((Marvia Jones continued from Time To Pretend))
Back to square one.
After leaving the beach, Marvia found herself back in a familiar location. It wasn't the exact same spot as she had run into Nate, but it was similar. A single picnic table surrounded on either side by the odd tree, perfect for those wayward families looking for a nice cool place to have their lunch.
Marvia sat on the table, the Thompson resting in her lap. She really had no desire to go anywhere at that point, content to just be by herself after the madhouse that was her time with Harold. Why she even agreed to stay with him she wasn't sure. She must have been high...
The girl giggled at her lame joke. She needed to think of something else to do with her time. For now though, she was just going to sit here, smoke the rest of her weed, and think about what she was going to do later. Or wait for someone to come and bug her. Either way was fine with her at this point.
The Price Of Freedom
Private: Here Be The (almost) Dead
The Price Of Freedom
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MurderWeasel
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((Karen Ruiz continued from Sometimes Silence Is the Best Mode of Attack))
Karen was still walking, still moving. The night had drawn on. The announcements were some time in the past. She wished she'd brought a watch. Something to keep track of the passage of time. She was nervous. Couldn't wait for the next announcement. Then: safety. Notoriety. Credibility.
Goodbye, victim status.
But until then, there was no safety. This was why Karen had abandoned the rain forest and the cover she had relied upon. Cover was wonderful when you were on the offensive, when you were hunting down and eliminating opponents. When you were trying to avoid those same tactics being turned around on you, though, the best option was to find somewhere with good visibility, clear lines of sight. If it came to a fight, range would be likely to favor Karen. She had a gun. She had speed. She probably had more target practice than most of the others by this point, even if she mostly relied upon volume instead of accuracy.
So she was walking over the plains, walking slightly hunched, forgetting that she was supposed to be assertive now, supposed to be dangerous. She was blending, like she always did, moving quickly and timidly. She held the Glock in her hand. Every few seconds, she glanced around, surveyed the terrain. Vigilance. Caution. She would not be shot in the back. She would not fall prey to her own techniques. This had been a bad idea. The plains were too open. She wanted cover. She wanted to hide.
There had to be a good position, somewhere better. Somewhere she could hunker down, just for a bit.
Glance: there.
A bench, some trees, some slight rises and dips in the terrain around it. The best location, easily.
One little problem, though. She couldn't tell if anyone else was there.
Time for some discretion. Raising her pistol, safety off (the safety was always off), moving quietly, she headed towards the spot, hoping she'd get a break, hoping she wouldn't get into trouble if she didn't.
Karen was still walking, still moving. The night had drawn on. The announcements were some time in the past. She wished she'd brought a watch. Something to keep track of the passage of time. She was nervous. Couldn't wait for the next announcement. Then: safety. Notoriety. Credibility.
Goodbye, victim status.
But until then, there was no safety. This was why Karen had abandoned the rain forest and the cover she had relied upon. Cover was wonderful when you were on the offensive, when you were hunting down and eliminating opponents. When you were trying to avoid those same tactics being turned around on you, though, the best option was to find somewhere with good visibility, clear lines of sight. If it came to a fight, range would be likely to favor Karen. She had a gun. She had speed. She probably had more target practice than most of the others by this point, even if she mostly relied upon volume instead of accuracy.
So she was walking over the plains, walking slightly hunched, forgetting that she was supposed to be assertive now, supposed to be dangerous. She was blending, like she always did, moving quickly and timidly. She held the Glock in her hand. Every few seconds, she glanced around, surveyed the terrain. Vigilance. Caution. She would not be shot in the back. She would not fall prey to her own techniques. This had been a bad idea. The plains were too open. She wanted cover. She wanted to hide.
There had to be a good position, somewhere better. Somewhere she could hunker down, just for a bit.
Glance: there.
A bench, some trees, some slight rises and dips in the terrain around it. The best location, easily.
One little problem, though. She couldn't tell if anyone else was there.
Time for some discretion. Raising her pistol, safety off (the safety was always off), moving quietly, she headed towards the spot, hoping she'd get a break, hoping she wouldn't get into trouble if she didn't.
Marvia lay back on the table, staring into the sky above her. She didn't want to do much else at that point, just enjoy her last night being high. Well, she still had some of her pills left, but those weren't going to last much longer. For now, she was just going to watch the stars.
Or she would have been content to do that if someone hadn't picked this moment to intrude on her privacy. Marvia sat up, her view turning from the starry sky to the open plains, holding her weapon in her hands. She hoped that whoever had decided to come here wasn't going to be hostile, but she doubted it in this place.
Maybe the person would need a reason to keep moving. To just leave her alone and let her go on with her business. Marvia glanced at the other person, clearly female, holding a weapon. Whatever, she was armed as well.
"If you don't want to be hurt, I suggest you keep moving." Marvia said to the newcomer, hoping she would take the hint.
Or she would have been content to do that if someone hadn't picked this moment to intrude on her privacy. Marvia sat up, her view turning from the starry sky to the open plains, holding her weapon in her hands. She hoped that whoever had decided to come here wasn't going to be hostile, but she doubted it in this place.
Maybe the person would need a reason to keep moving. To just leave her alone and let her go on with her business. Marvia glanced at the other person, clearly female, holding a weapon. Whatever, she was armed as well.
"If you don't want to be hurt, I suggest you keep moving." Marvia said to the newcomer, hoping she would take the hint.
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MurderWeasel
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A girl. Armed. Lounging on a bench. Karen clenched her teeth, tightened her grip on the pistol. Bad news. That was a pretty big gun. Karen had seen them before, in late night movies. She was pretty sure they were rapid-fire. Tore people to pieces in split seconds. This was about to get really ugly. This girl, she was from school. Karen didn't have a clue what her name was, didn't have a read on her demeanor, but she knew enough already. The girl was awfully unconcerned. That said it all.
And she spoke. She spoke with a quiet confidence, telling Karen to move along or pay the price. A threat, direct and to the point. If the goal was intimidation, well, she succeeded wonderfully. Karen could tell that this was someone with her priorities in line. This was one of the people who knew the score. It was scary, standing this close to someone like that.
And that, that was why everything changed.
Karen had known she'd eventually have to fight for her life. She'd known that she'd have to contend with others who actually stood a chance of walking away from this. Her two kills, her two opponents, that had been simple business: ambushes, trickery, playing on the fears of others. This was different. She didn't know what to make of this girl. She couldn't predict the results of her actions. Something was wrong. It had to be a trap. Had it been Karen on that bench, what would she have done? Not called attention to herself, for sure. Taken advantage of the darkness to eliminate the interloper, or just let them pass by. To greet with a threat, that was extreme aggression. That was the choice of someone who smelled a victim.
Karen wouldn't just be allowed to leave. The second she turned her back, the instant she showed a hint of weakness, she'd be shot.
Gun up. Steady. Back up a couple steps. Ready for trouble. Tricks and traps. Two choices: offense or defense.
Karen had already chosen, was already moving. She'd have said something, declined the offer of truce, but the triple crack from the Glock communicated everything necessary as she dived behind a nearby tree, seeking cover from the inevitable counter fire. Three shots. Poorly-aimed. Fourteen left in her pistol. No way this was over yet. No way this was going to be that easy. Not with this girl.
And she spoke. She spoke with a quiet confidence, telling Karen to move along or pay the price. A threat, direct and to the point. If the goal was intimidation, well, she succeeded wonderfully. Karen could tell that this was someone with her priorities in line. This was one of the people who knew the score. It was scary, standing this close to someone like that.
And that, that was why everything changed.
Karen had known she'd eventually have to fight for her life. She'd known that she'd have to contend with others who actually stood a chance of walking away from this. Her two kills, her two opponents, that had been simple business: ambushes, trickery, playing on the fears of others. This was different. She didn't know what to make of this girl. She couldn't predict the results of her actions. Something was wrong. It had to be a trap. Had it been Karen on that bench, what would she have done? Not called attention to herself, for sure. Taken advantage of the darkness to eliminate the interloper, or just let them pass by. To greet with a threat, that was extreme aggression. That was the choice of someone who smelled a victim.
Karen wouldn't just be allowed to leave. The second she turned her back, the instant she showed a hint of weakness, she'd be shot.
Gun up. Steady. Back up a couple steps. Ready for trouble. Tricks and traps. Two choices: offense or defense.
Karen had already chosen, was already moving. She'd have said something, declined the offer of truce, but the triple crack from the Glock communicated everything necessary as she dived behind a nearby tree, seeking cover from the inevitable counter fire. Three shots. Poorly-aimed. Fourteen left in her pistol. No way this was over yet. No way this was going to be that easy. Not with this girl.
Apparently this girl wasn't one for taking hints, judging from the shots she just fired. The attack missed her, though it did stir her into action, bringing the Thompson up and squeezing off a couple shots. By the time she actually did this, her opponent was behind a tree, out of sight.
Marvia took the time to get into cover herself, pressing her back against another tree. She had two weapons, and definately not enough time to reload. The last time she reloaded it had taken her a few minutes to figure out what she was doing, so that was out of the question. She'd just have to make sure she made these count.
The girl leaned out of her cover, aiming her weapon at the tree the other girl was behind. She pulled the trigger three times before ducking back in. She wished this weapon had some form of full-auto feature, but she'd just have to deal with it. Besides, she still had her other gun, which would be able to dish out more pain when she got to it.
Marvia took the time to get into cover herself, pressing her back against another tree. She had two weapons, and definately not enough time to reload. The last time she reloaded it had taken her a few minutes to figure out what she was doing, so that was out of the question. She'd just have to make sure she made these count.
The girl leaned out of her cover, aiming her weapon at the tree the other girl was behind. She pulled the trigger three times before ducking back in. She wished this weapon had some form of full-auto feature, but she'd just have to deal with it. Besides, she still had her other gun, which would be able to dish out more pain when she got to it.
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MurderWeasel
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Just like that, Karen was engaged in a firefight. This wasn't how it had been in the past. This was total war. The girl was shooting back, was intent on staying alive. Of course she was. Of course she was fighting. That was why it had to be this way. This girl would've shot Karen in the back. She would've opened up, blown her away. If not, she'd have come around and caused problems later, would have been another threat Karen constantly had to look over her shoulder for. The only confusing thing was that her gun wasn't doing the rapid fire gangster thing. Karen wouldn't assume that it couldn't, though. Could just be strategic rationing.
Speaking of: fourteen shots. Another seventeen in the other clip. Didn't matter. She'd only need one bullet if she timed things right. On the other hand, all the ammunition in the world wouldn't help if she couldn't get a shot.
It seemed this girl didn't realize that, by the way she was firing at the tree Karen was still sheltering behind. A worthless waste of ammunition. It did make Karen jump and cringe each time, did make her breathing and pulse accelerate even more, did make her hands start to sweat, but all of that was superfluous. This was life and death. Anything that didn't hurt her or put her in a position to be hurt was extraneous.
Karen just had to fake this girl out somehow, get her to waste ammo or break cover. She looked around. No good stones to replay the grenade bluff, and, more than that, no way to pull it without a serious risk of being shot. That wasn't good. She could dig out a spare shirt from her backpack to wave as a decoy, but that wouldn't help much either, would slow her down and maybe let the other girl get in close. Close quarters were to be avoided at all costs.
So Karen took a risk, just a little one. It scared her senseless, but she took half a step from behind cover, then jerked back immediately, preemptively hiding from any incoming fire.
Speaking of: fourteen shots. Another seventeen in the other clip. Didn't matter. She'd only need one bullet if she timed things right. On the other hand, all the ammunition in the world wouldn't help if she couldn't get a shot.
It seemed this girl didn't realize that, by the way she was firing at the tree Karen was still sheltering behind. A worthless waste of ammunition. It did make Karen jump and cringe each time, did make her breathing and pulse accelerate even more, did make her hands start to sweat, but all of that was superfluous. This was life and death. Anything that didn't hurt her or put her in a position to be hurt was extraneous.
Karen just had to fake this girl out somehow, get her to waste ammo or break cover. She looked around. No good stones to replay the grenade bluff, and, more than that, no way to pull it without a serious risk of being shot. That wasn't good. She could dig out a spare shirt from her backpack to wave as a decoy, but that wouldn't help much either, would slow her down and maybe let the other girl get in close. Close quarters were to be avoided at all costs.
So Karen took a risk, just a little one. It scared her senseless, but she took half a step from behind cover, then jerked back immediately, preemptively hiding from any incoming fire.
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MurderWeasel
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((All GMing has been approved))
The fire was almost immediate. Several shots went past, not close enough to really threaten her safety, but more than sufficient to worry her. This stalemate wasn't going to end well. They were making too much noise, probably drawing psychos from all around. Karen could deal with that, but not while also under fire. Her heart was beating too quickly. End this.
She had to finish everything at range, though. She couldn't get close. Mêlée was death. On the other hand, so was plinking away at each other. She just had to think.
An idea: risky, but possible.
She ducked out from hiding again, jerked back immediately. As before, there were shots fired. Karen hadn't been counting this girl's bullets. She couldn't ensure any accuracy without the tactile sensation that came with pulling a trigger, and, more than that, she had no idea how many bullets the girl's gun had.
Never mind. Time to act. Karen's plan was to build up a pattern, get her opponent used to the tricks she was pulling, then shake things up.
She dropped her pack to the ground, letting the sword fall free. She'd need maneuverability here. The last thing she wanted was for the pommel to smack her in the back of the head and knock her out while she was moving. Caution was the way to win, to live. She'd messed up already. She should have figured out a better way to approach. She should never have gotten herself into this fight. There was only one way out now, though: over the body of her opponent.
She ducked out again, just like before, but, when she pulled back this time, she kept moving, shot around the other side of the tree, and headed straight for the table.
She'd guessed wrong. Her opponent was more canny than she'd expected. The shots didn't hit her, but only because she was moving, making it hard to track her. She ducked down, slid and stumbled and ended up behind the table, using it as cover. It wasn't as good as the tree for straight protection, but it let her keep better track of her opponent, let her keep an eye out and actually return fire. The other girl leaned out, pointed her large gun, and Karen took a shot with her Glock. A clean miss, but at least the other girl fell back into her own cover. She was the one concentrating on defense now, leaving Karen to crouch down, under the table, and plan her next move.
And then, everything went to pieces. The girl came back out, holding a different gun, bigger still, and Karen realized she was dealing with another killer. This girl had already won one gunfight, she must have. Karen was moving in a second, yanking away from the table, diving through some scrubby underbrush, pressing her back against another tree as the rattle of machine gun fire assaulted her eardrums, as the bullets tore through the table she'd been under, the scrubs she'd passed through. A few wood chips flew from her tree, but then there came silence. The other girl swore. Out of ammunition, presumably. A minute ago, Karen would have waited, would have tried to see if it was a trick or trap. Now, though, she was desperate, ready to end this as soon as she could. Everything had changed. She was outgunned, and that meant she had to be smarter and quicker.
So she broke cover and made a run at the other girl, who was in the process of switching her guns. Karen fired twice with her pistol, again missing, before the other girl stepped forward and slammed her in the gut with the butt of the rifle. Karen was already jerking back, instinctively re-distancing herself. She'd expected this girl to break, to run or something. Another case of failing entirely to understand someone else. Karen would have run, but she wasn't a natural killer, wasn't the sort to fight if there was a better option.
She gasped, stepped backwards, but kept her grip on the gun and fired again, this time finding her mark. There was blood, blood from the other girl's arm, and she shouted or screamed, and she kept coming anyways, and Karen just kept shooting.
Something smacked her again, a blow on her injured arm that threw her aim off, but she just kept pulling the trigger until the clip was empty.
It took her a few seconds to catch her breath. The fact that she had them, though, meant that she'd succeeded. She glanced down. Dead. The girl had to be dead. There was blood everywhere, and Karen just felt like crying or running or something, trying to forget all of this, but she couldn't.
She was breathing too quickly. Sweating too much. She had to go. She had to run.
She had to calm down and deal with this in a proper manner. Quick and efficient, but not panicked or rushed. She grabbed the guns from the girl's body. They were a pain to hold, along with her own Glock. She grabbed the girl's pack, glanced into it quickly. Realized she'd forgotten something. Returned to the body. Found two bandannas: black and red. Presumably, one had belonged to whoever the girl had killed. Didn't matter which. Red would show up better, and she didn't really want to touch the body more than she had to. She also felt no need to boast through her bandanna collection. They were a warning, the colorful skin of a poisonous frog. That was all. She really, really didn't want to touch the body again, anyways. It wasn't like before. It was different with a killer. It made her feel a little sick. She tied the bandanna to her arm, made sure the extra ammunition was in the girl's pack. It was. Time to move. She'd sort it all later, figure it all out later.
She stuffed the rifles into the pack, pulled it on, retrieved her own bag and sword, and got moving. This place was ruined. It wasn't secure. It wasn't good. Other killers would be coming, and even if they weren't, she didn't want to share it with a corpse. She just wanted to find somewhere safer. Maybe rest a little. Figure out how these other guns worked. The bags were so heavy. She had to do something about that, but not here. Not now.
She double checked. Made sure she had everything. She did.
So she set off again.
((Karen Ruiz continued in Chain of Sorrow))
The fire was almost immediate. Several shots went past, not close enough to really threaten her safety, but more than sufficient to worry her. This stalemate wasn't going to end well. They were making too much noise, probably drawing psychos from all around. Karen could deal with that, but not while also under fire. Her heart was beating too quickly. End this.
She had to finish everything at range, though. She couldn't get close. Mêlée was death. On the other hand, so was plinking away at each other. She just had to think.
An idea: risky, but possible.
She ducked out from hiding again, jerked back immediately. As before, there were shots fired. Karen hadn't been counting this girl's bullets. She couldn't ensure any accuracy without the tactile sensation that came with pulling a trigger, and, more than that, she had no idea how many bullets the girl's gun had.
Never mind. Time to act. Karen's plan was to build up a pattern, get her opponent used to the tricks she was pulling, then shake things up.
She dropped her pack to the ground, letting the sword fall free. She'd need maneuverability here. The last thing she wanted was for the pommel to smack her in the back of the head and knock her out while she was moving. Caution was the way to win, to live. She'd messed up already. She should have figured out a better way to approach. She should never have gotten herself into this fight. There was only one way out now, though: over the body of her opponent.
She ducked out again, just like before, but, when she pulled back this time, she kept moving, shot around the other side of the tree, and headed straight for the table.
She'd guessed wrong. Her opponent was more canny than she'd expected. The shots didn't hit her, but only because she was moving, making it hard to track her. She ducked down, slid and stumbled and ended up behind the table, using it as cover. It wasn't as good as the tree for straight protection, but it let her keep better track of her opponent, let her keep an eye out and actually return fire. The other girl leaned out, pointed her large gun, and Karen took a shot with her Glock. A clean miss, but at least the other girl fell back into her own cover. She was the one concentrating on defense now, leaving Karen to crouch down, under the table, and plan her next move.
And then, everything went to pieces. The girl came back out, holding a different gun, bigger still, and Karen realized she was dealing with another killer. This girl had already won one gunfight, she must have. Karen was moving in a second, yanking away from the table, diving through some scrubby underbrush, pressing her back against another tree as the rattle of machine gun fire assaulted her eardrums, as the bullets tore through the table she'd been under, the scrubs she'd passed through. A few wood chips flew from her tree, but then there came silence. The other girl swore. Out of ammunition, presumably. A minute ago, Karen would have waited, would have tried to see if it was a trick or trap. Now, though, she was desperate, ready to end this as soon as she could. Everything had changed. She was outgunned, and that meant she had to be smarter and quicker.
So she broke cover and made a run at the other girl, who was in the process of switching her guns. Karen fired twice with her pistol, again missing, before the other girl stepped forward and slammed her in the gut with the butt of the rifle. Karen was already jerking back, instinctively re-distancing herself. She'd expected this girl to break, to run or something. Another case of failing entirely to understand someone else. Karen would have run, but she wasn't a natural killer, wasn't the sort to fight if there was a better option.
She gasped, stepped backwards, but kept her grip on the gun and fired again, this time finding her mark. There was blood, blood from the other girl's arm, and she shouted or screamed, and she kept coming anyways, and Karen just kept shooting.
Something smacked her again, a blow on her injured arm that threw her aim off, but she just kept pulling the trigger until the clip was empty.
It took her a few seconds to catch her breath. The fact that she had them, though, meant that she'd succeeded. She glanced down. Dead. The girl had to be dead. There was blood everywhere, and Karen just felt like crying or running or something, trying to forget all of this, but she couldn't.
She was breathing too quickly. Sweating too much. She had to go. She had to run.
She had to calm down and deal with this in a proper manner. Quick and efficient, but not panicked or rushed. She grabbed the guns from the girl's body. They were a pain to hold, along with her own Glock. She grabbed the girl's pack, glanced into it quickly. Realized she'd forgotten something. Returned to the body. Found two bandannas: black and red. Presumably, one had belonged to whoever the girl had killed. Didn't matter which. Red would show up better, and she didn't really want to touch the body more than she had to. She also felt no need to boast through her bandanna collection. They were a warning, the colorful skin of a poisonous frog. That was all. She really, really didn't want to touch the body again, anyways. It wasn't like before. It was different with a killer. It made her feel a little sick. She tied the bandanna to her arm, made sure the extra ammunition was in the girl's pack. It was. Time to move. She'd sort it all later, figure it all out later.
She stuffed the rifles into the pack, pulled it on, retrieved her own bag and sword, and got moving. This place was ruined. It wasn't secure. It wasn't good. Other killers would be coming, and even if they weren't, she didn't want to share it with a corpse. She just wanted to find somewhere safer. Maybe rest a little. Figure out how these other guns worked. The bags were so heavy. She had to do something about that, but not here. Not now.
She double checked. Made sure she had everything. She did.
So she set off again.
((Karen Ruiz continued in Chain of Sorrow))
Time passed. It couldn't have been more than a couple minutes, but to Marvia it felt like hours. A smile formed on her face, followed by a quiet, pained laugh. She'd fucked up. She always thought of herself as this big bad bitch, better than everyone else. Up until this moment she had no doubt that she had what it took to survive. So much for that.
The girl tried to move, to sit up, do anything, but her body wasn't responding. Bodies tended to do that when they're full of holes. She did manage to get her arms to cooperate, resting them comfortably on her stomach. Most of the wounds she had were in that general area, but she didn't care much at that point.
In a way, she was glad that she didn't die instantly. At least now, instead of her last memories being the moment of her death, now it would be this moment, peaceful, staring into the stars above. From where she was from, in Detroit, one didn't get to see many stars. Out here though, the sky was absolutely filled with them, every inch covered in small twinkling lights. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed in her life.
Maybe He'd let her be among them.
R01, Marvia Jones: Deceased
The girl tried to move, to sit up, do anything, but her body wasn't responding. Bodies tended to do that when they're full of holes. She did manage to get her arms to cooperate, resting them comfortably on her stomach. Most of the wounds she had were in that general area, but she didn't care much at that point.
In a way, she was glad that she didn't die instantly. At least now, instead of her last memories being the moment of her death, now it would be this moment, peaceful, staring into the stars above. From where she was from, in Detroit, one didn't get to see many stars. Out here though, the sky was absolutely filled with them, every inch covered in small twinkling lights. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed in her life.
Maybe He'd let her be among them.
R01, Marvia Jones: Deceased
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