The corpse of Katie Williams was lying on the doorstep of the Warehouse, having been dead for three days already. The island was full of corpses like hers, a couple more having joined her fate the night before. The numbers were winding down, only six students remained.
The half dozen had been informed about where the final battle would take place through the loudspeakers. A final showdown in the old warehouse where Katie had died days ago.
The dawn of the seventh day was approaching. The last contestants were slowly moving towards Endgame.
SOTF: Endgame
Game Thread
-
Sh4dE
- Posts: 736
- Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2018 8:27 pm
- Location: Whittree, Oklahoma
- Team Affiliation: Claudia's Krakens
SOTF: Endgame
I'm so glad to be back !
A girl once loved Katie Williams.
Dominique Lovelle sat at the foot of the warehouse stairs, running the flat of her blade over her only good thumb, cleaning away a dark mark she'd been unable to move since she found it. She hadn't had the courage to turn it to the side, relive the pain, as much as anyone would agree she deserved it. She knew it would hurt too much, and as everyone could tell, Dominique did not like being hurt.
Katie knew that as well. Look where she was now.
Look where all of the people who tried to hurt Dominique were now. They'd discovered quicker than anyone that as much as Dominique did not like pain, she had no misgivings about handing it out to anyone who tried to cross her. Katie tried to be brave, tried to put a "stop" to her, despite it all, despite the seven months of the best time of their lives. Everything just turned to custard from there.
Dominique's neck craned down, her eyes peering through the slit in the wall. She couldn't see anybody approaching from that side. They could still be, though. The lighting was shit, here. Maybe Katie's body could keep them away. But that wasn't going to happen. The other people, the ones who remained, they weren't like the weaklings and cowards who tried too hard and too fast in the first days.
She'd heard what they'd done. They terrified her more than she terrified herself. As much as she wanted to live, as much as she wanted to doll out all the pain she'd felt tenfold, she was afraid of all of them.
But despite it all, despite the thorned path she'd trampled down, perhaps she could find a way. Maybe they could talk it out, throw a flash of empathy in for the people around them. Maybe they could capture a moment free, a moment unheard of, before it all became inevitable.
When it went that way, though, it wasn't going to be Dominique who felt it. She pulled her legs together, knees tabled in front of her. Behind them, taped onto the underside of the second step, was the Kimber Micro from the night before. It used to be Pavel's. It had a new purpose now.
Dominique Lovelle sat at the foot of the warehouse stairs, running the flat of her blade over her only good thumb, cleaning away a dark mark she'd been unable to move since she found it. She hadn't had the courage to turn it to the side, relive the pain, as much as anyone would agree she deserved it. She knew it would hurt too much, and as everyone could tell, Dominique did not like being hurt.
Katie knew that as well. Look where she was now.
Look where all of the people who tried to hurt Dominique were now. They'd discovered quicker than anyone that as much as Dominique did not like pain, she had no misgivings about handing it out to anyone who tried to cross her. Katie tried to be brave, tried to put a "stop" to her, despite it all, despite the seven months of the best time of their lives. Everything just turned to custard from there.
Dominique's neck craned down, her eyes peering through the slit in the wall. She couldn't see anybody approaching from that side. They could still be, though. The lighting was shit, here. Maybe Katie's body could keep them away. But that wasn't going to happen. The other people, the ones who remained, they weren't like the weaklings and cowards who tried too hard and too fast in the first days.
She'd heard what they'd done. They terrified her more than she terrified herself. As much as she wanted to live, as much as she wanted to doll out all the pain she'd felt tenfold, she was afraid of all of them.
But despite it all, despite the thorned path she'd trampled down, perhaps she could find a way. Maybe they could talk it out, throw a flash of empathy in for the people around them. Maybe they could capture a moment free, a moment unheard of, before it all became inevitable.
When it went that way, though, it wasn't going to be Dominique who felt it. She pulled her legs together, knees tabled in front of her. Behind them, taped onto the underside of the second step, was the Kimber Micro from the night before. It used to be Pavel's. It had a new purpose now.
((Marco Romano continued from Map of the Problematique))
Marco found himself slumped back against a wall, still nursing the bruises left by his encounter with Brucie the previous evening.
He still couldn't believe that the bastard forced his hand, that after everything they had been through together he'd try and pull a fast one on him right before the end. Oh well, was going to happen at some point anyway, any chance he'd had of making it off the island without getting his hands any dirtier died with Alicia back at the abandoned mall.
He'd rummage through the pockets of his leather jacket, finding the beaten up packet of cigarettes that had kept him going those past several days. Only two smokes left. Well, one now, with the other already lit and dangling from his mouth as he gazed up at the approaching dawn.
He thought back on all the events that had led him to this point. How he and Johnny had been chatting about their plans to go to London together mere days before the kidnapping. How relieved he was when he finally managed to find Johnny amidst all the chaos and bloodshed. How devastated he was when Johnny bled out in his arms.
Marco would reach back into his jacket pocket, tugging out a red bandanna that was all he had to remember Johnny by. He'd hold back those tears for now, they could wait until after he was done. With a deep breath he would grip the bandanna tightly before tying it around his forehead, a grim look of determination in his eyes. He had to win this thing, had to make it off the island. For Alicia. For Timothy. For Johnny. He was the only one left. He couldn't let them down now, not when he was this close to the end.
He'd open up his bag and do one last check-up of what he had left at his disposal: His trusty Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun, with 17 shells remaining. A schofield revolver with three rounds left, a serrated trench knife, two flashbangs, a bottle of vodka and one last smoke.
"In bocca al lupo..." he'd whisper under his breath before cocking his shotgun, slowly getting up and making his way into the warehouse via the backdoor.
Marco found himself slumped back against a wall, still nursing the bruises left by his encounter with Brucie the previous evening.
He still couldn't believe that the bastard forced his hand, that after everything they had been through together he'd try and pull a fast one on him right before the end. Oh well, was going to happen at some point anyway, any chance he'd had of making it off the island without getting his hands any dirtier died with Alicia back at the abandoned mall.
He'd rummage through the pockets of his leather jacket, finding the beaten up packet of cigarettes that had kept him going those past several days. Only two smokes left. Well, one now, with the other already lit and dangling from his mouth as he gazed up at the approaching dawn.
He thought back on all the events that had led him to this point. How he and Johnny had been chatting about their plans to go to London together mere days before the kidnapping. How relieved he was when he finally managed to find Johnny amidst all the chaos and bloodshed. How devastated he was when Johnny bled out in his arms.
Marco would reach back into his jacket pocket, tugging out a red bandanna that was all he had to remember Johnny by. He'd hold back those tears for now, they could wait until after he was done. With a deep breath he would grip the bandanna tightly before tying it around his forehead, a grim look of determination in his eyes. He had to win this thing, had to make it off the island. For Alicia. For Timothy. For Johnny. He was the only one left. He couldn't let them down now, not when he was this close to the end.
He'd open up his bag and do one last check-up of what he had left at his disposal: His trusty Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun, with 17 shells remaining. A schofield revolver with three rounds left, a serrated trench knife, two flashbangs, a bottle of vodka and one last smoke.
"In bocca al lupo..." he'd whisper under his breath before cocking his shotgun, slowly getting up and making his way into the warehouse via the backdoor.
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
-
almostinhuman
- Posts: 647
- Joined: Sun Jul 12, 2020 7:06 pm
Monika hadn't needed to come to the warehouse. She'd never left it. Not after what happened to Jackie.
His body was across the office, slumped on the wall with eyes half-open, his abdomen a bloody ruin from the weapon that killed him. She was on the opposite side of the room, sitting with back against the wall next to the door. She'd barely moved since it happened. With him died everything she'd worked to do. With his death, the deaths of thirteen of their classmates were rendered pointless. It left her as little more than a murderous lunatic, engaging in pointless bloodshed, cutting short innocent lives. She'd done it for him, at first, but now she'd done it for no reason at all. Maybe she'd never had a good reason to begin with.
The announcements told her it would be over soon. The area designated for their last little showdown just-so-happened to include the room she'd holed up in. Good. She wasn't leaving if she could help it. Not like there was any sense in winning this shitshow.
She peered out the window into the warehouse proper, careful to reveal as little of herself as possible. She wasn't entirely sure what to expect from whoever had made it this far. All she knew was they'd soon all be in the warehouse with her. Perhaps SHE was among them. The girl who'd fucked everything up, the bitch who'd killed her fucking brother. Some small, savage part of her was excited at the notion; the idea that she could find her and make sure she didn't get away this time.
The rest of her no longer cared. It no longer really mattered who won this shit, after all. Monika certainly wasn't going to.
His body was across the office, slumped on the wall with eyes half-open, his abdomen a bloody ruin from the weapon that killed him. She was on the opposite side of the room, sitting with back against the wall next to the door. She'd barely moved since it happened. With him died everything she'd worked to do. With his death, the deaths of thirteen of their classmates were rendered pointless. It left her as little more than a murderous lunatic, engaging in pointless bloodshed, cutting short innocent lives. She'd done it for him, at first, but now she'd done it for no reason at all. Maybe she'd never had a good reason to begin with.
The announcements told her it would be over soon. The area designated for their last little showdown just-so-happened to include the room she'd holed up in. Good. She wasn't leaving if she could help it. Not like there was any sense in winning this shitshow.
She peered out the window into the warehouse proper, careful to reveal as little of herself as possible. She wasn't entirely sure what to expect from whoever had made it this far. All she knew was they'd soon all be in the warehouse with her. Perhaps SHE was among them. The girl who'd fucked everything up, the bitch who'd killed her fucking brother. Some small, savage part of her was excited at the notion; the idea that she could find her and make sure she didn't get away this time.
The rest of her no longer cared. It no longer really mattered who won this shit, after all. Monika certainly wasn't going to.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
((Tillie Fletcher continued from The Whale And The Whaler))
If Justin was still alive, he would've told Tillie she looked straight out of a zombie movie, and not as one of the survivors, either. Her pale pink sundress, which fell to a few inches above her knees, was covered with bloodstains that could've almost passed for some irregular polka dot pattern from a distance, and there were little rips on the sides, and the left spaghetti strap had been tied back together. The sweater she'd worn over it for dress code compliance on the bus was long gone, along with the boy she'd lent it to, and just about everyone else she knew besides. Her Converses had been a cheerful yellow, but now they were mud-brown, and the left one's laces had been replaced with rough twine, because that's all that seemed to be lying around the warehouse. Her pink and white striped knee socks were also grubby and torn and bloody, and they kept slipping down.
And, of course, Tillie herself was even worse for the wear. Her curly blond hair was held in a tight ponytail, and the last time she'd tried to run her hand through it, two days ago, she hadn't been able to pull through the knots. It had been maybe a day before that that she last managed to sleep for even an hour, and her eyes were bloodshot and baggy. Her arms and legs were covered with bruises and scratches, from fights and from first running and then tumbling down the overgrown hillside back when it all went wrong, and she hadn't even bothered to bandage anything a quarter inch or smaller after the third day. The scalp wound had finally stopped bleeding, but there was blood crusted over her right eye and she didn't dare pick at it for fear of starting it all up again.
The pale purple polish on her fingernails was chipped, except for her left ring finger, where it was absent along with everything else above the top knuckle. It was better than the middle joint, though; try as she might, she couldn't shake the image of the jagged ends of the broken bone, flesh stripped away except for a few scraps of muscle. That was all hidden under a thick swaddling of gauze, and she was almost grateful for the pain, because it pulled her back when nothing else would.
She would've been worried about just keeling over dead if she didn't know that there were others here even worse off than she was.
She'd actually sort of been starting to hope that particular piece of unfinished business could become somebody else's problem. Violence didn't come naturally to Tillie—Maggie aside, she'd fucked up just about every time she tried, even when it should've been sure. What happened with Monika and Jackie made that crystal clear, and Jason was something else. Maybe he really couldn't be stopped. But if she couldn't pass the buck, she might have to try, since the third time had very much not been the charm.
Tillie had the pistol still, in her bag, full up and with the last magazine ready for reloading, and the sword strapped to her waist by a belt she'd taken from a boy who didn't need it anymore. She couldn't even remember who it'd been. She couldn't remember what Justin had called the sword, either—it was a word she hadn't been familiar with, "wakizaki" or something. She'd called it the baby katana, when she could still make jokes with Justin and Emma, but now it was just the sword, gummy with the wrong person's blood.
After being reminded of where she stood in the pecking order, she was in no hurry to charge in, and so she was hanging around the side of the warehouse, between the stacks of crates and the chain-link fence, in a little dry patch of cement where there weren't any bodies within view. It might've been the last place so relatively clear.
A day or two ago, Tillie would've been roaring to go, but a day or two ago there'd been so many people left. The stakes hadn't changed, but still it had felt like a lot less to lose.
That first morning, when they'd talked about what it might look like at the end, Tillie had said she couldn't imagine her entire class dying just so she could stay alive. She kind of still couldn't, but after everything she'd been through? Five people dying so she could live wasn't a very big ask. Especially when most of these five had it coming. With two names behind hers, Tillie was just about a goddamn pacifist by comparison.
She let her bag fall to the ground, unzipped it, took out a bottle of water and took two big gulps. She sniffed at a strange smell on the air. Was that smoke? Moving quicker, she tossed the bread and crackers, dumped the bullets for the rifle she'd given Martin, shoveled all the first aid gear that wouldn't be of split-second life-saving significance out. Who even worried about foot fungus at a time like this? At the end, all she had was the pistol and the magazine, a bunch of bandages and antiseptic, two bottles of water, and a set of keys with a smiling little anime character dangling from them. She lifted this last item, got ready to toss it, then just put it back in the bag.
Finally, Tillie stood up and moved closer to the building, steps soft. She held the pistol in her good hand, and let the thumb of her left run over the hilt of the sword. She didn't relish this, she promised herself. It was just what had to happen now. Best if the maniacs tore each other apart, but as she'd seen time and again, there was no counting on that coming to pass.
If Justin was still alive, he would've told Tillie she looked straight out of a zombie movie, and not as one of the survivors, either. Her pale pink sundress, which fell to a few inches above her knees, was covered with bloodstains that could've almost passed for some irregular polka dot pattern from a distance, and there were little rips on the sides, and the left spaghetti strap had been tied back together. The sweater she'd worn over it for dress code compliance on the bus was long gone, along with the boy she'd lent it to, and just about everyone else she knew besides. Her Converses had been a cheerful yellow, but now they were mud-brown, and the left one's laces had been replaced with rough twine, because that's all that seemed to be lying around the warehouse. Her pink and white striped knee socks were also grubby and torn and bloody, and they kept slipping down.
And, of course, Tillie herself was even worse for the wear. Her curly blond hair was held in a tight ponytail, and the last time she'd tried to run her hand through it, two days ago, she hadn't been able to pull through the knots. It had been maybe a day before that that she last managed to sleep for even an hour, and her eyes were bloodshot and baggy. Her arms and legs were covered with bruises and scratches, from fights and from first running and then tumbling down the overgrown hillside back when it all went wrong, and she hadn't even bothered to bandage anything a quarter inch or smaller after the third day. The scalp wound had finally stopped bleeding, but there was blood crusted over her right eye and she didn't dare pick at it for fear of starting it all up again.
The pale purple polish on her fingernails was chipped, except for her left ring finger, where it was absent along with everything else above the top knuckle. It was better than the middle joint, though; try as she might, she couldn't shake the image of the jagged ends of the broken bone, flesh stripped away except for a few scraps of muscle. That was all hidden under a thick swaddling of gauze, and she was almost grateful for the pain, because it pulled her back when nothing else would.
She would've been worried about just keeling over dead if she didn't know that there were others here even worse off than she was.
She'd actually sort of been starting to hope that particular piece of unfinished business could become somebody else's problem. Violence didn't come naturally to Tillie—Maggie aside, she'd fucked up just about every time she tried, even when it should've been sure. What happened with Monika and Jackie made that crystal clear, and Jason was something else. Maybe he really couldn't be stopped. But if she couldn't pass the buck, she might have to try, since the third time had very much not been the charm.
Tillie had the pistol still, in her bag, full up and with the last magazine ready for reloading, and the sword strapped to her waist by a belt she'd taken from a boy who didn't need it anymore. She couldn't even remember who it'd been. She couldn't remember what Justin had called the sword, either—it was a word she hadn't been familiar with, "wakizaki" or something. She'd called it the baby katana, when she could still make jokes with Justin and Emma, but now it was just the sword, gummy with the wrong person's blood.
After being reminded of where she stood in the pecking order, she was in no hurry to charge in, and so she was hanging around the side of the warehouse, between the stacks of crates and the chain-link fence, in a little dry patch of cement where there weren't any bodies within view. It might've been the last place so relatively clear.
A day or two ago, Tillie would've been roaring to go, but a day or two ago there'd been so many people left. The stakes hadn't changed, but still it had felt like a lot less to lose.
That first morning, when they'd talked about what it might look like at the end, Tillie had said she couldn't imagine her entire class dying just so she could stay alive. She kind of still couldn't, but after everything she'd been through? Five people dying so she could live wasn't a very big ask. Especially when most of these five had it coming. With two names behind hers, Tillie was just about a goddamn pacifist by comparison.
She let her bag fall to the ground, unzipped it, took out a bottle of water and took two big gulps. She sniffed at a strange smell on the air. Was that smoke? Moving quicker, she tossed the bread and crackers, dumped the bullets for the rifle she'd given Martin, shoveled all the first aid gear that wouldn't be of split-second life-saving significance out. Who even worried about foot fungus at a time like this? At the end, all she had was the pistol and the magazine, a bunch of bandages and antiseptic, two bottles of water, and a set of keys with a smiling little anime character dangling from them. She lifted this last item, got ready to toss it, then just put it back in the bag.
Finally, Tillie stood up and moved closer to the building, steps soft. She held the pistol in her good hand, and let the thumb of her left run over the hilt of the sword. She didn't relish this, she promised herself. It was just what had to happen now. Best if the maniacs tore each other apart, but as she'd seen time and again, there was no counting on that coming to pass.
There was no point in trying anymore, but pointlessness was a common denominator of the human experience.
The corpse laid on the ground, festering in rot.
The corpse laid on the ground, festering in rot.
-
DerArknight
- Posts: 684
- Joined: Thu Feb 18, 2021 9:47 pm
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
For some reason, she had brought Melissa II with her after all.
((Sarah Williams continued from Swansong))
There was no reason why Sarah was holding onto the guitar that was nothing like her beloved Melissa at home. Especially now that her throat was hoarse from her stunt last night. Was this what they called self-destructive behavior?
It didn't matter. She had chosen her path days ago. Both of them had.
Walking along the coastline, Sarah saw the back of the warehouse slowly becoming bigger. It was the first time she would visit this place again since Daniel's group ambushed her. Not one of her fondest memories.
She found herself coming to a stop to take in the scenery. If she looked to her left, Sarah could see many other placed of the island in the distance. Some she had spent too much time in. Some she might have been better off never visiting. Now all of them were closed off to her by an invisible leash. She found herself wondering what the terrorists would do once the game wrapped up. Would they burn down the entire island to destroy all evidence? Or only take care of the bodies and cameras?
Unsatisfied by Sarah's rest barely fifty meters before the destination, her collar gave off a warning beep. In fact, it was the second time she heard a collar beeping. The first had been during the starting hours, when that fool Miguel decided to prove that everything was "just a shitty prank" by smashing a camera.
Not wanting to end up like her classmate, Sarah resumed walking, at a brisker pace than earlier. The dirt dug into her bare feet while the sunlight felt cold against her skin. Every pore of her body was disgusted by the place Sarah would enter.
She didn't even think about stopping.
While Melissa II was slung around her, Sarah was holding the crossbow that had saved her life exactly zero times during the last six days. After all, the machete resting in her DIY-scabbard had been disturbingly effective so far.
Sarah doubted it would prove good enough to get five more people armed with actual weapons. But she was fine with that. There was only one person deserving of her contempt. The other survivors were players as well, but Sarah had long abandoned her mission, her stupid excuse to pretend she was doing something productive. In the end, the only thing left for her was to finish her personal business.
Dominique Lovelle would die today.
((Sarah Williams continued from Swansong))
There was no reason why Sarah was holding onto the guitar that was nothing like her beloved Melissa at home. Especially now that her throat was hoarse from her stunt last night. Was this what they called self-destructive behavior?
It didn't matter. She had chosen her path days ago. Both of them had.
Walking along the coastline, Sarah saw the back of the warehouse slowly becoming bigger. It was the first time she would visit this place again since Daniel's group ambushed her. Not one of her fondest memories.
She found herself coming to a stop to take in the scenery. If she looked to her left, Sarah could see many other placed of the island in the distance. Some she had spent too much time in. Some she might have been better off never visiting. Now all of them were closed off to her by an invisible leash. She found herself wondering what the terrorists would do once the game wrapped up. Would they burn down the entire island to destroy all evidence? Or only take care of the bodies and cameras?
Unsatisfied by Sarah's rest barely fifty meters before the destination, her collar gave off a warning beep. In fact, it was the second time she heard a collar beeping. The first had been during the starting hours, when that fool Miguel decided to prove that everything was "just a shitty prank" by smashing a camera.
Not wanting to end up like her classmate, Sarah resumed walking, at a brisker pace than earlier. The dirt dug into her bare feet while the sunlight felt cold against her skin. Every pore of her body was disgusted by the place Sarah would enter.
She didn't even think about stopping.
While Melissa II was slung around her, Sarah was holding the crossbow that had saved her life exactly zero times during the last six days. After all, the machete resting in her DIY-scabbard had been disturbingly effective so far.
Sarah doubted it would prove good enough to get five more people armed with actual weapons. But she was fine with that. There was only one person deserving of her contempt. The other survivors were players as well, but Sarah had long abandoned her mission, her stupid excuse to pretend she was doing something productive. In the end, the only thing left for her was to finish her personal business.
Dominique Lovelle would die today.