Unarmed, relaxed Panya, who seemed oblivious to the full weight of their situation. Her odds of winning a fight against her were through the roof.
But could she do it?
Bridgette’s grip on the knife tightened as she looked at the other girl. She didn’t know her that well, but it didn’t take a genius to know that Panya was a goner. If Bridgette let her go, someone else would off her. Hell, if she’d walked up to some psycho like she'd done with her, Panya would already be dead. Bridgette steadied her gaze at her face, studying her placid smile.
If Panya was going to die anyway, why not do it herself?
Bridgette took a deep breath and launched herself at the other girl, knife aimed at her neck. If she was lucky, this would be over quickly.
Wendy wandered off to who knows where, and unless some other kid popped out of the flowers, Bridgette was alone with Panya. Unarmed, relaxed Panya, who seemed oblivious to the full weight of their situation. Her odds of winning a fight against her were through the roof.
But could she do it?
Bridgette’s grip on the knife tightened as she looked at the other girl. She didn’t know her that well, but it didn’t take a genius to know that Panya was a goner. If Bridgette let her go, someone else would off her. Hell, if she’d walked up to some psycho like she'd done with her, Panya would already be dead. Bridgette steadied her gaze at her face, studying her placid smile.
If Panya was going to die anyway, why not do it herself?
Bridgette took a deep breath and launched herself at the other girl, knife aimed at her neck. If she was lucky, this would be over quickly.
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SansaSaver
- Posts: 197
- Joined: Wed Sep 05, 2018 9:15 pm
There was a knife sinking into Panya’s throat, leaving fire and pain in its wake.
She screamed, but no sound came out, only a pathetic little whine. What sort of final words was that? That was not how she would go out. Not with one little stab from some no-name little bitch who could barely string an outfit together. The Bishara Motormouth could not just go out with a whimper. She was meant to leave this mortal coil in a blaze of glory. That was the way it was supposed to go.
Mustering all her energy and the physical strength she’d never before needed, Panya hurled the clunky pair of shoes still dangling from her fingertip at Bridgette’s head. The momentum and effort of the movement sent her stumbling backwards, flats sliding ungracefully on the grass, hurling her down to the ground, and with a dull schlick, the blade came free of her throat. Her hands instinctively reached for her neck, shaking as they came into contact with the open wound and wave of blood that frothed eagerly from it. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Panya Bishara was not a supporting character.
She was not a footnote in someone else’s story.
She was number one, no doubt about it. Always had been, always would be.
One.
Girl Number One.
Day One.
Death One? It was still early, there was a chance.
No, not a chance. It was a fact. Anything could be the truth if you believed it hard enough. That was how Panya had gotten through life. Panya had believed she was special, and talented, and meant to be somebody, and so she was.
As warmth pooled around her head, and her vision of the girl looming above her began to fade, Panya’s rage began to abate.
The first death of this ragtag bunch of kids, the first name on everybody’s lips, the face that would come to mind whenever Survival of the Fittest came up. A legacy she could live with.
Panya Bishara died with a smile on her lips.
A star at last.
She screamed, but no sound came out, only a pathetic little whine. What sort of final words was that? That was not how she would go out. Not with one little stab from some no-name little bitch who could barely string an outfit together. The Bishara Motormouth could not just go out with a whimper. She was meant to leave this mortal coil in a blaze of glory. That was the way it was supposed to go.
Mustering all her energy and the physical strength she’d never before needed, Panya hurled the clunky pair of shoes still dangling from her fingertip at Bridgette’s head. The momentum and effort of the movement sent her stumbling backwards, flats sliding ungracefully on the grass, hurling her down to the ground, and with a dull schlick, the blade came free of her throat. Her hands instinctively reached for her neck, shaking as they came into contact with the open wound and wave of blood that frothed eagerly from it. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Panya Bishara was not a supporting character.
She was not a footnote in someone else’s story.
She was number one, no doubt about it. Always had been, always would be.
One.
Girl Number One.
Day One.
Death One? It was still early, there was a chance.
No, not a chance. It was a fact. Anything could be the truth if you believed it hard enough. That was how Panya had gotten through life. Panya had believed she was special, and talented, and meant to be somebody, and so she was.
As warmth pooled around her head, and her vision of the girl looming above her began to fade, Panya’s rage began to abate.
The first death of this ragtag bunch of kids, the first name on everybody’s lips, the face that would come to mind whenever Survival of the Fittest came up. A legacy she could live with.
Panya Bishara died with a smile on her lips.
A star at last.
G10 - PANYA BISHARA: DECEASED
59 STUDENTS REMAINING
59 STUDENTS REMAINING
It connected.
Bridgette’s moment of triumph was cut short as the heelies hit the side of her face with a dull thunk. She stumbled backwards, pulling the knife out of Panya’s neck as she crumpled to the ground. Her hand went up to cover her cheek, wincing at the sting.
As she straightened herself up, Bridgette saw the other girl writhe on the ground, hand clamped over the wound. In all of her life, Bridgette had never seen this much blood come out of a person. Her stomach turned as a primal fear crept up inside of her, but she had to steel herself.
She sank to her knees, the knife slipping from her grasp and landing somewhere in the flowers. A sense of relief washed over her, but her heart was still racing. Bridgette doubled over and clutched her stomach as she heaved, although it sounded more like wheezing laughter. She still couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Panya was dead, though that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Bridgette had won.
She had survived.
Bridgette waited until Panya was still before moving again, crawling over to the body and gently pulling the duffel bag out from underneath. She began to idly sift through its contents, putting the extra rations and first aid kit in her own bag. All the while, Bridgette avoided looking the body in the eye. Its eyes had glazed over, and it was taking all her strength not to throw up at the sight.
But she knew she had to get used to the grisly scene for when she had to kill again.
When she was finished, Bridgette zipped her bag shut and stood up, turning away from the body. She bent down to pick up the knife she’d dropped earlier, and her eyes lingered on the blood stained blade. After shooting a glance at the body, Bridgette opted to wipe the blade on the front of her jeans, leaving a crimson stain above her right knee.
She stuck the knife back in her pocket and closed her eyes, feeling the breeze against her face. Bridgette’s heart rate was finally subsiding, and for a moment, she felt completely normal. The first of many obstacles had been overcome, and she had to prepare herself for the next.
Bridgette turned to the treeline and left the meadow, with the only reminders of Panya’s existence in the extra weight of her duffel bag.
((Bridgette Sommerfeld continued in Cursed are the ones who can't abide.))
Bridgette’s moment of triumph was cut short as the heelies hit the side of her face with a dull thunk. She stumbled backwards, pulling the knife out of Panya’s neck as she crumpled to the ground. Her hand went up to cover her cheek, wincing at the sting.
As she straightened herself up, Bridgette saw the other girl writhe on the ground, hand clamped over the wound. In all of her life, Bridgette had never seen this much blood come out of a person. Her stomach turned as a primal fear crept up inside of her, but she had to steel herself.
She sank to her knees, the knife slipping from her grasp and landing somewhere in the flowers. A sense of relief washed over her, but her heart was still racing. Bridgette doubled over and clutched her stomach as she heaved, although it sounded more like wheezing laughter. She still couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Panya was dead, though that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Bridgette had won.
She had survived.
Bridgette waited until Panya was still before moving again, crawling over to the body and gently pulling the duffel bag out from underneath. She began to idly sift through its contents, putting the extra rations and first aid kit in her own bag. All the while, Bridgette avoided looking the body in the eye. Its eyes had glazed over, and it was taking all her strength not to throw up at the sight.
But she knew she had to get used to the grisly scene for when she had to kill again.
When she was finished, Bridgette zipped her bag shut and stood up, turning away from the body. She bent down to pick up the knife she’d dropped earlier, and her eyes lingered on the blood stained blade. After shooting a glance at the body, Bridgette opted to wipe the blade on the front of her jeans, leaving a crimson stain above her right knee.
She stuck the knife back in her pocket and closed her eyes, feeling the breeze against her face. Bridgette’s heart rate was finally subsiding, and for a moment, she felt completely normal. The first of many obstacles had been overcome, and she had to prepare herself for the next.
Bridgette turned to the treeline and left the meadow, with the only reminders of Panya’s existence in the extra weight of her duffel bag.
((Bridgette Sommerfeld continued in Cursed are the ones who can't abide.))