P13: Catarina Markovitz - START
Ever since the tablet, she'd been in a state of shock. Too scared to yell before the boy got beat, too stunned to move when the premise was explained, astonished when she saw her fake face on Instagram, and gutted from the core when the monster appeared. In fact, there was a brief period of minutes where she assumed she was having some sort of strange, lucid dream where everything was just too real. She'd been so bored on this trip, refusing to interact with people so dull yet so convinced of their own importance, so longing for her own family and the lifestyle to which she'd become accustomed, that her brain had decided to get freaky with her. Make some shit up - wouldn't it be radical to have to fight your way out of this, fight monsters, get back home a hero? Who wouldn't want that? Wasn't it the dream of every red-blooded American to want to become a hero, to save everyone?
Except, well, obviously it wasn't, because as it turns out she didn't dream that way. Because things got weird - suddenly, she was back at that party. You know the one, the one where they were raising money for...Firemen Without Calendars? And Serena had gotten rude with her, backed up by her vile friend Sarah, and thought she was funny. Oh isn't it just amazing how much we all care about these Firemen, that we all donated at least ten thousand dollars to this? These firemen will love these calendars, how much did you donated Cat? Oh, only eight thousand? Don't you care about the firemen, Cat? Are you seriously going to let them go without abs when so many Americans have abs? And then Catarina pulled out her laser sword and charged, but Serena was too fast - suddenly, Serena's green sword clashed with Catarina's blue, and the floor was cleared. Sarah held out her hand, and the lightning shot forward, annihilating the mayor's wife on its way to her. Catarina jumped out of the way, and kicked the air, sending a hurricane towards Senator Inslee who had just grown six extra arms, each with their own broadsword. It jumped towards Sarah and swung her into its arms, and suddenly the bells chimed and the rice flew through the air, and Roger was shaking his head at her - how could you do this, Catarina? At their wedding? You promised you wouldn't make a scene, you promised our children! Ganesha will never let us come to another event now! Is this what you wanted? Is it!?
Her lashes made their parabolic arch, and the wedding between Sarah Gunvalson and Hindu God Ganesha was replaced with the side of a building. She felt the lack of sway beneath her body, which confirmed she was on land, no longer on the ship which had been her home for this trip. The air was a different kind of cold - there was a lack of salt to it. It wasn't the same cold, and was in fact the second new kind of cold she'd experience on this trip. It was dry, like San Diego at night but going into every pore.
Catarina sat up, and saw the duffel bag, sitting schlumped beside her own suitcase. Her hand instinctively went towards it, and that's when she felt the weight of the device on her wrist. It lay there, hanging in the air, frozen like the tip of her nose.
Almost instinctively, Catarina stood up, and took one of each in her hands. She walked. She only made it a few yards before she sat down, at the bottom of a cold metal slide in the playground she'd found herself in.
Her head hung in her hands for a few moments, the bags slipping from her fingers to the ground.
And then, she began to scream.
What the fuck? What the FUCK was this?! What the fuck was GOING ON?!? Something had to come through in the brief pause between each prolongued wail, but no. She could only process everything backwards.
Why the fuck was she sitting in some dingy playground in the fucking cold?
What the FUCK were those THINGS she'd seen devour her favourite professor?
Why the FUCK was her favorite professor dead? Peter Harrison did NOTHING to deserve this!
And who the FUCK did these people think they were they could EVER pay her enough money to keep her quiet once she got out of this? The moment she left, every cent of her life was going towards destroying these people, no matter what!
With that, Catarina supposed she had some answers. But that didn't stop the screaming.
With everything that came through her head, like the fact that she had been kidnapped by a mad science organization that had put her and other students at the University into a death game with monsters and only one could live, and even if she died her family would think she simply died in some sort of plane crash. Her mind went straight to them, oh god they couldn't even stop thinking of them even when she tried to stray beyond each scream. Her kids, the loves of her life, Bernard and Joseph, would attend the funeral of some fucking corpse that had been given her surgery, and probably not even good surgery. Wait, would they know? They had to know, right? Doctors were amazing, science was advancing - there was no way that whatever corpse they got to replace her would have as much surgery as she had. She'd had procedures she hadn't even told her main two doctors about - she had a butt lift back before they got expensive, there's no way these stupid scientists would have known about that. The'y have to check her corpse for that, they'd know something was up - she was important!
But her mind went to Roger, oh Roger - if he didn't know something was up, what was he going to do? He was barely even a part of the family when she wasn't a student, what use was he going to be to their children now? He couldn't even make lunch, Catarina had at least had the chef teach her how to do that for their kids. What was he going to do, marry someone younger? Oh god, he would, wouldn't he? He'd pick up a new trophy wife and get her to replace the mother of their children.
The screams from Catarina's throat went from terror to pain. What the fuck was her marriage now? She was dead, she was going to be replaced. The pain became real, and not just because she'd been screaming for so hard and so long in the bitter air that she'd started to strain her throat. She hadn't even gotten to the fact she didn't even know who half of the people she'd shared a boat with were, and how she couldn't even think of a reason why they'd spare her life if they wanted to kill her, before she was in too much pain to keep screaming. Every attempt at a swallowing of the spit that had flown up her throat burned and stung, wincing a face that had been built unable to be winced. She attempted to breath, taking in long, ragged gasps.
Her hands clenched the cold, dark mud that had once held children's footprints. Her eyes clenched, and she attempted to breath normally. She could feel a wheeze eminate from what had been a loud siren before.
She had officially screamed herself hoarse.
Everybody Needs a Switzerland
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Dr Adjective
- Posts: 139
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[Wake up, Esther]
It should’ve been obvious to her already, but Esther really should’ve tried sedatives before. All else aside, she’d had some of the best sleep she’d had in months courtesy of the corporate goon squad’s knockout drug.
As for the all else being put aside, things were pretty shit. It had been already been obvious to her that she shouldn’t trust Janus-Hayes, that’s why she hadn’t used their wifi, hadn’t taken their pills, had barely even eaten the food or drank the water. But she hadn’t anticipated the absolute depths of their villainy. No, she tended to be skeptical of the sorts of extraordinary claims people made about this sort of thing, after all, how would such a huge thing be totally covered up (save for the flimsy “evidence” promoted by cranks)? She liked her conspiracies simple and plausible: the rich were out to get them, sure, but in banal ways. Boring ways. Maybe if she just kept lying where she was, left her eyes closed, she could keep on believing that. Believing what she’d seen not long prior had been some kind of bad trip or a regular old nightmare. That she’d open her eyes and find herself in a much more mundane evil megacorporate violation of her rights.
Unfortunately, two things argued strongly against that. Exhibit A: she remembered it all pretty clearly, far moreso than any dream. Exhibit B: someone was screaming.
So Esther opened her eyes again.
The first realisation she made was that she was wrapped up in something. A brief spike of panic rose, then fell as she identified her bonds as a simple sleeping bag. That explained why her face was cold but the rest of her was almost uncomfortably warm. Fumbling about inside, she eventually managed to unzip herself, and stepped out into the cold. The screaming continued.
So. On a deserted arctic island. She’d just watched three people get absolutely annihilated by a monster out of a sci-fi movie. She almost didn’t believe the footage, but something about it had rung true. Esther rolled up the sleeping bag, and stowed it in the duffel bag she’d been provided with.
The rules. They were stuck here for at least two weeks, unless they died first. Only one ticket home. But between the elements and the fucking abominations the scientists were letting loose, Esther figured her fellow humans would be the least of her worries. She looked through the other contents of the bag, taking particular notice of the aged looking gun.
Maybe if she just kept a level head and refused to dwell on what was happening, she could stay functional, stave off the dread of her imminent death. The continued screaming wasn’t helping. Esther fished her bear hat out of her pocket and pulled it snugly onto her head. The fluffy material felt nice over her cold ears. Next she took the gun out of the bag, inserted the large drum magazine, zipped the bag back up and slung it over her shoulder. Uncomfortably heavy. Like that weight of dread she was trying to ignore. Hard to do with screams still filling the air.
Esther didn’t imagine she’d need most of her own belongings for the near future, but having spare clothes to change into seemed like a good idea, so she dragged her suitcase along behind her as she homed in on the other person’s voice. Gun in one hand, suitcase in the other. Like some kind of bad joke about American tourists. The woman had stopped before Esther reached her, but it didn’t take too much longer to figure out that she was in the playground up ahead.
And so, not particularly sensitive to how she’d sound or look rolling up armed and dangerous without warning, Esther called across to the figure crouched down on the ground.
“Hey, shut the fuck up, you wanna fuckin’ die or what?”
It should’ve been obvious to her already, but Esther really should’ve tried sedatives before. All else aside, she’d had some of the best sleep she’d had in months courtesy of the corporate goon squad’s knockout drug.
As for the all else being put aside, things were pretty shit. It had been already been obvious to her that she shouldn’t trust Janus-Hayes, that’s why she hadn’t used their wifi, hadn’t taken their pills, had barely even eaten the food or drank the water. But she hadn’t anticipated the absolute depths of their villainy. No, she tended to be skeptical of the sorts of extraordinary claims people made about this sort of thing, after all, how would such a huge thing be totally covered up (save for the flimsy “evidence” promoted by cranks)? She liked her conspiracies simple and plausible: the rich were out to get them, sure, but in banal ways. Boring ways. Maybe if she just kept lying where she was, left her eyes closed, she could keep on believing that. Believing what she’d seen not long prior had been some kind of bad trip or a regular old nightmare. That she’d open her eyes and find herself in a much more mundane evil megacorporate violation of her rights.
Unfortunately, two things argued strongly against that. Exhibit A: she remembered it all pretty clearly, far moreso than any dream. Exhibit B: someone was screaming.
So Esther opened her eyes again.
The first realisation she made was that she was wrapped up in something. A brief spike of panic rose, then fell as she identified her bonds as a simple sleeping bag. That explained why her face was cold but the rest of her was almost uncomfortably warm. Fumbling about inside, she eventually managed to unzip herself, and stepped out into the cold. The screaming continued.
So. On a deserted arctic island. She’d just watched three people get absolutely annihilated by a monster out of a sci-fi movie. She almost didn’t believe the footage, but something about it had rung true. Esther rolled up the sleeping bag, and stowed it in the duffel bag she’d been provided with.
The rules. They were stuck here for at least two weeks, unless they died first. Only one ticket home. But between the elements and the fucking abominations the scientists were letting loose, Esther figured her fellow humans would be the least of her worries. She looked through the other contents of the bag, taking particular notice of the aged looking gun.
Maybe if she just kept a level head and refused to dwell on what was happening, she could stay functional, stave off the dread of her imminent death. The continued screaming wasn’t helping. Esther fished her bear hat out of her pocket and pulled it snugly onto her head. The fluffy material felt nice over her cold ears. Next she took the gun out of the bag, inserted the large drum magazine, zipped the bag back up and slung it over her shoulder. Uncomfortably heavy. Like that weight of dread she was trying to ignore. Hard to do with screams still filling the air.
Esther didn’t imagine she’d need most of her own belongings for the near future, but having spare clothes to change into seemed like a good idea, so she dragged her suitcase along behind her as she homed in on the other person’s voice. Gun in one hand, suitcase in the other. Like some kind of bad joke about American tourists. The woman had stopped before Esther reached her, but it didn’t take too much longer to figure out that she was in the playground up ahead.
And so, not particularly sensitive to how she’d sound or look rolling up armed and dangerous without warning, Esther called across to the figure crouched down on the ground.
“Hey, shut the fuck up, you wanna fuckin’ die or what?”
SOTF: U
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One:
-> Step Two: 
-> Step Three: 
-> Step Four: 
-> Step Five: 
-> Step Six: 
-> †
One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One:
-> Step Two: 
-> Step Three: 
-> Step Four: 
-> Step Five: 
-> Step Six: 
-> †One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
You've seen worse. All these years of engaging in death and gore and the worst that humanity could offer, organ traffickers and drug cartels and suicidal teenaged girls on your screen, it's not really paid off, per se, but there was at least some comfort that you knew what it looks like, that you've seen worse. You've always seen worse. You kind of prided yourself on that, for a while, on being the edgiest motherfucker in the room. Like, ooo, look at me, I've seen child gore pics online, I've sent them to kids, oooo I'm so sociopathic and evil!!! But nowadays you kind of just accept that people can be worse than you, and that you're not uniquely horrible, just somewhat horrible. Just somewhat.
So in a way this kind of victimizing that you've been subjected to was an odd breath of fresh air. Of course, everything else still sucked.
But there was comfort in that. All options being closed means you can just sit there and accept it. Like, you were always going to die, right? In your teenage years, you thought that it might've been by your own hand. You've spent a while thinking about that. Talking about that, to people who either thought you were joking, or didn't care.
It's been a while since that sort of helplessness rushed back at you- that feeling of not really being cornered, but being in an empty space where nowhere you go ever really mattered and there was also nothing there, and so you weren't stuck, you were just aware that all actions were meaningless.
This was also, you realized, something that you've fantasized about, once or twice, the messed up what-ifs that liked to sneak into a teenager's head. You were really into death games before. Danganronpa. TWEwY. More recently, YTtD. You thought about what would happen if you were stuck in that situation. It was a power fantasy at first- you'd survive, because of course you could. You were the author and the mind behind the acts and you were the pseudo god within your head that controlled it all. Why wouldn't you make yourself win? But then you thought about it seriously, just for an hour or two, really laying down and typing it all out and you kind of realized, deep down in some painful way, that maybe, just maybe, this could happen to you. So you prepared yourself- in a cringy, naive, fifteen year old way, of course. With a lot of edgy internet threads about murder. Youtube comments on nightcore videos with yandere girls plastered on top, larpers below talking about fake and/or unobtainable boys they'd kill for. You thought about how they'd mourn you if they dug your body up. or if they didn't, if they couldn't find a trace, if they'd cling on to the hope, or they'll forget about you, resigned. They, of course, refer to your parents who at the time you thought didn't care about you as much as they actually did, and also your internet friends who you thought cared a lot more about you than they actually did. You had mixed priorities.
It's useless, anyhow. All of it. A walking time bomb with a low half-life called Tahsin Demir, with no choice on its own, existed. It was calm, or at least calmer than it had any right to be. It was holding a nail gun. It was crying, or at least trying to, but for some reason the tears wouldn't come out.
Contrary to what people thought, the explanation for our ecologically ruinous behavior was simple. It was greed. And the belief of invincibility- it's not that bad today, so we can still hope for a brighter tomorrow. We dump our landfills full of waste that would take centuries sitting there, breaking down into little parts, and on the next day we'll drive there and dump our garbage there again. And again. And again. And corporations will continue to pump out noxious gas out of their factories, because the pros were just too great, and the cons too far away to us. What's a decade later's weather against a million dollars today?
Dr. Sycamore was wrong. Gravely, stupidly, irresponsibly wrong. There was no need to put people with too many confounding variables onto a desolate waste and tell them to kill each other. There was no need to fake social media posts, to breed mutant animals with video game antagonist titles, no need for any of that. There was simply a requirement, if we want this planet to live, to take a look inside the most selfish, horrible parts of ourselves, and accept our recklessness, our need to burn fossil fuels like an addict does crack, our blatant inhumanity when faced with something in such a cataclysmic scale, and how to translate that against our kindness for the individual, our fear of consequences. And if everybody, including, no, especially Sycamore stopped and did that and took a good, hard look inside themselves, they'd realize that all that death was just for naught.
Not like privileged men driven by their own overinflated egos would know, anyways.
She tapped the nailgun against her leg. There were people who could, maybe, with an astronomically small chance, be victims of her, but undoubtedly victims of everything else, and that made her feel bad enough that she didn’t really want to hurt them more than they’ve been hurt so far. She looked at them for a good, hard second. She didn't recognize the names, not from this far. Neither were Misha. So it didn’t really matter. Panic takes a while to set in. For a while, the mind blocks it out- if death hasn’t come yet, if you’re still alive, then sure, you can die tomorrow, but you’re alive right now. That’s how it works? She wasn’t thinking that much about that. She was thinking about how she might die. There was also someone else, who she cared about less because she wasn’t really screaming, and she tended to pay more attention to bright and loud things.
Tess simply coughed, and waited for them to react. It was fine if they didn't. Preferable, even. Actually, she wasn’t sure why she even did that.
So in a way this kind of victimizing that you've been subjected to was an odd breath of fresh air. Of course, everything else still sucked.
But there was comfort in that. All options being closed means you can just sit there and accept it. Like, you were always going to die, right? In your teenage years, you thought that it might've been by your own hand. You've spent a while thinking about that. Talking about that, to people who either thought you were joking, or didn't care.
It's been a while since that sort of helplessness rushed back at you- that feeling of not really being cornered, but being in an empty space where nowhere you go ever really mattered and there was also nothing there, and so you weren't stuck, you were just aware that all actions were meaningless.
This was also, you realized, something that you've fantasized about, once or twice, the messed up what-ifs that liked to sneak into a teenager's head. You were really into death games before. Danganronpa. TWEwY. More recently, YTtD. You thought about what would happen if you were stuck in that situation. It was a power fantasy at first- you'd survive, because of course you could. You were the author and the mind behind the acts and you were the pseudo god within your head that controlled it all. Why wouldn't you make yourself win? But then you thought about it seriously, just for an hour or two, really laying down and typing it all out and you kind of realized, deep down in some painful way, that maybe, just maybe, this could happen to you. So you prepared yourself- in a cringy, naive, fifteen year old way, of course. With a lot of edgy internet threads about murder. Youtube comments on nightcore videos with yandere girls plastered on top, larpers below talking about fake and/or unobtainable boys they'd kill for. You thought about how they'd mourn you if they dug your body up. or if they didn't, if they couldn't find a trace, if they'd cling on to the hope, or they'll forget about you, resigned. They, of course, refer to your parents who at the time you thought didn't care about you as much as they actually did, and also your internet friends who you thought cared a lot more about you than they actually did. You had mixed priorities.
It's useless, anyhow. All of it. A walking time bomb with a low half-life called Tahsin Demir, with no choice on its own, existed. It was calm, or at least calmer than it had any right to be. It was holding a nail gun. It was crying, or at least trying to, but for some reason the tears wouldn't come out.
Contrary to what people thought, the explanation for our ecologically ruinous behavior was simple. It was greed. And the belief of invincibility- it's not that bad today, so we can still hope for a brighter tomorrow. We dump our landfills full of waste that would take centuries sitting there, breaking down into little parts, and on the next day we'll drive there and dump our garbage there again. And again. And again. And corporations will continue to pump out noxious gas out of their factories, because the pros were just too great, and the cons too far away to us. What's a decade later's weather against a million dollars today?
Dr. Sycamore was wrong. Gravely, stupidly, irresponsibly wrong. There was no need to put people with too many confounding variables onto a desolate waste and tell them to kill each other. There was no need to fake social media posts, to breed mutant animals with video game antagonist titles, no need for any of that. There was simply a requirement, if we want this planet to live, to take a look inside the most selfish, horrible parts of ourselves, and accept our recklessness, our need to burn fossil fuels like an addict does crack, our blatant inhumanity when faced with something in such a cataclysmic scale, and how to translate that against our kindness for the individual, our fear of consequences. And if everybody, including, no, especially Sycamore stopped and did that and took a good, hard look inside themselves, they'd realize that all that death was just for naught.
Not like privileged men driven by their own overinflated egos would know, anyways.
She tapped the nailgun against her leg. There were people who could, maybe, with an astronomically small chance, be victims of her, but undoubtedly victims of everything else, and that made her feel bad enough that she didn’t really want to hurt them more than they’ve been hurt so far. She looked at them for a good, hard second. She didn't recognize the names, not from this far. Neither were Misha. So it didn’t really matter. Panic takes a while to set in. For a while, the mind blocks it out- if death hasn’t come yet, if you’re still alive, then sure, you can die tomorrow, but you’re alive right now. That’s how it works? She wasn’t thinking that much about that. She was thinking about how she might die. There was also someone else, who she cared about less because she wasn’t really screaming, and she tended to pay more attention to bright and loud things.
Tess simply coughed, and waited for them to react. It was fine if they didn't. Preferable, even. Actually, she wasn’t sure why she even did that.
One could say that Catarina had enough time to herself before the interloper came. Catarina wouldn't have, though.
Immediately, the richest woman on that boat was told to shut the fuck up by some girl she didn't even recognize. Uh, excuse them? Did Catarina just get told to shut the fuck up? No, she don't believe she did, as she whipped her head around to the noise, because she must have been undergoing a mass fucking hallucination where people got to tell her to shut the fuck up, because that's the only reason Catarina could ever think of that anyone would tell her to shut the fuck up, and even then it wasn't good enough for her. Fuck the spirits, fuck the hallucinations, she could buy and sell them, even here.
Almost immediately, Catarina pulled herself from the ground and began hurriedly storming to the rude girl in question. A slurry of words came out of her mouth, most of which were filtered as though she'd been burned on the asophagus by a cigarette, as her finger jabbed through the air in her direction.
"No YOU shut the fuck UP! You don't GET to tell me to shut the fuck up, because I am worth more than you!
It wasn't until Catarina was real close that she realized the other girl was holding a large gun, having looked like nothing from afar. However, she wasn't about to change direction now, just because there was a danger in play - that's what you do when you're a little bitch, and Catarina was not a little bitch. She kept her finger jabbed in the generation direction of her face, before taking notice of another girl having caught COVID right next to them, or at least that's maybe what she wanted them to think. Or did she just want attention? She looked like the kind of person who wanted to ask for attention. Maybe Catarina could just ignore her and she'd go away.
Her impulses didn't think so though. Catarina jabbed at the rude girl again, as she spat her coarse words at the COVID girl.
"The fuck do YOU want?"
Immediately, the richest woman on that boat was told to shut the fuck up by some girl she didn't even recognize. Uh, excuse them? Did Catarina just get told to shut the fuck up? No, she don't believe she did, as she whipped her head around to the noise, because she must have been undergoing a mass fucking hallucination where people got to tell her to shut the fuck up, because that's the only reason Catarina could ever think of that anyone would tell her to shut the fuck up, and even then it wasn't good enough for her. Fuck the spirits, fuck the hallucinations, she could buy and sell them, even here.
Almost immediately, Catarina pulled herself from the ground and began hurriedly storming to the rude girl in question. A slurry of words came out of her mouth, most of which were filtered as though she'd been burned on the asophagus by a cigarette, as her finger jabbed through the air in her direction.
"No YOU shut the fuck UP! You don't GET to tell me to shut the fuck up, because I am worth more than you!
It wasn't until Catarina was real close that she realized the other girl was holding a large gun, having looked like nothing from afar. However, she wasn't about to change direction now, just because there was a danger in play - that's what you do when you're a little bitch, and Catarina was not a little bitch. She kept her finger jabbed in the generation direction of her face, before taking notice of another girl having caught COVID right next to them, or at least that's maybe what she wanted them to think. Or did she just want attention? She looked like the kind of person who wanted to ask for attention. Maybe Catarina could just ignore her and she'd go away.
Her impulses didn't think so though. Catarina jabbed at the rude girl again, as she spat her coarse words at the COVID girl.
"The fuck do YOU want?"
-
Dr Adjective
- Posts: 139
- Joined: Fri Oct 28, 2022 9:22 pm
- Location: i am living in your walls
The gun hung loosely at Esther’s side, practically an afterthought. Her trigger finger tapped subconsciously against the trigger-guard; she knew much better than to actually rest it against the trigger itself. Despite her words, easy to read as a threat, she didn’t have any intention of shooting… whomever it was she’d just accosted, she knew damn well that a Papasha could empty a drum magazine in about five seconds, and intended on saving every round of it for that demon bear thing she’d been shown.
Anyway, whatsherface got up and rounded on her. Getting a good look, Esther decided to file her mentally as “MILF” until further notice. She started yelling, the exact opposite of what had been asked, so Esther obliged by attempting to shout louder over her.
“You wanna get every motherfucker’s attention in a ten mile radius?! This is how you fucking get that! Worth more? Fuckin’, are you ser…”
Then MILF seemed to get distracted. Esther followed her gaze. Someone else in the near distance. She let go of her suitcase and hefted the gun up to a more threatening, two-handed grip. As threatening as a five-nothing twig of a girl could be, at least. Didn’t recognise the newcomer, but what else was new?
“See? There’s that attention you ordered.” she muttered, as much to herself as her company.
Anyway, whatsherface got up and rounded on her. Getting a good look, Esther decided to file her mentally as “MILF” until further notice. She started yelling, the exact opposite of what had been asked, so Esther obliged by attempting to shout louder over her.
“You wanna get every motherfucker’s attention in a ten mile radius?! This is how you fucking get that! Worth more? Fuckin’, are you ser…”
Then MILF seemed to get distracted. Esther followed her gaze. Someone else in the near distance. She let go of her suitcase and hefted the gun up to a more threatening, two-handed grip. As threatening as a five-nothing twig of a girl could be, at least. Didn’t recognise the newcomer, but what else was new?
“See? There’s that attention you ordered.” she muttered, as much to herself as her company.
SOTF: U
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One: -> Step Two: -> Step Three: -> Step Four: -> Step Five: -> Step Six: -> †
One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One:
-> Step Two: -> Step Three: -> Step Four: -> Step Five: -> Step Six: -> †One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
Its face frowned, or put itself in some frown-adjacent position. It wasn’t very sure. It was kind of not used to this sort of situation.
“Oh, not much,” the mouth said. The feet took a step back. Or maybe the legs? Didn’t matter. Eyebrows raised, a look of mixed something else and apprehension. It didn't want to be here, even in a more specific sense as opposed to not wanting to be in the Murder Death Game.
Tahsin was still reeling from the aftereffects of the drugs, and wow, when they said personalized? Nuh-uh. Absolutely not. This shit sucked. Well, alright, maybe it should’ve sucked, but he was having some kind of weird hangover from the intravenous equivalent of a date rape drug injected directly into his bloodstream (duh, intravenous) and ok. Ok. Still kind of out of it, alright? Cool? Coolbeans, cool. Yeah everything sucks right now. Having some botox freak megalomaniac going all ‘I’m worth more than you’ checking off another supervillain cliche of the day is. It’s sure something alright.
So, uh, problem numero uno. Gun Girl. Gun person? Not to assume genders or anything. In this situation where you’re incentivized to kill people, having someone that’s apparently Good At Killing People because they have the Thing That Kills People is not really safe. Unless the barrel was pointed at something else that was a threat, in which case, hell yeah, guns! Tahsin didn’t really know if that was applicable, though. He was more worried about not getting shot.
You cringe, just a little bit. The thought of people actually, genuinely being this egotistical was something that you knew was inevitable and common and it gives you the most genuine, painful secondhand embarrassment every time. You were taught with humility drilled into you, so you learned, perhaps unwisely, that any kind of confidence and pride beyond the bare minimum to not look like a self defeating wreck was hubris of the ultimate level, for some reason. You were taught to not behave like you’re superior, so you learned how to be inferior. It was part of the reason why you reveled in your relative anonymity online- because nobody would judge you, and nobody could see your lack of credentials and any desirable traits, and they could assume you were any normal, if not talented, person who could, theoretically, back up your grandiose claims of your intelligence. Or your insults and humiliation directed at others. So, maybe, it wasn’t pride that was the issue. It was coming off as prideful.
Nevertheless, your penchant for self deprecation was a double-edged sword. As long as you were cruel to yourself, you’re justified in your cruelty for others. Treat others like how you’d be treated, right?
“Damn,” COVID girl muttered. MILF was kind of a wreck right now. Gun Girl was pissed, and with an aforementioned gun, and that’s not a good combo. “The, uh, bear’s kind of fucked up, huh?” Well, """bear."""" To a degree in which it was a bear, anyhow. Chimera, it was called? Dumb name. COVID girl took a step back again, one hand raised, the other one still on the nailgun.
“Oh, not much,” the mouth said. The feet took a step back. Or maybe the legs? Didn’t matter. Eyebrows raised, a look of mixed something else and apprehension. It didn't want to be here, even in a more specific sense as opposed to not wanting to be in the Murder Death Game.
Tahsin was still reeling from the aftereffects of the drugs, and wow, when they said personalized? Nuh-uh. Absolutely not. This shit sucked. Well, alright, maybe it should’ve sucked, but he was having some kind of weird hangover from the intravenous equivalent of a date rape drug injected directly into his bloodstream (duh, intravenous) and ok. Ok. Still kind of out of it, alright? Cool? Coolbeans, cool. Yeah everything sucks right now. Having some botox freak megalomaniac going all ‘I’m worth more than you’ checking off another supervillain cliche of the day is. It’s sure something alright.
So, uh, problem numero uno. Gun Girl. Gun person? Not to assume genders or anything. In this situation where you’re incentivized to kill people, having someone that’s apparently Good At Killing People because they have the Thing That Kills People is not really safe. Unless the barrel was pointed at something else that was a threat, in which case, hell yeah, guns! Tahsin didn’t really know if that was applicable, though. He was more worried about not getting shot.
You cringe, just a little bit. The thought of people actually, genuinely being this egotistical was something that you knew was inevitable and common and it gives you the most genuine, painful secondhand embarrassment every time. You were taught with humility drilled into you, so you learned, perhaps unwisely, that any kind of confidence and pride beyond the bare minimum to not look like a self defeating wreck was hubris of the ultimate level, for some reason. You were taught to not behave like you’re superior, so you learned how to be inferior. It was part of the reason why you reveled in your relative anonymity online- because nobody would judge you, and nobody could see your lack of credentials and any desirable traits, and they could assume you were any normal, if not talented, person who could, theoretically, back up your grandiose claims of your intelligence. Or your insults and humiliation directed at others. So, maybe, it wasn’t pride that was the issue. It was coming off as prideful.
Nevertheless, your penchant for self deprecation was a double-edged sword. As long as you were cruel to yourself, you’re justified in your cruelty for others. Treat others like how you’d be treated, right?
“Damn,” COVID girl muttered. MILF was kind of a wreck right now. Gun Girl was pissed, and with an aforementioned gun, and that’s not a good combo. “The, uh, bear’s kind of fucked up, huh?” Well, """bear."""" To a degree in which it was a bear, anyhow. Chimera, it was called? Dumb name. COVID girl took a step back again, one hand raised, the other one still on the nailgun.
"Small talk is for people with nothing interesting to say."
She wanted, more than anything, to make another scathing reply to the girl with the gun, rather than the girl who coughed at her, but, well, she really had hurt her throat. Every muscle in her throat was inflamed from the display she had put on before, not that she would have done any different. It was unbecoming of her to put on such a scene, but fuck, who wouldn't have done the same in her situation?
Instead of engaging with the two girls any longer, Catarina stormed back to her bag. The one she'd been yelling at had a gun, COVID girl had some kind of gun, so logic reasoned she would also have a gun. She wasn't going to stand around being the only one without their gun, because that just made her look foolish. She unzipped her bag and started rifling through what she supposed were meant to be her own belongings. Food bars, water bottles, flashlights, table saw, spare cap, sleeping bag, first aid kit...
Where the fuck was her gun? Her brow furrowed, and she grabbed her bag by the ends and upheaved the contents onto the ground, with the saw making a particularly loud, wet thud into the cracked mud. What the fuck was happening? Did they forget to give her one? Was this some kind of joke?
"Why the FUCK do you two get a gun and I don't?", Catarina yelled at the space before the other two girls, before suddenly stopping to rub her throat for a moment. There was still some strain.
She wanted, more than anything, to make another scathing reply to the girl with the gun, rather than the girl who coughed at her, but, well, she really had hurt her throat. Every muscle in her throat was inflamed from the display she had put on before, not that she would have done any different. It was unbecoming of her to put on such a scene, but fuck, who wouldn't have done the same in her situation?
Instead of engaging with the two girls any longer, Catarina stormed back to her bag. The one she'd been yelling at had a gun, COVID girl had some kind of gun, so logic reasoned she would also have a gun. She wasn't going to stand around being the only one without their gun, because that just made her look foolish. She unzipped her bag and started rifling through what she supposed were meant to be her own belongings. Food bars, water bottles, flashlights, table saw, spare cap, sleeping bag, first aid kit...
Where the fuck was her gun? Her brow furrowed, and she grabbed her bag by the ends and upheaved the contents onto the ground, with the saw making a particularly loud, wet thud into the cracked mud. What the fuck was happening? Did they forget to give her one? Was this some kind of joke?
"Why the FUCK do you two get a gun and I don't?", Catarina yelled at the space before the other two girls, before suddenly stopping to rub her throat for a moment. There was still some strain.
-
Dr Adjective
- Posts: 139
- Joined: Fri Oct 28, 2022 9:22 pm
- Location: i am living in your walls
Much as Esther hated to agree with MILF, the… yeah, she needed a way to refer to a newcomer. Looked like a Technicolor nightmare: Joseph, Dreamcoat et al? Nah. Too on the nose. Glitchy jpeg artefact? Two four-letter terms appealed to her, so she settled on JPEG. Anyway, she agreed, JPEG didn’t have much interesting to add. Not beyond holding what looked like a weird raygun. Instinct said she should assume it was a regular handgun with a weird design, or a household tool or something, but recent revelations forced Esther to entertain the idea there was sci-fi tech in play.
So she kept her gun up and her eyes sharp, and moreover kept her distance.
Meanwhile, the other one had seemingly realised Esther wasn’t planning on shooting. She turned her back and went for her own bag. Which had been where Esther found her own gun, wait a second…
She turned and aimed Catarina-wards in time to see her rifling through her bag. In normal circumstances, Esther was a big Second Amendment fan, big fan of arming the common folk against those in power, but things were different here. Esther had the power. She didn’t want to share it.
“Hey, st-“
And then Catarina upturned her bag, dumping among other things, an unwieldy circular saw. She sniggered a little at the revelation, breaking out into full laughter as MILF started yelling again. Sure she’d come here in the first place to tell her to quiet down rather than attract unwelcome attention, but that ship had sailed. So fuck it, it was funny, laugh.
“‘cause we’re worth more than you?” she offered with a shit-eating grin. Not to mention a glance over at JPEG and the possible laser gun, for safety and/or acknowledgement.
Probably be time to go find someplace indoors to get out of the cold soon, but for the time being, Esther figured raising her spirits with some humour at Catarina’s expense was a valid use of her time too.
So she kept her gun up and her eyes sharp, and moreover kept her distance.
Meanwhile, the other one had seemingly realised Esther wasn’t planning on shooting. She turned her back and went for her own bag. Which had been where Esther found her own gun, wait a second…
She turned and aimed Catarina-wards in time to see her rifling through her bag. In normal circumstances, Esther was a big Second Amendment fan, big fan of arming the common folk against those in power, but things were different here. Esther had the power. She didn’t want to share it.
“Hey, st-“
And then Catarina upturned her bag, dumping among other things, an unwieldy circular saw. She sniggered a little at the revelation, breaking out into full laughter as MILF started yelling again. Sure she’d come here in the first place to tell her to quiet down rather than attract unwelcome attention, but that ship had sailed. So fuck it, it was funny, laugh.
“‘cause we’re worth more than you?” she offered with a shit-eating grin. Not to mention a glance over at JPEG and the possible laser gun, for safety and/or acknowledgement.
Probably be time to go find someplace indoors to get out of the cold soon, but for the time being, Esther figured raising her spirits with some humour at Catarina’s expense was a valid use of her time too.
SOTF: U
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One: -> Step Two: -> Step Three: -> Step Four: -> Step Five: -> Step Six: -> †
One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One:
-> Step Two: -> Step Three: -> Step Four: -> Step Five: -> Step Six: -> †One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
Tess has always considered themselves to be kind of anti-gun, not like go-to-protests anti-gun but the ‘if you asked me for my opinions on the 2nd amendment I’d probably say I’m kind of against it’ sort of anti-gun. It felt like the natural consequences of growing up in a very liberal (but not entirely leftist) online bubble in the suburban U.S- the general train of thought was that Guns Are Bad since they Kill Kids, and so maybe we should take them away first and ask questions later since kids should be dying? They’d never experienced any sort of danger where being armed was necessary, but they did hear about shootings and robberies and students dying in their classrooms every fucking week after week after week.
But they also *wanted* a gun, even though it was hypocritical of them, because they were always aware of the dangers of being an openly queer, openly transgender person in the USA, especially one who, by virtue of being non-binary, couldn’t and never will have the privileges of “passing” as whatever. Sometimes, they’d think about what they’d do if they had a gun, though, and the thoughts always ran to the worst, darkest spots. So they never got a gun.
The nail gun wasn’t an actual gun, technically. Their mechanical expertise was limited to assembling Ikea chairs, and, to be honest, they had no idea what they’d do with this thing. They didn’t even know what it was when they first brought it out. But having the two women believe that they were armed, believe in the illusion of power that they projected to them, it was… it didn’t feel good, per se, but it felt like something they could work with.
JPEG tilted her head at Esther and met her eyes. Raised/wiggled her eyebrows, like, you-seeing-what-I’m-seeing? And then she tilted her head, stretching her neck slightly towards MILF’s upturned bag on the ground, eyes flickering between the goodies and Esther..
She hoped the message was clear- ‘Hey, you wanna rob her?’
You think that maybe everybody involved right now was a terrible person and should die right now. You also think about taking the nailgun to the girl’s head and pulling the trigger- it’s a good way to rid yourself of competition, isn’t it? It’s logical. It’s practical. But that’s… not really something you can stomach right now. You imagine it in your head, mulling it over- vivid imagery popped up in the form of frightened eyes and open skulls. It will be easy. You didn’t even have to look away, you’ve seen worse. But that’s on a screen.
So why won’t you? You know how dangerous this girl is going to be. She has a gun, for fuck’s sake, and she wasn’t opposed to pointing it, and she wasn’t opposed to kicking and laughing at someone when they’re down. She’s not a good person. If she is, she’s an obstacle to your survival. You are, at your very core, an animal, an instinctual creature. You want to survive. It’s the result of millions of years of self-preserving evolution, your entire body and mind primed for you to not fucking die, and you aren’t pulling the trigger. What’s stopping you? Why?
But they also *wanted* a gun, even though it was hypocritical of them, because they were always aware of the dangers of being an openly queer, openly transgender person in the USA, especially one who, by virtue of being non-binary, couldn’t and never will have the privileges of “passing” as whatever. Sometimes, they’d think about what they’d do if they had a gun, though, and the thoughts always ran to the worst, darkest spots. So they never got a gun.
The nail gun wasn’t an actual gun, technically. Their mechanical expertise was limited to assembling Ikea chairs, and, to be honest, they had no idea what they’d do with this thing. They didn’t even know what it was when they first brought it out. But having the two women believe that they were armed, believe in the illusion of power that they projected to them, it was… it didn’t feel good, per se, but it felt like something they could work with.
JPEG tilted her head at Esther and met her eyes. Raised/wiggled her eyebrows, like, you-seeing-what-I’m-seeing? And then she tilted her head, stretching her neck slightly towards MILF’s upturned bag on the ground, eyes flickering between the goodies and Esther..
She hoped the message was clear- ‘Hey, you wanna rob her?’
You think that maybe everybody involved right now was a terrible person and should die right now. You also think about taking the nailgun to the girl’s head and pulling the trigger- it’s a good way to rid yourself of competition, isn’t it? It’s logical. It’s practical. But that’s… not really something you can stomach right now. You imagine it in your head, mulling it over- vivid imagery popped up in the form of frightened eyes and open skulls. It will be easy. You didn’t even have to look away, you’ve seen worse. But that’s on a screen.
So why won’t you? You know how dangerous this girl is going to be. She has a gun, for fuck’s sake, and she wasn’t opposed to pointing it, and she wasn’t opposed to kicking and laughing at someone when they’re down. She’s not a good person. If she is, she’s an obstacle to your survival. You are, at your very core, an animal, an instinctual creature. You want to survive. It’s the result of millions of years of self-preserving evolution, your entire body and mind primed for you to not fucking die, and you aren’t pulling the trigger. What’s stopping you? Why?
Catarina had never used the word 'apoplectic' before. Her parents had taken her to America to learn American words, not fancy words from Europe. She'd been blank-faced when Roger used it to describe a low point in their marriage during counselling. But it was all she could think of as she stared at the girl she'd been yelling at.
She was apoplectic. Everything she could see had been overlayed with a shade of red. One of her nails had punctured through her gloves and cut into the palm of her hand, drawing blood. Her jaw was clenched so hard she thought her teeth were about to snap beneath her gums. She felt a tremble vibrate through her body as she resisted the urge to scream again, to thrash at the girl with the gun, to harm, to act with the body of someone half her age. She forgot where she was, and the only thing that existed in the world was the stretch of land between herself and the inciting person. All of these were elaborate ways of saying just how fucking angry she was.
But of the four things that remained in the world, the gun was one of those four. She couldn't. She wasn't going to act on it, because as the rest of the world came back in, her family did as well, and she wasn't about to let her children become motherless over her own anger, her own stockpile of fury that she needed to distribute before it went rotten in her pantry. To the outside world, or at the very least to the other two people within the immediate vicinity, this beautiful glamorous housewife with the world's most unnoticable surgery was about to commit bloody murder with her eyes.
But on the inside, Catarina Markovitz was taking her breaths. with every long inhale of cold air through her nose, she shook a little bit less. She slowly retracted her ring finger, a finger literally laden with ring, from where it had embedded itself in her palm.
The odds had still dramatically increased that she was going to murder that other girl, but it wasn't going to be as rash a decision as she'd ever made.
She was apoplectic. Everything she could see had been overlayed with a shade of red. One of her nails had punctured through her gloves and cut into the palm of her hand, drawing blood. Her jaw was clenched so hard she thought her teeth were about to snap beneath her gums. She felt a tremble vibrate through her body as she resisted the urge to scream again, to thrash at the girl with the gun, to harm, to act with the body of someone half her age. She forgot where she was, and the only thing that existed in the world was the stretch of land between herself and the inciting person. All of these were elaborate ways of saying just how fucking angry she was.
But of the four things that remained in the world, the gun was one of those four. She couldn't. She wasn't going to act on it, because as the rest of the world came back in, her family did as well, and she wasn't about to let her children become motherless over her own anger, her own stockpile of fury that she needed to distribute before it went rotten in her pantry. To the outside world, or at the very least to the other two people within the immediate vicinity, this beautiful glamorous housewife with the world's most unnoticable surgery was about to commit bloody murder with her eyes.
But on the inside, Catarina Markovitz was taking her breaths. with every long inhale of cold air through her nose, she shook a little bit less. She slowly retracted her ring finger, a finger literally laden with ring, from where it had embedded itself in her palm.
The odds had still dramatically increased that she was going to murder that other girl, but it wasn't going to be as rash a decision as she'd ever made.
-
Dr Adjective
- Posts: 139
- Joined: Fri Oct 28, 2022 9:22 pm
- Location: i am living in your walls
To the untrained eye, it might look like Esther was especially good at pushing people’s buttons. Like she was riling Catarina up on purpose, to justify “defending” herself from the older woman. But that would be to give the girl far too much credit. She was not, in fact, spreading discord on purpose to further her own ends. All chaotic gremlin behaviour was quite natural and aimless.
She’d just wanted the screaming to stop lest it attract unwelcome attention, from someone who really did mean harm.
To tell the truth, she didn’t really have the social awareness to tell just how angry she’d made Catarina. The word “seethe” was an internet meme to her, not a real action she could properly identify. At best, she figured the woman was just pissed off that Esther had made a joke at the expense of her self-important posturing earlier. The notion of there being much deeper to it didn’t much occur to her. So she was a bit more engaged in whatever it was that Tess was trying to communicate to her.
It took an embarrassingly long time for the penny to drop. At which point, the rest of her behaviour until that point came into question alongside that specific question. What the fuck had she been doing, menacing people with a gun, making demands? Was this how easy it was to abuse random, unearned privilege? Fuck.
Ultimately, Esther decided not to interrogate the cognitive dissonance. It scared her. Better to kick the proverbial can down the equally proverbial road and maybe think about it later.
“Listen, this has been fun, but I’m freezing my tits off.”
With an awkward shuffle, she backed up towards her suitcase, fumbled for it with her left hand while the right maintained its grip on her gun, for safety. With the case in hand, she kept on backpedaling, not wanting to take her eyes off of either of the others until she was confident they were plenty far away.
“So I’m going indoors now. Uh. Bye.”
She’d just wanted the screaming to stop lest it attract unwelcome attention, from someone who really did mean harm.
To tell the truth, she didn’t really have the social awareness to tell just how angry she’d made Catarina. The word “seethe” was an internet meme to her, not a real action she could properly identify. At best, she figured the woman was just pissed off that Esther had made a joke at the expense of her self-important posturing earlier. The notion of there being much deeper to it didn’t much occur to her. So she was a bit more engaged in whatever it was that Tess was trying to communicate to her.
It took an embarrassingly long time for the penny to drop. At which point, the rest of her behaviour until that point came into question alongside that specific question. What the fuck had she been doing, menacing people with a gun, making demands? Was this how easy it was to abuse random, unearned privilege? Fuck.
Ultimately, Esther decided not to interrogate the cognitive dissonance. It scared her. Better to kick the proverbial can down the equally proverbial road and maybe think about it later.
“Listen, this has been fun, but I’m freezing my tits off.”
With an awkward shuffle, she backed up towards her suitcase, fumbled for it with her left hand while the right maintained its grip on her gun, for safety. With the case in hand, she kept on backpedaling, not wanting to take her eyes off of either of the others until she was confident they were plenty far away.
“So I’m going indoors now. Uh. Bye.”
SOTF: U
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One: -> Step Two: -> Step Three: -> Step Four: -> Step Five: -> Step Six: -> †
One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One:
-> Step Two: -> Step Three: -> Step Four: -> Step Five: -> Step Six: -> †One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
She looked down at MILF again. Pointed the nailgun at her, but kept a distance. Adjusted her position so that she could keep an eye on both of ‘em at the same time.
“See ya,” she said with a little false cheer to the gun girl, mostly because she wasn’t really sure what to do in this situation, you know? She’s not really in danger right now and that’s what matters, right?
Back to the housewife…
“Hey,” it said, for the lack of a better thing to start off with.
“Give me the saw.”
(Starting off blunt, I see?)
Actually, it wasn’t sure how robberies usually went. Was it supposed to be violent, or something? Or just the threat of violence being wielded without the intent?
Tess cringed the moment the words left their mouth. How could they just do this? Looking at this poor, terrorized woman, screaming herself hoarse stuck in the worst day in her life, and thinking, ‘oh, I can make this worse.’ That’s fucking terrible. Like, sure, they’ve done and said some fucked up shit before, but that was with the barrier of anonymity and screens. And now they’re just… straight up robbing someone at (nail)gunpoint?
You take a step forward. The nailgun felt like a real weapon in your hands, like something… something a lot more dangerous than it was, honestly. But she *thinks* you have a gun, and fear is a good enough substitute for violence.
You take a step forward and you get close enough to press the weapon to her head. You can pull the trigger right now, if you want. You can blow her brains right out of her skull. Right fucking now. You can turn yourself into a murderer in the next five seconds. Do you feel scared? Of yourself? Of retaliation? Do you feel powerful? Do you think you can get away with it? Will you be sorry? Will you be feared? Will you get what you want? Will killing her make you happy? Would it make you safe?
You’re not quite sure. Which was why the point of the machine is still shaking a bit. If you shoot right now, you're not sure if you can actually hit your target. And you don't want her to know that it wasn't an actual real gun, though you've heard about nailgun suicides before.
He wanted to say sorry. It would make it easier, if he was apologetic, maybe.
“See ya,” she said with a little false cheer to the gun girl, mostly because she wasn’t really sure what to do in this situation, you know? She’s not really in danger right now and that’s what matters, right?
Back to the housewife…
“Hey,” it said, for the lack of a better thing to start off with.
“Give me the saw.”
(Starting off blunt, I see?)
Actually, it wasn’t sure how robberies usually went. Was it supposed to be violent, or something? Or just the threat of violence being wielded without the intent?
Tess cringed the moment the words left their mouth. How could they just do this? Looking at this poor, terrorized woman, screaming herself hoarse stuck in the worst day in her life, and thinking, ‘oh, I can make this worse.’ That’s fucking terrible. Like, sure, they’ve done and said some fucked up shit before, but that was with the barrier of anonymity and screens. And now they’re just… straight up robbing someone at (nail)gunpoint?
You take a step forward. The nailgun felt like a real weapon in your hands, like something… something a lot more dangerous than it was, honestly. But she *thinks* you have a gun, and fear is a good enough substitute for violence.
You take a step forward and you get close enough to press the weapon to her head. You can pull the trigger right now, if you want. You can blow her brains right out of her skull. Right fucking now. You can turn yourself into a murderer in the next five seconds. Do you feel scared? Of yourself? Of retaliation? Do you feel powerful? Do you think you can get away with it? Will you be sorry? Will you be feared? Will you get what you want? Will killing her make you happy? Would it make you safe?
You’re not quite sure. Which was why the point of the machine is still shaking a bit. If you shoot right now, you're not sure if you can actually hit your target. And you don't want her to know that it wasn't an actual real gun, though you've heard about nailgun suicides before.
He wanted to say sorry. It would make it easier, if he was apologetic, maybe.
Oh.
So that's how it was going to be played, was it?
A lifetime ago, Catarina had been mugged. The Nokia she'd bought in high school from a guy selling out of his trunk was probably in a landfill now, but after three months of ownership it had ended up at knifepoint a few weeks before graduation. She'd been terrified, of course, but it went away, along with her purse and watch. You didn't get stuff like that back in San Diego - it was gone forever.
But ever since Roger, ever since she'd stood at the altar and given her vows, ever since she signed that paper, she'd gotten used to keeping ahold of everything she owned. It was hers now, nobody else's (except maybe, possibly, her family's if she got bored of it), and nobody had ever taken anything material from her. Catarina had entered a life where that sort of thing didn't happen to her, or her people, or her family. Muggers didn't exist in the suburbs like they did in places where people took public transport.
So when, only a few moments after she'd packed everything back up from her anger repression, the other girl just walked up and demanded her saw, Catarina had frozen. On any other day she'd be angry at this, outraged even. But Catarina had already been angry today, so her reserves were all used up. She clutched the strap of the bag, in a look that could be construed as anger, but was instead just the midpoint between exhaustion and frustration.
It was all she needed. This stupid little girl demanding Catarina's belongings had just given her the excuse. It had become personal, very personal, very quickly.
In another lifetime, Catarina Simão was a 20-year-old college student from Seattle trying to make something of herself, and she was being robbed and she wouldn't have known what to do because she was a fussy headed liberal who was offended by pronouns.
But Catarina Markovitz had grown up in what could be considered the rough side of California's southmost city, no matter how many years ago, and that Catarina was the one who quickly pushed herself backwards and, with the dexterity of a bored housewife with years upon years of kickboxing and the training contained therein, swung the bag with the saw in it at her would-be mugger's head.
If she'd had more time to think it over, maybe with a script supervisor, she would have come up with something clever to shout. Maybe something like...
San Diego, mother FUCKER!
They'd work on it in post.
So that's how it was going to be played, was it?
A lifetime ago, Catarina had been mugged. The Nokia she'd bought in high school from a guy selling out of his trunk was probably in a landfill now, but after three months of ownership it had ended up at knifepoint a few weeks before graduation. She'd been terrified, of course, but it went away, along with her purse and watch. You didn't get stuff like that back in San Diego - it was gone forever.
But ever since Roger, ever since she'd stood at the altar and given her vows, ever since she signed that paper, she'd gotten used to keeping ahold of everything she owned. It was hers now, nobody else's (except maybe, possibly, her family's if she got bored of it), and nobody had ever taken anything material from her. Catarina had entered a life where that sort of thing didn't happen to her, or her people, or her family. Muggers didn't exist in the suburbs like they did in places where people took public transport.
So when, only a few moments after she'd packed everything back up from her anger repression, the other girl just walked up and demanded her saw, Catarina had frozen. On any other day she'd be angry at this, outraged even. But Catarina had already been angry today, so her reserves were all used up. She clutched the strap of the bag, in a look that could be construed as anger, but was instead just the midpoint between exhaustion and frustration.
It was all she needed. This stupid little girl demanding Catarina's belongings had just given her the excuse. It had become personal, very personal, very quickly.
In another lifetime, Catarina Simão was a 20-year-old college student from Seattle trying to make something of herself, and she was being robbed and she wouldn't have known what to do because she was a fussy headed liberal who was offended by pronouns.
But Catarina Markovitz had grown up in what could be considered the rough side of California's southmost city, no matter how many years ago, and that Catarina was the one who quickly pushed herself backwards and, with the dexterity of a bored housewife with years upon years of kickboxing and the training contained therein, swung the bag with the saw in it at her would-be mugger's head.
If she'd had more time to think it over, maybe with a script supervisor, she would have come up with something clever to shout. Maybe something like...
San Diego, mother FUCKER!
They'd work on it in post.
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Dr Adjective
- Posts: 139
- Joined: Fri Oct 28, 2022 9:22 pm
- Location: i am living in your walls
Well shit Esther, what did you think was going to happen? That you can politely opt out of robbing someone and then it just won’t happen, sorry, crime strike today, all the crimes are cancelled?
She was still backing up when it started, still much too nervous to actually turn her back on whatever that strange gun was that Tess was toting. She wanted to speak up, to say stop. That’s what a good person does with their privilege, right? They put it to work helping people without? They equalise?
”Hey, stop that!”
That’s what she wanted to say. But the words stuck in her throat, choked on fear and just the slightest residue of social anxiety. Instead she sort of croaked, barely audible. She’d only come here to get Catarina to be quiet, she didn’t actually want to see anyone hurt.
And yet she kept back-pedalling.
Maybe if she had a clue how to read people she could’ve anticipated this.
Maybe if she wasn’t such a coward she’d actually live up to her supposed principles and step in.
But Esther Ježek was scared, she was cold, she was terrified of losing what little she still had, of losing sight of that tiny glimmer of hope that maybe she could go home.
S syllables started forming on her tongue, just about breaking past her teeth. She wanted to tell Tess to stop. She really wanted to. Ideas began to half-form in her mind, notions of cooperation, mutual aid, unity against the monsters and the worse monsters that had sent them. Real noble stuff.
Then the MILF chose violence too.
Fear took hold, and Esther turned tail and bolted.
[Esther Ježek runs off to a room where Dusty isn't yet.]
She was still backing up when it started, still much too nervous to actually turn her back on whatever that strange gun was that Tess was toting. She wanted to speak up, to say stop. That’s what a good person does with their privilege, right? They put it to work helping people without? They equalise?
”Hey, stop that!”
That’s what she wanted to say. But the words stuck in her throat, choked on fear and just the slightest residue of social anxiety. Instead she sort of croaked, barely audible. She’d only come here to get Catarina to be quiet, she didn’t actually want to see anyone hurt.
And yet she kept back-pedalling.
Maybe if she had a clue how to read people she could’ve anticipated this.
Maybe if she wasn’t such a coward she’d actually live up to her supposed principles and step in.
But Esther Ježek was scared, she was cold, she was terrified of losing what little she still had, of losing sight of that tiny glimmer of hope that maybe she could go home.
S syllables started forming on her tongue, just about breaking past her teeth. She wanted to tell Tess to stop. She really wanted to. Ideas began to half-form in her mind, notions of cooperation, mutual aid, unity against the monsters and the worse monsters that had sent them. Real noble stuff.
Then the MILF chose violence too.
Fear took hold, and Esther turned tail and bolted.
[Esther Ježek runs off to a room where Dusty isn't yet.]
SOTF: U
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One: -> Step Two: -> Step Three: -> Step Four: -> Step Five: -> Step Six: -> †
One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
Esther Ježek
Status: Deceased (Vaporised)
Last equipped with: PPSh-41 submachinegun (3x 35 round box magazines)
Last seen: The Docks. In a warehouse.
Ⓐ
Step One:
-> Step Two: -> Step Three: -> Step Four: -> Step Five: -> Step Six: -> †One Room Death Game - Charlotte Torres & her opossum plush (subscribe to Goblin Town!)
Stupid. Why are you so fucking stupid? You’re a piece of shit who’s getting what’s coming to them. Of course she wasn’t going to take this sitting down. Who did you think you are?
She flinched and ducked, out of reflex. The bag thuds onto her shoulder, clipping the edge of her back, the impact almost spinning her around. One hand reached out, swirling around, trying to shift the balance of her flailing body. The other held the nail gun, shock jolting through her system enough that she was almost worried if she’d fired it, but she didn’t. It hurted- like somebody took her collarbones out, broke them, and then stuffed them back in. It felt like something was stuck inside her marrow, radiating outwards- she ground her teeth and got her footing back, stumbling two or three steps away from the woman, backwards and sideways.
“Fuck,” she spat, with nothing in her brain except for the busy sensations, “Ah-”
Her hand was shaky when it held the weapon. She hasn’t felt this way since she was a child- in the old days when she would still get out and move instead of being confined to the three-room dorm with strings of LED lights. She wasn’t exactly a stranger to injuries, but she wasn’t intimately familiar with them either, in her relatively short life; there was a line, of violence that she never really crossed before- the kind that stays, the kind that reminds you that it’s there, the kind that holds you and hurts you long after the scab or the cast is peeled off. Her experience with pain has always been brief and temporary and, most of all, largely self-inflicted in her own stupidity. But there wasn’t anything she could compare it to- that time when she stumbled over her shoelaces, that time when she ran into a door, that time when she put the hot glue gun to her palm. None of it was deliberate, and that level of deliberation multiplied the agony tenfold.
I don’t think I’m any sort of good person but I never thought I was a bad one either but I mean this pretty much disproves it I guess-
That little bitch just upped and fucking ran.
She flinched and ducked, out of reflex. The bag thuds onto her shoulder, clipping the edge of her back, the impact almost spinning her around. One hand reached out, swirling around, trying to shift the balance of her flailing body. The other held the nail gun, shock jolting through her system enough that she was almost worried if she’d fired it, but she didn’t. It hurted- like somebody took her collarbones out, broke them, and then stuffed them back in. It felt like something was stuck inside her marrow, radiating outwards- she ground her teeth and got her footing back, stumbling two or three steps away from the woman, backwards and sideways.
“Fuck,” she spat, with nothing in her brain except for the busy sensations, “Ah-”
Her hand was shaky when it held the weapon. She hasn’t felt this way since she was a child- in the old days when she would still get out and move instead of being confined to the three-room dorm with strings of LED lights. She wasn’t exactly a stranger to injuries, but she wasn’t intimately familiar with them either, in her relatively short life; there was a line, of violence that she never really crossed before- the kind that stays, the kind that reminds you that it’s there, the kind that holds you and hurts you long after the scab or the cast is peeled off. Her experience with pain has always been brief and temporary and, most of all, largely self-inflicted in her own stupidity. But there wasn’t anything she could compare it to- that time when she stumbled over her shoelaces, that time when she ran into a door, that time when she put the hot glue gun to her palm. None of it was deliberate, and that level of deliberation multiplied the agony tenfold.
I don’t think I’m any sort of good person but I never thought I was a bad one either but I mean this pretty much disproves it I guess-
That little bitch just upped and fucking ran.