((Dale Hawthorne continued from Live from the Bottom))
Dale stumbled around the bedroom of the yacht. There were some bullet holes in the room, but there were no bodies present, so whether or not shit went down here, Dale had no real way of knowing for certain. All he knew was that he had a decent-ass room to spend the night in.
Dale had struggled to make his way around the flotilla after exiting the submarine. He had seen a large yacht in the distance and made his way over. It was a bit of a challenge, especially since he had to take the long way. No chance in hell was he cutting through the cargo floats when he didn't have the best sea legs. Even the massive cruise ship turned him off since more people would probably head there.
After some time walking, stumbling, and cursing under his breath, Dale reached the abandoned yacht. He quickly took to locking himself in the bedroom, pushing a dresser in front of the door. With not much else to do, Dale took to going over his bag. It turns out he was assigned all the bandannas from last season of this fucking show, which definitely didn't help when they established out the gate what the teams this year were. Dale took to simply tying them together to make one long rope and whipped it around his neck like a scarf of that British time traveler guy nerds gushed over.
After that, he mostly spent his time snacking on oyster crackers and stumbling around the room with the rocking of the waves. There was a CD deck in the room, and after checking the selection, Dale found a choice that best fit his mood. So he loaded it up, set it to Track 2, and began to sing along.
"I. WANT. YOU TO KNOW." Dale sang, trying to sing over the Canadian woman.
"THAT I'M. HAPPY FOR YOU. I WISH. NOTHING BUT. THE BEST. FOR. YOU BOTH."
Dale began to headbang as the song reached its chorus. He shook the box of oyster crackers that he was holding, sending them out into the open and falling on the ground. He began to stomp on them as he began raging in place.
"WELL I'M HERE, TO REMIND YOU OF THE MESS YOU LEFT WHEN YOU WENT AWAY!" Dale shouted, turning the music up.
"IT'S NOT FAIR TO DENY ME OF THE CROSS I BEAR THAT YOU GAVE TO ME YOU YOU YOU OUGHTA KNOW!"
Dale chucked the box of oyster crackers against the wall and let out a scream. He wasn't going to let the camera in the room see he was starting to tear up, but he hoped they at least enjoyed his singing voice. Rock wasn't really his genre, but he figured he could make it work if the people wanted a show.
I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner
Open, late Day 1
I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner
G014: Mayumi Tendou
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Applesintime
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He had returned here.
((Anthony Golden continued from If you're not rising, you're slipping down the rungs))
And to be honest, he wasn't actually sure why. Maybe it was because it was somewhere familiar. Maybe it was because the sun was beating down on him like a boxer in the ring, and he wanted that hat he had thrown out of his backpack god knows how long ago. Maybe it was just the allure of that comfortable bed that he had woken up on. Either way, he was back here, nail plank gripped firmly in his hands. He didn't want to use it, but he wasn't naive as to think that he would never use it at all.
Stepping onto the deck of the yacht, feeling thankful for the solid ground underfoot - well, more solid than the jetties, anyway - he paused. Was that. Was that music playing? It sounded like it was coming from the bedroom, or at least further into the ship, which meant there was at least one person in the yacht with him. Maybe Beau hadn't left and was instead, just fucking listening to music instead? Anthony wouldn't put it past that fucking dumbass. Really, why did nobody seem to react to this normally apart from him? He'd been assaulted, betrayed and narrowly escaped death, all in about the space of what, a few hours?
If he made it to the next sunset, he would be lucky. Sitting down on the deck, scooting his butt a little closer to the front of the boat or whatever the fuck it was, he unzipped his backpack, digging through it. There really wasn't much of substance here, was there. Laying them all down on the deck and idly watching the liquid in his bottles sway from the rocking of the boat, he catalogued them in his head.
Seaweed snacks, probably not the most filling thing in the world. Dried squid, at least they fucking gave them some meat. Squid wasn't exactly his meat of choice, but it worked. Water and Gatorade, orange and classic. Not much to say about that. Subway, finally some good fucking food. Life Savers - only if the name was fucking literal. Shitty American Polo mints. Bread - odd choice, but it was dense and filling. Crackers. Not much to say either. And last but not least, the rum. Anthony held the small bottle up to the light, inspecting it for a moment.
Fuck it. He unscrewed the lid and downed it in one. The warm fiery liquid going down his throat felt good, and so did the feeling of it settling in his stomach warmly, like a good strong cup of tea on a cold London night. He'd probably regret this later, but who the fuck cared? The sun would soon be setting on what might be the last night of his goddamn life. He wasn't gonna go to Hell for appreciating the natural beauty of the world he'd soon depart for another with a little shitty thing of rum.
He still had the bottle, and an idea shot into his head. It was stupid, but it was also a spark of genius. Putting his food back into his bag gently, he stood up, put the cap back on the bottle and tossed it at the floor. It shattered, and Anthony stood on the sparkling remnants, grinding the heel of his shoe against it until he was satisfied. Wrapping the tail of his shirt around his hand, he picked up some crushed glass and stored it in his pocket.
Pocket sand, meet pocket glass. He was no fighter, so maybe he'd have to play dirty to live, but so be it. In extremis.
Now, to the bedroom. Heading down the small set of stairs, Anthony pushed on the bedroom door, expecting to open. It didn't. Hmm. Now he was closer, someone was singing along to the music. Weird. Maybe someone had got a bigger bottle of alcohol, got drunk and proceeded to do this. He tried knocking. Three short, fast knocks. Hopefully the person on the other side was friendly.
((Anthony Golden continued from If you're not rising, you're slipping down the rungs))
And to be honest, he wasn't actually sure why. Maybe it was because it was somewhere familiar. Maybe it was because the sun was beating down on him like a boxer in the ring, and he wanted that hat he had thrown out of his backpack god knows how long ago. Maybe it was just the allure of that comfortable bed that he had woken up on. Either way, he was back here, nail plank gripped firmly in his hands. He didn't want to use it, but he wasn't naive as to think that he would never use it at all.
Stepping onto the deck of the yacht, feeling thankful for the solid ground underfoot - well, more solid than the jetties, anyway - he paused. Was that. Was that music playing? It sounded like it was coming from the bedroom, or at least further into the ship, which meant there was at least one person in the yacht with him. Maybe Beau hadn't left and was instead, just fucking listening to music instead? Anthony wouldn't put it past that fucking dumbass. Really, why did nobody seem to react to this normally apart from him? He'd been assaulted, betrayed and narrowly escaped death, all in about the space of what, a few hours?
If he made it to the next sunset, he would be lucky. Sitting down on the deck, scooting his butt a little closer to the front of the boat or whatever the fuck it was, he unzipped his backpack, digging through it. There really wasn't much of substance here, was there. Laying them all down on the deck and idly watching the liquid in his bottles sway from the rocking of the boat, he catalogued them in his head.
Seaweed snacks, probably not the most filling thing in the world. Dried squid, at least they fucking gave them some meat. Squid wasn't exactly his meat of choice, but it worked. Water and Gatorade, orange and classic. Not much to say about that. Subway, finally some good fucking food. Life Savers - only if the name was fucking literal. Shitty American Polo mints. Bread - odd choice, but it was dense and filling. Crackers. Not much to say either. And last but not least, the rum. Anthony held the small bottle up to the light, inspecting it for a moment.
Fuck it. He unscrewed the lid and downed it in one. The warm fiery liquid going down his throat felt good, and so did the feeling of it settling in his stomach warmly, like a good strong cup of tea on a cold London night. He'd probably regret this later, but who the fuck cared? The sun would soon be setting on what might be the last night of his goddamn life. He wasn't gonna go to Hell for appreciating the natural beauty of the world he'd soon depart for another with a little shitty thing of rum.
He still had the bottle, and an idea shot into his head. It was stupid, but it was also a spark of genius. Putting his food back into his bag gently, he stood up, put the cap back on the bottle and tossed it at the floor. It shattered, and Anthony stood on the sparkling remnants, grinding the heel of his shoe against it until he was satisfied. Wrapping the tail of his shirt around his hand, he picked up some crushed glass and stored it in his pocket.
Pocket sand, meet pocket glass. He was no fighter, so maybe he'd have to play dirty to live, but so be it. In extremis.
Now, to the bedroom. Heading down the small set of stairs, Anthony pushed on the bedroom door, expecting to open. It didn't. Hmm. Now he was closer, someone was singing along to the music. Weird. Maybe someone had got a bigger bottle of alcohol, got drunk and proceeded to do this. He tried knocking. Three short, fast knocks. Hopefully the person on the other side was friendly.
"IT WAS A SLAP IN THE FACE, HOW QUICKLY I WAS REPLACED, AND ARE YOU THINKING OF ME WHEN YOUUUUU FUUUUCK HEEEEER?"
Dale made sure to drag out those last words, and gesticulate towards the camera in the room as he did so. As the chorus started, he quickly jumped onto the bed and tried to continuing singing the quick lyrics and he bounced up and down on the mattress.
"CAUSEIKNOWWHATYAGAVETOMEANDYAHATOMETO BE OPEN WIDE! NO! AND EVERY TIME YOU SPEAK HER NAME YOU-FUCK!"
There was a quick knocking on the door. Dale stopped bouncing and let his entire body crash down onto the bed. He quickly snapped his head towards the door.
"Dammit. Dammit. Dammit," he quickly muttered to himself as he struggled to get off the bed and onto his feet.
He hurried over to the CD player and quickly turned Alanis down. He turned back to the door. The dresser was still blocking it, so he still felt a bit safe.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he again muttered to himself.
They already knew he was here, and he was barely afforded enough time to get his frustration at this shitty situation out. Now he had no choice but to respond.
"Sorry, not interested!" he shouted at the door. "Not in the mood for Girl Scout cookies or a new religion right now!"
Dale made sure to drag out those last words, and gesticulate towards the camera in the room as he did so. As the chorus started, he quickly jumped onto the bed and tried to continuing singing the quick lyrics and he bounced up and down on the mattress.
"CAUSEIKNOWWHATYAGAVETOMEANDYAHATOMETO BE OPEN WIDE! NO! AND EVERY TIME YOU SPEAK HER NAME YOU-FUCK!"
There was a quick knocking on the door. Dale stopped bouncing and let his entire body crash down onto the bed. He quickly snapped his head towards the door.
"Dammit. Dammit. Dammit," he quickly muttered to himself as he struggled to get off the bed and onto his feet.
He hurried over to the CD player and quickly turned Alanis down. He turned back to the door. The dresser was still blocking it, so he still felt a bit safe.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he again muttered to himself.
They already knew he was here, and he was barely afforded enough time to get his frustration at this shitty situation out. Now he had no choice but to respond.
"Sorry, not interested!" he shouted at the door. "Not in the mood for Girl Scout cookies or a new religion right now!"
G014: Mayumi Tendou
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Applesintime
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The person on the other side - sounded like a guy - had stopped singing, and was shouting about how he didn't want Girl Scout cookies or religion right now. Did anyone in this fucking school react to anything normally? Could have just said 'no, go away' or 'sure, come on in', but no, he had to go over the top.
"Mate, I'm not gonna hurt you. I just want in out of the bloody cold." He persisted in knocking, even knowing that the guy probably wasn't gonna let him in. Who was this guy? He couldn't put a name to his voice, but he definitely had that Miami note to his voice like everyone else here. Either way, they didn't run in the same circles. But hey. maybe he was from his group! Or team, whatever the fuck they called it.
"My name's Anthony. Anthony Golden. I'm on, uhm, Ben's team. Ben's Crabs or whatever the fuck it's called. Look dude, I rolled a fake red beard. It's probably still in there. I'm physically incapable of hurting you and I wouldn't want to anyways. Not selling anything, not promoting religion, just wanna have somewhere safe to stay the night." Well, he was holding that nail plank in his right hand, but he was keeping that one up his sleeve for now. If this guy was hostile and came to attack him, it wouldn't be good for these cramped corridors, but it was better than fists.
"Mate, I'm not gonna hurt you. I just want in out of the bloody cold." He persisted in knocking, even knowing that the guy probably wasn't gonna let him in. Who was this guy? He couldn't put a name to his voice, but he definitely had that Miami note to his voice like everyone else here. Either way, they didn't run in the same circles. But hey. maybe he was from his group! Or team, whatever the fuck they called it.
"My name's Anthony. Anthony Golden. I'm on, uhm, Ben's team. Ben's Crabs or whatever the fuck it's called. Look dude, I rolled a fake red beard. It's probably still in there. I'm physically incapable of hurting you and I wouldn't want to anyways. Not selling anything, not promoting religion, just wanna have somewhere safe to stay the night." Well, he was holding that nail plank in his right hand, but he was keeping that one up his sleeve for now. If this guy was hostile and came to attack him, it wouldn't be good for these cramped corridors, but it was better than fists.
Dale had no clue who was on the other side of the door. Even when he heard the name "Anthony Golden" did he struggle to remember who he was. He could hear an accent though. According to Anthony, he was on the Crabs team and had a fake beard. He just wanted a place to sleep and avoid the cold.
"Well, there's other rooms," Dale said through the door. "Pick any of them and it's yours for the night. I won't stop you."
Dale sighed and stepped away from the door. He made his way over to where the box of oyster crackers laid on the ground.
"You may only have a beard," Dale shouted to Anthony, "but I'm still not willing to take the risk."
He picked the box up and grabbed a handful of crackers and stuffed them in his mouth. He looked around. There were a few windows on the other side of the room, presumably so the yacht owner and any whores he brought on board could enjoy the sunset during a coke binge. Maybe he could jump out one if Anthony proved to be too obnoxious or deadly.
"Well, there's other rooms," Dale said through the door. "Pick any of them and it's yours for the night. I won't stop you."
Dale sighed and stepped away from the door. He made his way over to where the box of oyster crackers laid on the ground.
"You may only have a beard," Dale shouted to Anthony, "but I'm still not willing to take the risk."
He picked the box up and grabbed a handful of crackers and stuffed them in his mouth. He looked around. There were a few windows on the other side of the room, presumably so the yacht owner and any whores he brought on board could enjoy the sunset during a coke binge. Maybe he could jump out one if Anthony proved to be too obnoxious or deadly.
G014: Mayumi Tendou
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Applesintime
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"Yeah, but this room has a bed. What's the worst I could do with a fake beard, dress up like fucking Santa Claus?" Anthony protested, knocking on the door again. This was annoying. He wanted his hat, he wanted a place to sleep in and he wanted some kind of positive human contact that wasn't his mentor. He was sure there were already teams, people roaming around and enjoying themselves with their friends. Meanwhile, all of Anthony's friends were either not here, in a player group or were somewhere else. It was a little upsetting.
"Look, who are you? I don't give a fuck what team you're on, I'm not gonna bloody hurt you. It's fucking stupid to think I'd fucking kill or injure my classmates because I got shoved on a stupid bloody show and the wankers told me 'kill or you die'!" Admittedly, this one wasn't aimed at the other person on the opposite side of the door, it was simply him venting about how fucking bullshit this whole situation is. The worst part is it clearly fucking worked, judging by how this was what, season 67? The American public sure did love watching young adults kill each other, huh.
Resting his forehead against the wall, he sighed. Why did everything have to be so fucking complicated? Why couldn't everyone just bloody work together instead of working off fear and distrust? Maybe it was idealistic, stupidly idealistic, but what else did he have? A board ripped off a jetty with nails in it, which admittedly was a little hypocritical of him, what with warbling on in his head about not wanting to distrust other people, and a pocket full of crushed glass.
"Look, who are you? I don't give a fuck what team you're on, I'm not gonna bloody hurt you. It's fucking stupid to think I'd fucking kill or injure my classmates because I got shoved on a stupid bloody show and the wankers told me 'kill or you die'!" Admittedly, this one wasn't aimed at the other person on the opposite side of the door, it was simply him venting about how fucking bullshit this whole situation is. The worst part is it clearly fucking worked, judging by how this was what, season 67? The American public sure did love watching young adults kill each other, huh.
Resting his forehead against the wall, he sighed. Why did everything have to be so fucking complicated? Why couldn't everyone just bloody work together instead of working off fear and distrust? Maybe it was idealistic, stupidly idealistic, but what else did he have? A board ripped off a jetty with nails in it, which admittedly was a little hypocritical of him, what with warbling on in his head about not wanting to distrust other people, and a pocket full of crushed glass.
Dale groaned as Anthony made it clear he wanted the bed. No. That's not how claiming worked. Who the fuck was this guy to insist on the bed? Was he next going to demand that he and Dale share the bed? That wasn't going to happen.
Anthony finally demanded to know who Dale was, claiming he didn't care what team Dale was on. Dale had to find that a bit hard to believe. Maybe Anthony didn't care that much, but others would. Alaska and Larry made it clear that team placement mattered when they stood side-by-side like they were Starsky and Hutch.
But still, Anthony wasn't going to let him go so easily, so Dale decided to finally relent.
Dale walked over to the dresser blocking the door. He shifted it a bit towards himself so it was still blocking the door enough that Anthony couldn't force his way in, but wide enough that Dale and Anthony could at least see each other or talk more directly.
Of course, Dale wasn't going to just stand in the opening. If he died because he bought the whole "I have a fake beard" charade when Anthony was really packing a machine gun, he was never going to stop rolling in his grave.
Once Dale was pleased with how much he had moved the dresser, he cracked the door open, trying to stay out of sight.
"It's Dale, okay. Dale Hawthorne. Senior class, Team Claudia. Satisfied?"
Anthony finally demanded to know who Dale was, claiming he didn't care what team Dale was on. Dale had to find that a bit hard to believe. Maybe Anthony didn't care that much, but others would. Alaska and Larry made it clear that team placement mattered when they stood side-by-side like they were Starsky and Hutch.
But still, Anthony wasn't going to let him go so easily, so Dale decided to finally relent.
Dale walked over to the dresser blocking the door. He shifted it a bit towards himself so it was still blocking the door enough that Anthony couldn't force his way in, but wide enough that Dale and Anthony could at least see each other or talk more directly.
Of course, Dale wasn't going to just stand in the opening. If he died because he bought the whole "I have a fake beard" charade when Anthony was really packing a machine gun, he was never going to stop rolling in his grave.
Once Dale was pleased with how much he had moved the dresser, he cracked the door open, trying to stay out of sight.
"It's Dale, okay. Dale Hawthorne. Senior class, Team Claudia. Satisfied?"
G014: Mayumi Tendou
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Applesintime
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As Anthony ruminated on the irony of saying that he didn't want to hurt people while he had a board and something resembling pocket sand in his pocket, he heard a faint groaning from the other side of the door. This was starting to piss him off. Was it so hard to trust in the fact that hey, if Anthony wanted an easy kill, this was the very opposite of easy? He could just go hunting in the endless expanse of boats, shrouded in darkness, until he found a lone person to pick off. Instead, he was trying to get inside somewhere so he could have a peaceful night without the fear of being killed in his sleep. He wasn't the bloody bad guy here.
Fortunately, something seemed to have convinced the other person. There was the faint sound of scraping from the other side of the door, and the door was starting to crack open a tad. As soon as it stopped, Anthony peeked through the hole. He couldn't see much from this angle, but there was enough to confirm that yes, the random clothes he had been assigned were still there. Including the hat. He didn't wanna get sunburn, and even if he did tan well, now wasn't exactly the time to be worrying about stupid shit like that.
"Dale Hawthorne..." Same class as him. Honestly, he didn't really know much about a good chunk of his class, and this unfortunately included Dale. They were both pretty high up in the rankings, and Dale was one of those artsy-fartsy guys who hung out with the other artsy-fartsy guys; he had been casted for some role in a play that had posters all over Mangrove Garden, and that was all of the information Anthony knew about him. At the least, he wasn't Junji.
"Good to meet you. Wish it could have been in better bloody circumstances, but that's the producer's faults." And the people who were watching this show, of course, but right now he was more angry at the bastards who had ticked his name on a list and sentenced him to abduction and the fate of dying or murdering other people. Even still, he tried to keep a concillatory, friendly tone. It wouldn't be a good idea to piss this guy off if it turned out he had a machine gun like Fisk did. The door would hopefully provide some cover if he decided to shoot through it.
"You, uh... you gonna let me in or not?" He didn't wanna seem like, pushy but man, he had been running around for like, a bunch of hours, and he wanted some time to eat and just sit down and take a breather.
Fortunately, something seemed to have convinced the other person. There was the faint sound of scraping from the other side of the door, and the door was starting to crack open a tad. As soon as it stopped, Anthony peeked through the hole. He couldn't see much from this angle, but there was enough to confirm that yes, the random clothes he had been assigned were still there. Including the hat. He didn't wanna get sunburn, and even if he did tan well, now wasn't exactly the time to be worrying about stupid shit like that.
"Dale Hawthorne..." Same class as him. Honestly, he didn't really know much about a good chunk of his class, and this unfortunately included Dale. They were both pretty high up in the rankings, and Dale was one of those artsy-fartsy guys who hung out with the other artsy-fartsy guys; he had been casted for some role in a play that had posters all over Mangrove Garden, and that was all of the information Anthony knew about him. At the least, he wasn't Junji.
"Good to meet you. Wish it could have been in better bloody circumstances, but that's the producer's faults." And the people who were watching this show, of course, but right now he was more angry at the bastards who had ticked his name on a list and sentenced him to abduction and the fate of dying or murdering other people. Even still, he tried to keep a concillatory, friendly tone. It wouldn't be a good idea to piss this guy off if it turned out he had a machine gun like Fisk did. The door would hopefully provide some cover if he decided to shoot through it.
"You, uh... you gonna let me in or not?" He didn't wanna seem like, pushy but man, he had been running around for like, a bunch of hours, and he wanted some time to eat and just sit down and take a breather.
Ok, so Anthony wasn't going to immediately add to the room's bullet hole collection, but that didn't mean Dale had to accept him just yet.
"Look, I already told you," Dale began, "the bedroom is mine."
Dale kept one hand on the doorknob and the other on the dresser. Something told him he'd have to force the door closed soon.
"There's a couch and a chaise in the other room. There's also a pretty big bath tub if you want to lay in there. I already called dibs on the room, and I don't know you well enough to share a bed."
Dale tightened his grip on the door knob.
"Now please, accept that it's mine tonight, and move on with your life. Okay?"
"Look, I already told you," Dale began, "the bedroom is mine."
Dale kept one hand on the doorknob and the other on the dresser. Something told him he'd have to force the door closed soon.
"There's a couch and a chaise in the other room. There's also a pretty big bath tub if you want to lay in there. I already called dibs on the room, and I don't know you well enough to share a bed."
Dale tightened his grip on the door knob.
"Now please, accept that it's mine tonight, and move on with your life. Okay?"
G014: Mayumi Tendou
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As much as he wanted into the room, Anthony knew when he was beat. As irritating as this whole thing was, he could at least hopefully get something that he wanted out of this whole shitshow. Why couldn't he just trust that hey, maybe at least one of his classmates didn't wanna kill him for their own selfish reasons?
"Fine. Fine... Just, uh. You see that hat over there? The one next to the bed and lying on top of all the black clothing? Looks like something that a Puritan might have worn? Could you hand it to me mate? Or like, just put it through the door? Cheers." To show his goodwill, Anthony stepped away from the door, his hands raised. Of course, his wooden plank was now tucked between his legs, but Dale couldn't see that. He hoped. "And then I'll be off to the chaise or sofa or whatever the hell it is.
"Bloody hell." He murmured to himself, letting out an irritated sigh once he was sure Dale couldn't hear him. This had been a terrible, terrible fucking day. Tottenham lost, his friends kept attacking or betraying him, and now the one bed he could think of was being held hostage by some artsy prick. And of course, he was in the worst possible show in human history. God knows how many Americans or otherwise were amusing themselves at the sight of his classmates brutally fucking murdering one another. And for what? A mere chance that they won't die and will be the one to reap the bloodgold that SOTF offered?
Shooting the camera observing the hallway a glare, Anthony flipped it the fingers. Cunts.
"Fine. Fine... Just, uh. You see that hat over there? The one next to the bed and lying on top of all the black clothing? Looks like something that a Puritan might have worn? Could you hand it to me mate? Or like, just put it through the door? Cheers." To show his goodwill, Anthony stepped away from the door, his hands raised. Of course, his wooden plank was now tucked between his legs, but Dale couldn't see that. He hoped. "And then I'll be off to the chaise or sofa or whatever the hell it is.
"Bloody hell." He murmured to himself, letting out an irritated sigh once he was sure Dale couldn't hear him. This had been a terrible, terrible fucking day. Tottenham lost, his friends kept attacking or betraying him, and now the one bed he could think of was being held hostage by some artsy prick. And of course, he was in the worst possible show in human history. God knows how many Americans or otherwise were amusing themselves at the sight of his classmates brutally fucking murdering one another. And for what? A mere chance that they won't die and will be the one to reap the bloodgold that SOTF offered?
Shooting the camera observing the hallway a glare, Anthony flipped it the fingers. Cunts.
Dale felt relieve that Anthony was willing to concede the bedroom to him. It was bad enough he was on this crappy show and would probably only be remembered for what he did here, but at least he found one person who could not be an ass. And to think all it took was for Dale to pass a hat through the door.
"Wait, what?" Dale muttered.
Dale looked around the room. He had barely noticed the pile of black Puritan clothing since he had been in here. Must have been the tunnel vision of wanting to snack, rage, and head bang to 90s rock. Dale shrugged.
"Sure. I'll give you the hat."
Dale shut the door. He still was sure Anthony wouldn't be able to burst into the room with how much space he had afforded, but passing a hat through the door still ran the risk of danger. What was to stop Anthony from grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the door, and then blowing his brains out? This had to be done delicately.
Dale grabbed the hat, turning it over in his hands to try and figure out why it was so damn important to Anthony, then walked back to the door. He pressed himself against the dresser, then pulled the door close. Trying to remain behind the door and dresser, he reached the hat out, letting only the brim of the hat stick out.
"Hat's all yours, bro," Dale said.
"Wait, what?" Dale muttered.
Dale looked around the room. He had barely noticed the pile of black Puritan clothing since he had been in here. Must have been the tunnel vision of wanting to snack, rage, and head bang to 90s rock. Dale shrugged.
"Sure. I'll give you the hat."
Dale shut the door. He still was sure Anthony wouldn't be able to burst into the room with how much space he had afforded, but passing a hat through the door still ran the risk of danger. What was to stop Anthony from grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the door, and then blowing his brains out? This had to be done delicately.
Dale grabbed the hat, turning it over in his hands to try and figure out why it was so damn important to Anthony, then walked back to the door. He pressed himself against the dresser, then pulled the door close. Trying to remain behind the door and dresser, he reached the hat out, letting only the brim of the hat stick out.
"Hat's all yours, bro," Dale said.
G014: Mayumi Tendou
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- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
Dale muttered something old him he'd give him the hat and promptly shut the door. Anthony felt the beginnings of nerves starting to uncoil in his stomach, but with a clenching of his fists, he forced himself to relax. If Dale wanted to kill him, he would have done so a lont time ago and he'd be lying dead on the floor. Pulling the plank from between his legs, he held it like a baseball bat, just in case. Dale was a nice guy, though, from what he had seen of him so far, and presumably a guy who just wanted to be left alone wasn't gonna want to deal with blood or a dead body or anything like that which was honestly kind of a mood.
The brim of his hat sticking out from behind the door interrupted his train of thought, and Anthony reached out to tug it through the thin slice of the door was open, examining it once he had pulled it through. What kind of fucking costume had they given him, anyway? Witch hunter? Not likely, with that cloak thing. But maybe? There were those slots for knives, after all. But he didn't get how a witch hunter related to him. He faintly knew they tried to give them costumes that were like, related to them somehow from his friends discussing the cruel irony of it. Think, Anthony, think.
Really, did it matter? The hat looked dorky as fuck, but you know what was also dorky?
Sunburn. Few people here had a hat, and the weather seemed relatively decent. That meant sun; perhaps not as bad as Miami sun, but it would still burn you.
Dale said something, and Anthony looked up, blinking confusedly for a second. Oh, right.
"Uh, cheers. First thing that's happened to me all day. That's good. Cheers." He let out a nervous chuckle, affixing the hat on his head. It fit perfectly. Did they fucking measure his head trying to get the right fit for his hat? Fucking weirdos. At least he had one, though. A lot of people would be regretting that they didn't have one soon.
"Anyway, uh, I'll be in the other room. Cheers again for the hat." Anthony turned to leave, and then remembered. The player group. He should probably tell Dale about that. He didn't wanna give any of those bastards a chance to murder another person. Ivan was one too many, and they'd burn in Hell for that.
"Oh yeah, stay away from the cruise ship. There's a player group operating in there. At least three, maybe more. Giselle Filmore, Vasily Ivanov and Fisk Bateman. Fisk's got all these scars and a tommy gun, Vasily has an eyepatch and Giselle is wearing like, a bucket hat. And she has brown hair. Stay away from them. If you see them, run. They don't care if you're on their team or not, they'll mow you down just as willingly as if you weren't." With that warning left hanging in the air, he headed into the opposite room.
If the bedroom was well, a bedroom, this was probably the living room of the yacht. A gaudy leather sofa, cracking on the arms, and an off-yellow chaise. There was also a fucking bathtub for some reason? It was just sitting in the middle of the room, like the centerpiece of an art gallery, with no clear explanation as to how you would get water in the bathtub or indeed, how you would get it out. The only thought Anthony could muster at the sight was: What the fuck?
Still, it wasn't hard to push it up against the door, and with that done, he could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Fuck. He had been running around for hours and his stomach was yelling at him. Now, at least, he'd have some time to relax. Process everything that's going on in his head. It had been a long day, and the sun hadn't even set yet.
The brim of his hat sticking out from behind the door interrupted his train of thought, and Anthony reached out to tug it through the thin slice of the door was open, examining it once he had pulled it through. What kind of fucking costume had they given him, anyway? Witch hunter? Not likely, with that cloak thing. But maybe? There were those slots for knives, after all. But he didn't get how a witch hunter related to him. He faintly knew they tried to give them costumes that were like, related to them somehow from his friends discussing the cruel irony of it. Think, Anthony, think.
Really, did it matter? The hat looked dorky as fuck, but you know what was also dorky?
Sunburn. Few people here had a hat, and the weather seemed relatively decent. That meant sun; perhaps not as bad as Miami sun, but it would still burn you.
Dale said something, and Anthony looked up, blinking confusedly for a second. Oh, right.
"Uh, cheers. First thing that's happened to me all day. That's good. Cheers." He let out a nervous chuckle, affixing the hat on his head. It fit perfectly. Did they fucking measure his head trying to get the right fit for his hat? Fucking weirdos. At least he had one, though. A lot of people would be regretting that they didn't have one soon.
"Anyway, uh, I'll be in the other room. Cheers again for the hat." Anthony turned to leave, and then remembered. The player group. He should probably tell Dale about that. He didn't wanna give any of those bastards a chance to murder another person. Ivan was one too many, and they'd burn in Hell for that.
"Oh yeah, stay away from the cruise ship. There's a player group operating in there. At least three, maybe more. Giselle Filmore, Vasily Ivanov and Fisk Bateman. Fisk's got all these scars and a tommy gun, Vasily has an eyepatch and Giselle is wearing like, a bucket hat. And she has brown hair. Stay away from them. If you see them, run. They don't care if you're on their team or not, they'll mow you down just as willingly as if you weren't." With that warning left hanging in the air, he headed into the opposite room.
If the bedroom was well, a bedroom, this was probably the living room of the yacht. A gaudy leather sofa, cracking on the arms, and an off-yellow chaise. There was also a fucking bathtub for some reason? It was just sitting in the middle of the room, like the centerpiece of an art gallery, with no clear explanation as to how you would get water in the bathtub or indeed, how you would get it out. The only thought Anthony could muster at the sight was: What the fuck?
Still, it wasn't hard to push it up against the door, and with that done, he could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Fuck. He had been running around for hours and his stomach was yelling at him. Now, at least, he'd have some time to relax. Process everything that's going on in his head. It had been a long day, and the sun hadn't even set yet.
Dale watched as the hat was pulled out of the room by the unseen force that was Anthony. Dale sighed a bit. If this interaction was all about a hat, then he should be glad it was that inane. Dale had survived two dumb encounters so far, and he knew that was a diminishing resource here. Not everyone was going to be like that going forward. Some wouldn't just want hats unless Dale's blood was speckled all over it like a kid with chicken pox.
Before he left to settle in the other room, Anthony was kind enough to pass along some info about some other kids there. Apparently, Fisk, Vasily, and Giselle were apparently teamed up to kill everyone they could. Dale had a rough idea who they were. Vasily was recognizable if only for his appearance, and he knew Giselle was actively against SOTF (and yet was willing to play the game? He would have to figure that out). Fisk was the biggest shock. He did love to play the villain in drama club, but to actually be the villain? That was a bit of a stretch. Like, it'd be one thing to be that predictable, but to actually give in right at the start of the game? Dale had to find Fisk a bit gauche for that.
It was then that Dale remembered that he got a villainous role in Little Shop of Horrors over Fisk and was now suddenly worried that Fisk may make that a reason to hunt Dale down and brutally kill him. And all because Dale could tap into Steve Martin-levels of musical comedy brilliance better than Fisk.
Fuck.
"Um, thanks for the update," Dale told Anthony. "I don't have anything like that to pass along, but that's good to know."
Anthony had stepped away from the door, so Dale closed it and moved the dresser back. He slowly walked over to the CD player and put Alanis back on. Instead of jamming along to her, he simply laid down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
"I am gonna fucking die here," he muttered to himself.
He then grabbed a pillow and moved it over his face. He pressed it to his face, not hard enough to suffocate himself, but at least enough to muffle his long groan.
Before he left to settle in the other room, Anthony was kind enough to pass along some info about some other kids there. Apparently, Fisk, Vasily, and Giselle were apparently teamed up to kill everyone they could. Dale had a rough idea who they were. Vasily was recognizable if only for his appearance, and he knew Giselle was actively against SOTF (and yet was willing to play the game? He would have to figure that out). Fisk was the biggest shock. He did love to play the villain in drama club, but to actually be the villain? That was a bit of a stretch. Like, it'd be one thing to be that predictable, but to actually give in right at the start of the game? Dale had to find Fisk a bit gauche for that.
It was then that Dale remembered that he got a villainous role in Little Shop of Horrors over Fisk and was now suddenly worried that Fisk may make that a reason to hunt Dale down and brutally kill him. And all because Dale could tap into Steve Martin-levels of musical comedy brilliance better than Fisk.
Fuck.
"Um, thanks for the update," Dale told Anthony. "I don't have anything like that to pass along, but that's good to know."
Anthony had stepped away from the door, so Dale closed it and moved the dresser back. He slowly walked over to the CD player and put Alanis back on. Instead of jamming along to her, he simply laid down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
"I am gonna fucking die here," he muttered to himself.
He then grabbed a pillow and moved it over his face. He pressed it to his face, not hard enough to suffocate himself, but at least enough to muffle his long groan.
G014: Mayumi Tendou
-
Applesintime
- Posts: 836
- Joined: Sat Jul 04, 2020 11:57 am
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
The music started playing from Dale's room, so Anthony wasn't too worried about him. He'd be able to hear if the dresser was moved - at least, he probably would - and the strange living room bathtub was blocking the door, so right now he was fine. There were a couple of windows, or portholes, that he had a good view of the jetty leading up to the yacht from as well, so he'd be able to see anyone coming.
For the first time in roughly what, six or seven hours, he felt a semblance of safety. And now that he was safe, he had time to satisfy his other needs. It was like that pyramid that he couldn't remember the name of, the hierarchy of needs or something. Unzipping his bag, he pulled out a packet of seaweed, the dried squid, and a loaf of bread. Ripping open the packets, he found himself looking for a bin to put them in. When he realised, he let out a little chuckle. There wasn't any bin in here, and if he made a fucking intern or SOTF janitor spend an extra second or two to pick up his rubbish, well, it was a small act of rebellion. So, tossing them on the floor, he combined his ingredients into a sandwich; half of the dried squid, the packet of seaweed snacks and two slices of gluten-free bread. Not exactly gourmet, but he needed food. Setting aside a bottle of water to wash it all down, he took a bite into it.
Chew. Chew.
Really, it could do with some mayo, or butter, or something. It was kinda dry. Overall it wasn't too bad for a sandwich hastily constructed in 60 seconds in the middle of a murder game, but what's a sandwich without butter or mayo, something to give it that little finishing touch? The dried squid was the real MVP of the sandwich, though - it was seasoned pretty well, and along with the roasted seaweed snacks giving that little savoury kick, Anthony found himself actually enjoying his meal, savouring it. It wasn't like Mum's cooking - nothing could beat your mum's cooking - but it would substitute until he could get back home. Get out of this hellhole of a game, and save lives instead of being forced to take them.
Finishing up the sandwich quickly, he wiped his mouth to get rid of any crumbs or anything like that. Then, uncapping his bottle of water, he took slow, controlled sips. He only had four bottles, and so he didn't want to use it all up too early. He had the Gatorade, but frankly water was the best thing you could get, and he'd rather save the Gatorade for when he needed the energy. With about a third of the bottle left, he lifted it from his lips and screwed the cap back on. Being well-fed and not thirsty was important to survival. It helped to look at it in a more logical light, rather than think about how it's his reality, his life he's influencing.
Fishing in his bag, he pulled out the mint Life Savers, popping one into his mouth. Delicious.
For the first time in roughly what, six or seven hours, he felt a semblance of safety. And now that he was safe, he had time to satisfy his other needs. It was like that pyramid that he couldn't remember the name of, the hierarchy of needs or something. Unzipping his bag, he pulled out a packet of seaweed, the dried squid, and a loaf of bread. Ripping open the packets, he found himself looking for a bin to put them in. When he realised, he let out a little chuckle. There wasn't any bin in here, and if he made a fucking intern or SOTF janitor spend an extra second or two to pick up his rubbish, well, it was a small act of rebellion. So, tossing them on the floor, he combined his ingredients into a sandwich; half of the dried squid, the packet of seaweed snacks and two slices of gluten-free bread. Not exactly gourmet, but he needed food. Setting aside a bottle of water to wash it all down, he took a bite into it.
Chew. Chew.
Really, it could do with some mayo, or butter, or something. It was kinda dry. Overall it wasn't too bad for a sandwich hastily constructed in 60 seconds in the middle of a murder game, but what's a sandwich without butter or mayo, something to give it that little finishing touch? The dried squid was the real MVP of the sandwich, though - it was seasoned pretty well, and along with the roasted seaweed snacks giving that little savoury kick, Anthony found himself actually enjoying his meal, savouring it. It wasn't like Mum's cooking - nothing could beat your mum's cooking - but it would substitute until he could get back home. Get out of this hellhole of a game, and save lives instead of being forced to take them.
Finishing up the sandwich quickly, he wiped his mouth to get rid of any crumbs or anything like that. Then, uncapping his bottle of water, he took slow, controlled sips. He only had four bottles, and so he didn't want to use it all up too early. He had the Gatorade, but frankly water was the best thing you could get, and he'd rather save the Gatorade for when he needed the energy. With about a third of the bottle left, he lifted it from his lips and screwed the cap back on. Being well-fed and not thirsty was important to survival. It helped to look at it in a more logical light, rather than think about how it's his reality, his life he's influencing.
Fishing in his bag, he pulled out the mint Life Savers, popping one into his mouth. Delicious.
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Courtography
- Posts: 518
- Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2018 11:03 pm
(Caleb Bloch continued from Chapter 11: Pier Pressure)
Caleb had been able to spend the remainder of his day alone. In a situation like this that was a blessing. If questioned he'd admit that it was often a blessing in normal life as well. Outside of a few close friends and family members, the majority of humanity got on his nerves. He rarely said it out loud, because he knew that would sound like some edgy bullshit, but it was true. He'd made his way through the sprawl of the armada. He had stopped for short amounts of time in different vessels, but eventually his nerves got to him. Caleb needed to keep moving. Logically he needed to just stay in one spot, and hopefully he would do that overnight when navigation was more difficult. It was just difficult. He was probably going to die here, and part of him just wanted to fling himself off the rail of a ship at the edge of the flotilla and see if they would really pop his collar if he tried to swim away.
He wouldn't do that yet. He was going to check out the yacht first.
As he walked onto the deck, he couldn't hear his footsteps over the sounds of the ocean. That had to be a good sign. Either he was good at keeping quiet, or the ocean was loud enough to let him get away with being louder than normal.
He loved the ocean.
Instead of trying to go inside, Caleb stood with his elbows resting on the railing and looked out at the water. He had found the edge of everyone's cage. He could climb over the rail and try to pull a Titanic. Caleb wasn't going to though. There was no young Leonardo Dicaprio there to pull him back. Hell, for someone like him, most people would be content to just let him fall.
He sighed.
Caleb had been able to spend the remainder of his day alone. In a situation like this that was a blessing. If questioned he'd admit that it was often a blessing in normal life as well. Outside of a few close friends and family members, the majority of humanity got on his nerves. He rarely said it out loud, because he knew that would sound like some edgy bullshit, but it was true. He'd made his way through the sprawl of the armada. He had stopped for short amounts of time in different vessels, but eventually his nerves got to him. Caleb needed to keep moving. Logically he needed to just stay in one spot, and hopefully he would do that overnight when navigation was more difficult. It was just difficult. He was probably going to die here, and part of him just wanted to fling himself off the rail of a ship at the edge of the flotilla and see if they would really pop his collar if he tried to swim away.
He wouldn't do that yet. He was going to check out the yacht first.
As he walked onto the deck, he couldn't hear his footsteps over the sounds of the ocean. That had to be a good sign. Either he was good at keeping quiet, or the ocean was loud enough to let him get away with being louder than normal.
He loved the ocean.
Instead of trying to go inside, Caleb stood with his elbows resting on the railing and looked out at the water. He had found the edge of everyone's cage. He could climb over the rail and try to pull a Titanic. Caleb wasn't going to though. There was no young Leonardo Dicaprio there to pull him back. Hell, for someone like him, most people would be content to just let him fall.
He sighed.