[[Garrett Hunter continued from Project Mayhem]]
Garrett Hunter was pissed.
Pissed being his default mode of being, this was not a surprise to anyone.
It had been a long, painful, and exceptionally boring journey. He'd essentially chosen a direction and stuck to it- getting lucky in that he hadn't chosen to wander north into a danger zone, or west to the shore, or south into the thick woods. No, Garrett had gone east and found himself retracing his steps, over a bridge, back past the sawmill, past the fucking deadwood he'd woken up in, over the woods and far FUCKING away. He'd eaten a good half of his first baguette over the course of his journey, and at some point he'd had the good sense to dig some ibuprofen out of his backpack, settling the stabbing pain in his head and sides into a dull throb, and consequently lowering the volume of his nearly constant stream of curses to a dull roar.
It was incredible that he hadn't been spotted so far, really.
Somehow, by sheer luck, he'd stumbled onto something new. A little town, it looked like. Cute little suburban-type houses everywhere. Little, maybe, but certainly large enough that someone could easily be laying in wait for him. Garrett hadn't lived this long- as an outlaw of sorts back home, that was- without a healthy paranoid streak. He eyed every window, every alley, every place an enemy could be lurking...
This is a stupid shitfucking idea. I should just get the fuck out while I'm not breathing through a fucking hole in my neck...
Garrett grimaced, shutting up for the moment and putting his baguette away. He was unarmed, sure, but hell if he was gonna go down without a fucking fight or two to go with him. Cause a little mayhem, mess up the system a little, hell, that was the new goal. Murder was so expected. Garrett never, ever wanted to be predictable.
Little did he know, of course, exactly how predictable that thought was.
He wandered. Shit, it's almost fuckin', like, they sent us home and shit, except it's not fucking home and we're never going to go BACK fucking home and fuckin'- He let out a couple more curses out loud for good measure. 'Dull throbbing' or no, the pain was not putting him in a good mood.
Garrett wandered some more. There had to be something here.
Something...interesting.
God's Unwanted Children
Later in Day 3- Private between Garrett Hunter and Liz Polanski
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God's Unwanted Children
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(Liz Polanski continued from The Manslut, the Cocktease, and the Lover)
It was the sort of feminine bathroom she'd never managed to have at home; the soap came in pink, scented cakes, the tap ran clear, not stuttering, and the faucet's handles were polished brass. The towels had even been soft and expensive-looking until she had tracked filth all over them. Her face felt spongy as she picked at the blood and dirt with the soap; after a while, she dipped the edge of a towel into a faucet and scrubbed with that instead. The crap on her face sloughed off, leaving a truly rotten smell behind.
That was it. She was taking a bath.
She made sure the doors to the bathroom and the master bedroom were locked.
The master bedroom was attached to the bathroom, and both had lockable doors going out to different parts of the house. Two exits. It was good. The water from the tap was all lukewarm now, but she could use it to sponge herself off.
She stripped off her clothes, washing her limbs a piece at a time. She was jumpy now. Didn't want to be too naked. The house was settling. She was jumping at creaks and cracks. She could relax now. Pull the dirt off her skin.
She scrubbed the rose-smelling soap on the towel. It came off in chunks, like badly melted butter. She cleaned herself anyway, hissing when soap touched raw skin.
Burns stung.
She lay down on the bathmat. Let her back settle. There were scratches on her dragon tattoo. Stupid tunnels. Stupid Alex P. White. She needed a rest.
But she wasn't here to rest.
Her clothes were filthy. She scrubbed them helplessly for a few minutes, then stopped when her hands started to hurt badly again. Slopped them in the sink to soak.
A sprig of luck had stung her. Cyrille LaBlanche was Liz's size, almost exactly; four pounds heavier and even at the inches. Her jeans were the right size, though more hiphugging than Liz was quite comfortable in; her only tops were tank tops and halter tops, which made Liz wrinkle her nose. The color choices were retina-burning too; yellow, more yellow, electric blue, and one white undershirt.
Cyrille liked yellow.
The thought startled her. She had put a penny and a quarter on Cyrille's eyes. Cyrille LaBlanche, petite and pretty and nominally French, debate club. Sometimes she took long walks after school. Girlfriend, a girl, Violetta-called-Jane. They had been in love.
Liz stopped herself from wondering where Violetta-called-Jane was tonight.
There were cat ears in the bag, and an oversized red sweatshirt. Nothing else of interest. The cat ears must have been the weapon, unless the weapon was salvaged. Liz put them on, absently.
The shirt question was harder. Liz finally settled on a yellow halter, low across her hips and high around her neck. It was bare in the back, of course, but Liz didn't care. She thought of herself as ugly, mostly; her looks let her turn tricks for lonely guys, but that didn't mean she wasn't grotesque. Her backside was different though. It had muscles, improbably, and was tattooed over and around with a Chinese-style dragon. Liz turned from the bathroom mirror, and admired it.
Here I am, on SOTF, a thousand miles away from life, and I feel pretty.
It was a weird thought.
Liz pulled on the red sweatshirt, and crawled out of the bathroom. The master bedroom was decorated in dark reds, cherrywood and cedar closets. The phone, comically, was a crimson princess phone, also red. Liz snorted.
She looked around, moving her eyes back to the phone occasionally. Only one camera pointed at the phone. That was good. The wires had been snipped cleanly, by what looked like standard wire-cutters. She tested her knife against the end-table, experimentally. It was still sharp.
The phone was her priority now. But to work in peace, she would need a warm body to stand in front of the camera. Preferably one that would talk at her, or do something distracting.
So. Time to find a warm body.
Liz bit her lip. It took a long time to get up.
Time to go outside and hope the first person she met wasn't a psychopath. Or (more likely) a complete idiot. Liz blew a kiss to the air. Here's to hoping.
The lighter, the knife, a scavenged pen and legal pad, and the black lipstick all went into the pocket of the new sweatshirt. The now-functional net gun, Liz took in her left hand, and aimed it in front of her. Here's to psychopaths.
The house was quiet. Outdoors was warm-body hunting ground.
And outside, someone was cursing.
Liz opened the door. Whatever idiot this was didn't care about subtlety, so she didn't care when the door banged.
"Looking for a fight?" She said.
Then she crouched and started writing.
It was the sort of feminine bathroom she'd never managed to have at home; the soap came in pink, scented cakes, the tap ran clear, not stuttering, and the faucet's handles were polished brass. The towels had even been soft and expensive-looking until she had tracked filth all over them. Her face felt spongy as she picked at the blood and dirt with the soap; after a while, she dipped the edge of a towel into a faucet and scrubbed with that instead. The crap on her face sloughed off, leaving a truly rotten smell behind.
That was it. She was taking a bath.
She made sure the doors to the bathroom and the master bedroom were locked.
The master bedroom was attached to the bathroom, and both had lockable doors going out to different parts of the house. Two exits. It was good. The water from the tap was all lukewarm now, but she could use it to sponge herself off.
She stripped off her clothes, washing her limbs a piece at a time. She was jumpy now. Didn't want to be too naked. The house was settling. She was jumping at creaks and cracks. She could relax now. Pull the dirt off her skin.
She scrubbed the rose-smelling soap on the towel. It came off in chunks, like badly melted butter. She cleaned herself anyway, hissing when soap touched raw skin.
Burns stung.
She lay down on the bathmat. Let her back settle. There were scratches on her dragon tattoo. Stupid tunnels. Stupid Alex P. White. She needed a rest.
But she wasn't here to rest.
Her clothes were filthy. She scrubbed them helplessly for a few minutes, then stopped when her hands started to hurt badly again. Slopped them in the sink to soak.
A sprig of luck had stung her. Cyrille LaBlanche was Liz's size, almost exactly; four pounds heavier and even at the inches. Her jeans were the right size, though more hiphugging than Liz was quite comfortable in; her only tops were tank tops and halter tops, which made Liz wrinkle her nose. The color choices were retina-burning too; yellow, more yellow, electric blue, and one white undershirt.
Cyrille liked yellow.
The thought startled her. She had put a penny and a quarter on Cyrille's eyes. Cyrille LaBlanche, petite and pretty and nominally French, debate club. Sometimes she took long walks after school. Girlfriend, a girl, Violetta-called-Jane. They had been in love.
Liz stopped herself from wondering where Violetta-called-Jane was tonight.
There were cat ears in the bag, and an oversized red sweatshirt. Nothing else of interest. The cat ears must have been the weapon, unless the weapon was salvaged. Liz put them on, absently.
The shirt question was harder. Liz finally settled on a yellow halter, low across her hips and high around her neck. It was bare in the back, of course, but Liz didn't care. She thought of herself as ugly, mostly; her looks let her turn tricks for lonely guys, but that didn't mean she wasn't grotesque. Her backside was different though. It had muscles, improbably, and was tattooed over and around with a Chinese-style dragon. Liz turned from the bathroom mirror, and admired it.
Here I am, on SOTF, a thousand miles away from life, and I feel pretty.
It was a weird thought.
Liz pulled on the red sweatshirt, and crawled out of the bathroom. The master bedroom was decorated in dark reds, cherrywood and cedar closets. The phone, comically, was a crimson princess phone, also red. Liz snorted.
She looked around, moving her eyes back to the phone occasionally. Only one camera pointed at the phone. That was good. The wires had been snipped cleanly, by what looked like standard wire-cutters. She tested her knife against the end-table, experimentally. It was still sharp.
The phone was her priority now. But to work in peace, she would need a warm body to stand in front of the camera. Preferably one that would talk at her, or do something distracting.
So. Time to find a warm body.
Liz bit her lip. It took a long time to get up.
Time to go outside and hope the first person she met wasn't a psychopath. Or (more likely) a complete idiot. Liz blew a kiss to the air. Here's to hoping.
The lighter, the knife, a scavenged pen and legal pad, and the black lipstick all went into the pocket of the new sweatshirt. The now-functional net gun, Liz took in her left hand, and aimed it in front of her. Here's to psychopaths.
The house was quiet. Outdoors was warm-body hunting ground.
And outside, someone was cursing.
Liz opened the door. Whatever idiot this was didn't care about subtlety, so she didn't care when the door banged.
"Looking for a fight?" She said.
Then she crouched and started writing.
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Stomping a lot was doing a good job of cheering Garrett up. Stomp, stomp. Take out your anger on the ground and don't go around killing anyone, it seemed like a decent enough...strategy seemed like the wrong word. A decent enough coping mechanism, anyway.
Stomp, stomp, motherfucking stomp.
He glared and grunted and cursed and stomped his way through the town, feeling better and better as he made he way. The ibuprofin he'd taken was working, the pain was fading, and his anger was being siphoned out of him with every kicked bush and punched wall. His knuckles were bleeding a little, maybe, but that was definitely nothing he wasn't used to.
Garrett stopped suddenly. Sniffed the air.
Something smelled improbably...
He sniffed again.
Clean?
He was on his guard immediately- even though it seemed weird that anyone would be clean after three days on the island, or that anyone would bother trying to make themselves clean, there wasn't any other explanation for the smell. Someone was nearby, a girl probably, someone trying to kill him, and-
BANGhe jumped as the door slammed open, a fact that he mentally edited out since fuck if that wasn't just so fucking undignified. Undignified? The fuck am I even thinking about that bullshit for? He shook his thoughts off instead and looked at the girl in front of him.
He blinked.
Are those cat ears?
Outside of the fucking cat ears, there was a weird disconnect between the girl's physical appearance and her clothes- Garrett didn't dwell on that, though, given that he in no way gave a fuck. He didn't have the time to think about much of anything, though, before she spoke.
"Looking for a fight?"
The honest answer was probably yes but if this girl had a weapon that was probably suicide. Besides, she was writing something down, which gave him an out to ignore the question.
"The fuck are you writing? And the fuck are you doing going out to take a fucking shower in the middle of this shit?" - since the clean, clean smell was definitely coming from her.
Stomp, stomp, motherfucking stomp.
He glared and grunted and cursed and stomped his way through the town, feeling better and better as he made he way. The ibuprofin he'd taken was working, the pain was fading, and his anger was being siphoned out of him with every kicked bush and punched wall. His knuckles were bleeding a little, maybe, but that was definitely nothing he wasn't used to.
Garrett stopped suddenly. Sniffed the air.
Something smelled improbably...
He sniffed again.
Clean?
He was on his guard immediately- even though it seemed weird that anyone would be clean after three days on the island, or that anyone would bother trying to make themselves clean, there wasn't any other explanation for the smell. Someone was nearby, a girl probably, someone trying to kill him, and-
BANGhe jumped as the door slammed open, a fact that he mentally edited out since fuck if that wasn't just so fucking undignified. Undignified? The fuck am I even thinking about that bullshit for? He shook his thoughts off instead and looked at the girl in front of him.
He blinked.
Are those cat ears?
Outside of the fucking cat ears, there was a weird disconnect between the girl's physical appearance and her clothes- Garrett didn't dwell on that, though, given that he in no way gave a fuck. He didn't have the time to think about much of anything, though, before she spoke.
"Looking for a fight?"
The honest answer was probably yes but if this girl had a weapon that was probably suicide. Besides, she was writing something down, which gave him an out to ignore the question.
"The fuck are you writing? And the fuck are you doing going out to take a fucking shower in the middle of this shit?" - since the clean, clean smell was definitely coming from her.
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"The fuck are you writing? And the fuck are you doing going out to take a fucking shower in the middle of this shit?"
Garrett Hunter. Fight club man. Liz didn't know how he figured she'd taken a shower. Her hair had mostly dried by now. But that was beside the point.
She was writing in her smallest, most rat-like handwriting. Crosshatched, miniscule. Hopefully Garrett would be able to read it, but the cameras wouldn't. That was the hope, anyway.
CAN YOU STAND IN FRONT OF A CAMERA IN THE MASTER BEDROOM AND TALK AT ME?
This should be easy for Garrett.
I AM TRYING TO SPLICE TOGETHER A PHONE LINE AND DON'T WANT TO GET BLOWN UP BY ANNOYED TERRORISTS.
Liz bit her lip. Garrett was striding closer. He was probably going to hit her. How to end?
IF I CAN DO THIS, WE CAN CALL THE GOVERNMENT DOWN ON US OR SOMETHING.
That seemed good enough. And he was right in front of her now, which meant he was in the camera's blind spot. She folded over the note, wrote DO NOT READ ALOUD on the outside, and handed it to Garrett.
This made him do a slight double-take. But predictably, he unfolded the note and read it.
Liz waited patiently for his answer.
Garrett Hunter. Fight club man. Liz didn't know how he figured she'd taken a shower. Her hair had mostly dried by now. But that was beside the point.
She was writing in her smallest, most rat-like handwriting. Crosshatched, miniscule. Hopefully Garrett would be able to read it, but the cameras wouldn't. That was the hope, anyway.
CAN YOU STAND IN FRONT OF A CAMERA IN THE MASTER BEDROOM AND TALK AT ME?
This should be easy for Garrett.
I AM TRYING TO SPLICE TOGETHER A PHONE LINE AND DON'T WANT TO GET BLOWN UP BY ANNOYED TERRORISTS.
Liz bit her lip. Garrett was striding closer. He was probably going to hit her. How to end?
IF I CAN DO THIS, WE CAN CALL THE GOVERNMENT DOWN ON US OR SOMETHING.
That seemed good enough. And he was right in front of her now, which meant he was in the camera's blind spot. She folded over the note, wrote DO NOT READ ALOUD on the outside, and handed it to Garrett.
This made him do a slight double-take. But predictably, he unfolded the note and read it.
Liz waited patiently for his answer.
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Hollyquin†
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Garrett was (shocker!) annoyed. All he'd wanted was to kick the shit out of some inanimate objects, let his anger out, maybe run into some of his boys if he was lucky, kick the shit out of some more inanimate objects, and with any luck find she would would henceforth be known only as Fucking Mirabelle and fuck her up beyond all recognition. But no, here he was with some baby-freak-girl shoving notes in his hand.
Stupid fucking bullshit.
But curiosity prevailed, and he opened the note.
CAN YOU STAND IN FRONT OF A CAMERA IN THE MASTER BEDROOM AND TALK AT ME?
I AM TRYING TO SPLICE TOGETHER A PHONE LINE AND DON'T WANT TO GET BLOWN UP BY ANNOYED TERRORISTS.
IF I CAN DO THIS, WE CAN CALL THE GOVERNMENT DOWN ON US OR SOMETHING.
He needed a second to think. It was tempting.
So...wait, she's trying to get us fuckin' out of here? This is some escape plan shit? There's no way that shit will work, but she sounds like she knows what the fuck she's talking about. Even if I sure as shit don't. Whatever, much as I don't want to get the government involved in this, fucking pigs, least they have guns. They could kill Danya, maybe. I'll flip 'em off on the way out, sure, but it's more important that I get out, right? How's the fuckin' revolution gonna start without me?
Yeah, whatever, might as well help the baby-freak. No-fucking-other thing to do. It might work.
...I might have to kick her ass if it doesn't, though.
Garrett looked at the girl. His indecision probably showed on his face, but still, he had an answer.
"Yeah, sure, whatever, I guess."
Stupid fucking bullshit.
But curiosity prevailed, and he opened the note.
CAN YOU STAND IN FRONT OF A CAMERA IN THE MASTER BEDROOM AND TALK AT ME?
I AM TRYING TO SPLICE TOGETHER A PHONE LINE AND DON'T WANT TO GET BLOWN UP BY ANNOYED TERRORISTS.
IF I CAN DO THIS, WE CAN CALL THE GOVERNMENT DOWN ON US OR SOMETHING.
He needed a second to think. It was tempting.
So...wait, she's trying to get us fuckin' out of here? This is some escape plan shit? There's no way that shit will work, but she sounds like she knows what the fuck she's talking about. Even if I sure as shit don't. Whatever, much as I don't want to get the government involved in this, fucking pigs, least they have guns. They could kill Danya, maybe. I'll flip 'em off on the way out, sure, but it's more important that I get out, right? How's the fuckin' revolution gonna start without me?
Yeah, whatever, might as well help the baby-freak. No-fucking-other thing to do. It might work.
...I might have to kick her ass if it doesn't, though.
Garrett looked at the girl. His indecision probably showed on his face, but still, he had an answer.
"Yeah, sure, whatever, I guess."
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His indecision showed on his face.
"Yeah, sure, whatever, I guess."
Good. That was all she needed. She nodded, and led him into the house.
Her throat was still closed, and her face was stone. Her usual stomach-twisting fear of humans was coming back now, her, Liz Polanski, dressed in Cyrille LaBlanche's absurd clothes that didn't fit her at all and was she still wearing cat ears? She was. She could feel them on the top of her head. She didn't want to speak to this boy. She would make a fool of herself. She was glad that this plan necessitated only writing. And him flapping his mouth.
She had not checked him for weapons. He could kill her. Even without weapons, he was bigger than her. Walking behind her. He had experience fighting. Liz, as these last two days had shown, didn't. She was injured, he appeared healthy. Even the small things were against her--Cyrille's tight, pretty sweatshirt restricted her movement. And she was sweating, nervous around him. Humans.
And she had to trust him, because he was behind her. She hated being in situations like this.
But it's in his best interest to help me get people to this island.
But maybe he was skeptical of her plan. Maybe he thought it had no chance of working. Maybe he'd heard from Nick LaMonde, or Milo Taylor, or Alex P. White now, and thought she was a crazy murderer. Which apparently wasn't a good thing to be in this place.
Or maybe he would flip out when the plan didn't work. It had barely a chance of working. Likely the terrorists had remembered to uproot the router. Likely the router, like the cell phone tower, was on the island. Or at least they'd damaged the underwater cables going off the island so much that Liz Polanski could never hope of fixing them.
But you could never underestimate human stupidity. So she would check.
It was Mr. Kwong who had taught her how splicing worked. Rats--yes, it was rats that year, all year, she had dreamed about them with pinchers like crabs--had chewed through her apartment's telephone wire, leaving it ragged and rubbery on the ends. Liz's mother had started crying and shut herself up in her room, screaming about electricity in the ends. Little Liz had gone to the landlord, but the landlord was unhelpful--he told them that her mother left old food out all the time, that if they had rats, it was her fault, that he was a landlord, not an exterminator, and no, he didn't know how to fix their fucking phone. So Liz had gone to Mr. Kwong, quietly, that day, and asked him if he knew how to fix a phone wire.
Mr. Kwong was patient and knowledgable, even then. Liz had loved him. Still did. He had drawn her a diagram of the phone wire, straight lines within lines, organized, knowable. He had shown her how to strip off the insulation with soft-edged scissors, connect the orange wire and the "other" wire, twisting, twisting, and sealing off with Scotch tape. He taught her about circuits then, and electricity, and resistance, and the grounding pin on three-pronged plugs, and she gobbled it up, like she always did. Liz Polanski, the little hobgoblin.
She had no numbers to call if she got the phone working. Mr. Kwong was captured, probably dead, certainly without a useful cellphone. Hammy and the other dealers she occasionally worked with were less than reliable with their cells. Her mother would never answer the phone; she didn't even know if the home phone was working. 911 and 411 contained robots that would likely not recognize the significance of the call. She would have to ask Garrett for a number.
Later. She would do that later.
They entered the master bedroom. Garrett, at least not an idiot in this, stood correctly in front of the relevant camera.
Liz took her knife from her packet and began carving the rubber off the clipped wires.
"Talk." She mouthed to Garrett.
And he began to talk.
"Yeah, sure, whatever, I guess."
Good. That was all she needed. She nodded, and led him into the house.
Her throat was still closed, and her face was stone. Her usual stomach-twisting fear of humans was coming back now, her, Liz Polanski, dressed in Cyrille LaBlanche's absurd clothes that didn't fit her at all and was she still wearing cat ears? She was. She could feel them on the top of her head. She didn't want to speak to this boy. She would make a fool of herself. She was glad that this plan necessitated only writing. And him flapping his mouth.
She had not checked him for weapons. He could kill her. Even without weapons, he was bigger than her. Walking behind her. He had experience fighting. Liz, as these last two days had shown, didn't. She was injured, he appeared healthy. Even the small things were against her--Cyrille's tight, pretty sweatshirt restricted her movement. And she was sweating, nervous around him. Humans.
And she had to trust him, because he was behind her. She hated being in situations like this.
But it's in his best interest to help me get people to this island.
But maybe he was skeptical of her plan. Maybe he thought it had no chance of working. Maybe he'd heard from Nick LaMonde, or Milo Taylor, or Alex P. White now, and thought she was a crazy murderer. Which apparently wasn't a good thing to be in this place.
Or maybe he would flip out when the plan didn't work. It had barely a chance of working. Likely the terrorists had remembered to uproot the router. Likely the router, like the cell phone tower, was on the island. Or at least they'd damaged the underwater cables going off the island so much that Liz Polanski could never hope of fixing them.
But you could never underestimate human stupidity. So she would check.
It was Mr. Kwong who had taught her how splicing worked. Rats--yes, it was rats that year, all year, she had dreamed about them with pinchers like crabs--had chewed through her apartment's telephone wire, leaving it ragged and rubbery on the ends. Liz's mother had started crying and shut herself up in her room, screaming about electricity in the ends. Little Liz had gone to the landlord, but the landlord was unhelpful--he told them that her mother left old food out all the time, that if they had rats, it was her fault, that he was a landlord, not an exterminator, and no, he didn't know how to fix their fucking phone. So Liz had gone to Mr. Kwong, quietly, that day, and asked him if he knew how to fix a phone wire.
Mr. Kwong was patient and knowledgable, even then. Liz had loved him. Still did. He had drawn her a diagram of the phone wire, straight lines within lines, organized, knowable. He had shown her how to strip off the insulation with soft-edged scissors, connect the orange wire and the "other" wire, twisting, twisting, and sealing off with Scotch tape. He taught her about circuits then, and electricity, and resistance, and the grounding pin on three-pronged plugs, and she gobbled it up, like she always did. Liz Polanski, the little hobgoblin.
She had no numbers to call if she got the phone working. Mr. Kwong was captured, probably dead, certainly without a useful cellphone. Hammy and the other dealers she occasionally worked with were less than reliable with their cells. Her mother would never answer the phone; she didn't even know if the home phone was working. 911 and 411 contained robots that would likely not recognize the significance of the call. She would have to ask Garrett for a number.
Later. She would do that later.
They entered the master bedroom. Garrett, at least not an idiot in this, stood correctly in front of the relevant camera.
Liz took her knife from her packet and began carving the rubber off the clipped wires.
"Talk." She mouthed to Garrett.
And he began to talk.
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Hollyquin†
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Garrett walked behind the girl, the strange girl, the oddity, the baby-freak, into the house. Strange girl. What was her name? He wracked his brain- he was sure he knew her from somewhere, which is weird since I don't talk to fucking girls. Friend of one of the space monkeys, maybe? It was very possible. Fight Club attracted a lot of degenerate types, after all, people on the edge of society, and though Garrett didn't know it yet- cat ears and girly clothes can do a lot to disguise one's true self- that was damn straight where this girl was living.
The house was disconcertingly nice. He was on fucking Survival of the Fittest and he was in one of the fanciest houses he'd ever been in. Not that it was that fancy- it wasn't that much bigger than Aunt Rhea's house, the one he'd lived in until he was twelve- but compared to his craptacular apartment, the one he'd been stuck in with his dad for the last six years, it was a fucking mansion.
I should just chill here. Relax. Fucking...sleep. Shit, I can't even blame baby-freak for showering, it's so fucking chill in here, I'd relax too...
Garrett followed the girl, rather willingly- he wanted to see the rest of the house- and when they ended up in the master bedroom he stared at the bed with something like longing. Fuck I really haven't slept at all, not counting passing out, which I do not fucking count. Sleep sounds so fucking fantastic right now. But he had a job to do, and he was going to fucking do it, because if there was the slightest chance that this plan would work, he'd take it.
I'll be straight pissed if it doesn't, though.
And whether or not it does I'm taking this fucking bedroom. It's mine.
He stood in front of the camera. Stared it down. He could see his reflection in the convex lens and that annoyed him. He glared at it, and his reflection glared back.
Fucking cameras.
Garrett did not like cameras.
He was supposed to be saying something. Right? He really wanted to ask this girl who she was, why she seemed so familiar, but the not said talk at her, not to her. She was probably concentrating too hard to answer questions. He could ask later, if he was still in the mood.
Right now he needed something to say. He stared at his reflection in the camera lens a bit more.
And then he spoke. And he felt somehow at home. Somehow transported. Somehow, back to his favorite role, back to being fucking Tyler Durden.
"First rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Second rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Third rule of Fight Club is..."
After the rules he had about a million quotes to recite. Yeah, Garrett would go on forever if baby-freak let him. He didn't care. This was his damn show now.
The house was disconcertingly nice. He was on fucking Survival of the Fittest and he was in one of the fanciest houses he'd ever been in. Not that it was that fancy- it wasn't that much bigger than Aunt Rhea's house, the one he'd lived in until he was twelve- but compared to his craptacular apartment, the one he'd been stuck in with his dad for the last six years, it was a fucking mansion.
I should just chill here. Relax. Fucking...sleep. Shit, I can't even blame baby-freak for showering, it's so fucking chill in here, I'd relax too...
Garrett followed the girl, rather willingly- he wanted to see the rest of the house- and when they ended up in the master bedroom he stared at the bed with something like longing. Fuck I really haven't slept at all, not counting passing out, which I do not fucking count. Sleep sounds so fucking fantastic right now. But he had a job to do, and he was going to fucking do it, because if there was the slightest chance that this plan would work, he'd take it.
I'll be straight pissed if it doesn't, though.
And whether or not it does I'm taking this fucking bedroom. It's mine.
He stood in front of the camera. Stared it down. He could see his reflection in the convex lens and that annoyed him. He glared at it, and his reflection glared back.
Fucking cameras.
Garrett did not like cameras.
He was supposed to be saying something. Right? He really wanted to ask this girl who she was, why she seemed so familiar, but the not said talk at her, not to her. She was probably concentrating too hard to answer questions. He could ask later, if he was still in the mood.
Right now he needed something to say. He stared at his reflection in the camera lens a bit more.
And then he spoke. And he felt somehow at home. Somehow transported. Somehow, back to his favorite role, back to being fucking Tyler Durden.
"First rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Second rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Third rule of Fight Club is..."
After the rules he had about a million quotes to recite. Yeah, Garrett would go on forever if baby-freak let him. He didn't care. This was his damn show now.
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storyspoiler†
- Posts: 152
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 6:16 am
"First rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Second rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club..."
And Garrett's voice was a soothing babble. She didn't have to talk back. Relief slid over her like cold water.
"...Third rule of Fight Club is..."
And Liz started working on the phone line.
Strip the main wire of insulation. That's what knives are for. Carefully now, don't bite into the lines themselves. Separate the two wires inside. Don't let your fingers tremble, that will just make things worse. Slide the phone over the bedside table so you get a little slack. Pull the two wires apart. Strip them, too, of rubber a bit. Don't worry about touching the copper, the voltage isn't very high--it shocks your fingers, an electric sparkle, a sedate tingle and burn--maybe that'll make them stop trembling. Connect them to the lines in the cut wire, match each one, check twice. Wrap copper upon copper, twisting, making minuscule folds in the wire. More surface area. Everything is touching. Use the Scotch tape you stashed on the bedside table to hold the wires together, a splice, a clean one like the one on your own home phone. Check twice. Good. Beautiful.
Now sit on the floor. Quiet. Sweating. Get the nerve to pick up the phone. This isn't going to work. This isn't going to work. You know this isn't going to work. You almost want to cry with how much this isn't going to work. But your hands are still trembling as you pick up the phone. Just a little bit. You want it to work. You want to survive.
Don't dream too far, Liz.
University.
You pick up the phone.
But there's no dial tone.
Yes, the terrorists have been smart. They've uprooted the router, or cut the phone lines underwater, or done something that you, Liz Polanski, can't fix with the pitiful technical knowledge you have. And part of you wants to die, then. Part of you wants to give up.
I want to die.
But no. Don't think those thoughts, Liz Polanski. Pull yourself together. Put your shoulders up.
Sigh a little, if you need to. But don't let Garrett Hunter see your feelings on your face. Turn back to him, calm.
"It's a no go."
And now you just want to lie down, rest. You're drained. You hurt, the aching parts and the burns and the soreness, and your hands need to relax. You want to sleep, and try not to pound the bed in frustration.
You want to stop thinking about suicide.
But it's not going to happen. Because Garrett Hunter has turned toward Liz Polanski, and Liz Polanski, as usual, didn't anticipate his reaction. Because Garrett Hunter has his fists balled and his teeth clenched, and Garrett Hunter looks furious.
And Garrett's voice was a soothing babble. She didn't have to talk back. Relief slid over her like cold water.
"...Third rule of Fight Club is..."
And Liz started working on the phone line.
Strip the main wire of insulation. That's what knives are for. Carefully now, don't bite into the lines themselves. Separate the two wires inside. Don't let your fingers tremble, that will just make things worse. Slide the phone over the bedside table so you get a little slack. Pull the two wires apart. Strip them, too, of rubber a bit. Don't worry about touching the copper, the voltage isn't very high--it shocks your fingers, an electric sparkle, a sedate tingle and burn--maybe that'll make them stop trembling. Connect them to the lines in the cut wire, match each one, check twice. Wrap copper upon copper, twisting, making minuscule folds in the wire. More surface area. Everything is touching. Use the Scotch tape you stashed on the bedside table to hold the wires together, a splice, a clean one like the one on your own home phone. Check twice. Good. Beautiful.
Now sit on the floor. Quiet. Sweating. Get the nerve to pick up the phone. This isn't going to work. This isn't going to work. You know this isn't going to work. You almost want to cry with how much this isn't going to work. But your hands are still trembling as you pick up the phone. Just a little bit. You want it to work. You want to survive.
Don't dream too far, Liz.
University.
You pick up the phone.
But there's no dial tone.
Yes, the terrorists have been smart. They've uprooted the router, or cut the phone lines underwater, or done something that you, Liz Polanski, can't fix with the pitiful technical knowledge you have. And part of you wants to die, then. Part of you wants to give up.
I want to die.
But no. Don't think those thoughts, Liz Polanski. Pull yourself together. Put your shoulders up.
Sigh a little, if you need to. But don't let Garrett Hunter see your feelings on your face. Turn back to him, calm.
"It's a no go."
And now you just want to lie down, rest. You're drained. You hurt, the aching parts and the burns and the soreness, and your hands need to relax. You want to sleep, and try not to pound the bed in frustration.
You want to stop thinking about suicide.
But it's not going to happen. Because Garrett Hunter has turned toward Liz Polanski, and Liz Polanski, as usual, didn't anticipate his reaction. Because Garrett Hunter has his fists balled and his teeth clenched, and Garrett Hunter looks furious.
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Hollyquin†
- Posts: 332
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:24 am
"God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars..."
Oh, yeah, Garrett Hunter was on a fuckin' roll here. Anyone who hadn't seen Fight Club would be thinking, right now, here is the voice of a generation. Anyone who had seen Fight Club would be thinking, here is a man who understands greatness. Either was, oh yes, people would be rooting for him now. They needed him, the people needed him to get off this godfucking island and start the revolution. Maybe it would even be starting without him! Maybe, so inspired by the great words of Tyler Durden, the people would be truly moved to start something.
Now, more than ever, he wanted off this island. He wanted to be there for what was sure to be happening at home. Can't lead the rebellion when you're dead. Serve as a martyr-figure, sure, but not lead. This plan better fucking work.
"We have no great war. No great depression. Our great war's a spiritual war... our great depression is our lives..."
He heard movement. Should he turn around now? Probably not yet. She could be still doing something important. Better to keep an eye on the camera. Keep his mouth open. Who knew when he'd get his next chance to move the people?
"We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't."
Sigh. A tiny sound from behind him. He almost turned, but didn't.
"And we're slowly learning that fact."
Another slight movement. It was over now, he knew it. Sink or swim, victory or defeat. Admittedly the odds weren't good.
"And we're very, very pissed off."
"It's a no go."
And I'm very, very pissed off.
Garrett whirled around. Cult of personality face, off. Angry, fuck-a-bitch-up (or fuck-a-baby-freak-up rather) face, on. Unexpected? Not in the least- Garrett was not what you'd call an optimist- but that didn't make him any less angry.
He wasn't supposed to die here. He had big things ahead of him. Survival of the Fittest was a waste of his potential and everyone knew it.
But now he was going to die because this fucking bitch failed.
"So much for getting us the fuck outta here, huh?" There was danger there, in his voice. "So much for saving everyone. So much for your mother-fuckin' talent. Stupid fucking bitch, fucking useless, did you really think you were smart enough to get around fucking Danya? Sure he's a fucking cocksucker faggot prick, but he's smart. And you're just the fucking dumb whore who thought she could beat the system."
His rage was conflicted. On one side, wasn't that what he wanted to do? Beat the system? Here and at home? Sure it was, and he couldn't hate her for that, though he sure sounded like he did. On the other, he was realizing now how hopeless this plan from the beginning.
He was also realizing he'd put all his hopes on a fucking girl and that made him hate her even more for her failure.
"You thought you were the special one, the one who had it in her to get everyone home safely to their mommies and their shitty fucking lives. And guess what? You were wrong, you know now that you're as big as a fucking idiot as the rest of them. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. And you're going to die like a dog like everyone else out there."
His fist slammed into the wall behind him. It hurt, but he didn't flinch.
"Now get the fuck out of here before I decide to kill you myself."
Oh, yeah, Garrett Hunter was on a fuckin' roll here. Anyone who hadn't seen Fight Club would be thinking, right now, here is the voice of a generation. Anyone who had seen Fight Club would be thinking, here is a man who understands greatness. Either was, oh yes, people would be rooting for him now. They needed him, the people needed him to get off this godfucking island and start the revolution. Maybe it would even be starting without him! Maybe, so inspired by the great words of Tyler Durden, the people would be truly moved to start something.
Now, more than ever, he wanted off this island. He wanted to be there for what was sure to be happening at home. Can't lead the rebellion when you're dead. Serve as a martyr-figure, sure, but not lead. This plan better fucking work.
"We have no great war. No great depression. Our great war's a spiritual war... our great depression is our lives..."
He heard movement. Should he turn around now? Probably not yet. She could be still doing something important. Better to keep an eye on the camera. Keep his mouth open. Who knew when he'd get his next chance to move the people?
"We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't."
Sigh. A tiny sound from behind him. He almost turned, but didn't.
"And we're slowly learning that fact."
Another slight movement. It was over now, he knew it. Sink or swim, victory or defeat. Admittedly the odds weren't good.
"And we're very, very pissed off."
"It's a no go."
And I'm very, very pissed off.
Garrett whirled around. Cult of personality face, off. Angry, fuck-a-bitch-up (or fuck-a-baby-freak-up rather) face, on. Unexpected? Not in the least- Garrett was not what you'd call an optimist- but that didn't make him any less angry.
He wasn't supposed to die here. He had big things ahead of him. Survival of the Fittest was a waste of his potential and everyone knew it.
But now he was going to die because this fucking bitch failed.
"So much for getting us the fuck outta here, huh?" There was danger there, in his voice. "So much for saving everyone. So much for your mother-fuckin' talent. Stupid fucking bitch, fucking useless, did you really think you were smart enough to get around fucking Danya? Sure he's a fucking cocksucker faggot prick, but he's smart. And you're just the fucking dumb whore who thought she could beat the system."
His rage was conflicted. On one side, wasn't that what he wanted to do? Beat the system? Here and at home? Sure it was, and he couldn't hate her for that, though he sure sounded like he did. On the other, he was realizing now how hopeless this plan from the beginning.
He was also realizing he'd put all his hopes on a fucking girl and that made him hate her even more for her failure.
"You thought you were the special one, the one who had it in her to get everyone home safely to their mommies and their shitty fucking lives. And guess what? You were wrong, you know now that you're as big as a fucking idiot as the rest of them. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. And you're going to die like a dog like everyone else out there."
His fist slammed into the wall behind him. It hurt, but he didn't flinch.
"Now get the fuck out of here before I decide to kill you myself."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hollyquin. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
-
storyspoiler†
- Posts: 152
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 6:16 am
"So much for getting us the fuck outta here, huh?" There was danger there, in his voice. "So much for saving everyone. So much for your mother-fuckin' talent. Stupid fucking bitch, fucking useless, did you really think you were smart enough to get around fucking Danya? Sure he's a fucking cocksucker faggot prick, but he's smart. And you're just the fucking dumb whore who thought she could beat the system."
Liz leaned back against the wall. She was tired. She hurt. She was trying to think of more things to do. More ways to escape. Brute force it 'till it's done.. Or as Mr. Kwong said, try, try, try again.
But it was hard to think now. And hard not to listen. Because this boy's words hurt.
Liz Polanski was not used to taking what other people said into account. But right now she was too vulnerable not to, too sick at heart, and the words hit close.
You're just the fucking dumb whore who thought she could beat the system.
A lot of boys had called her that. A fucking dumb whore. He wasn't the first one, nor the one with the most precedent. But somehow it was him, Garrett Hunter, who was making her most want to cry.
Yeah. The island was getting to her. Her raw hands and burnt feet stung. She was falling apart, right here, right now, her body was literally falling to pieces. It disturbed her to see.
"You thought you were the special one, the one who had it in her to get everyone home safely to their mommies and their shitty fucking lives. And guess what? You were wrong, you know now that you're as big as a fucking idiot as the rest of them. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. And you're going to die like a dog like everyone else out there."
It was true.
I was going to be a mathematician. I was going to go to University, like a real girl.
Danya doesn't care.
And that was the nasty thing, of course, about this show. The terrorists didn't care what you were going to be. They just saw you now as cannon fodder, entertainment tool--
Motherfucker. All Liz wanted to do was do math. She wanted to do math until she died, because it was easier than dealing with everything else. Everything made sense, made so much sense when numbers were involved. Numbers and clear paper and a quiet room.
You're going to die like a dog like everyone else out there.
Garrett punched the wall behind him. Liz startled, put a hand to her knife instinctively. No, don't stab. It won't end well.
"Now get the fuck out of here before I decide to kill you myself."
And Liz was scared. Liz was scared of Garrett Hunter. She couldn't push back emotions, let cold rationality take the lead, because rationality had failed her, it had failed with Nick LaMonde and Alex P. White and everyone who wanted to kill her. It had failed her hands and feet, burnt raw after not so many days. And so she couldn't go cold in front of Garrett Hunter, leave quiet and stoic and unshaken.
She was scared like an animal now. And she was no better, no smarter than anyone else.
Yes. I wanted to live.
But her job now was to get out of here. Obey Garrett Hunter.
There were two exits. Garrett was standing in front of one. She took the other, so as not to bother him. Made sure Cyrille's bag was on her back as she left.
She was shaking. When she was out of the room with Garrett, she was shaking more. Needed a light. Not going to get one. Her cigarettes were drowned.
Twist and turn, get lost until you get out of the house. Retreat into a cold garage, with a door that sticks and bolts behind you. The garage smells of polish and mildew.
The next best thing to a cigarette was a math problem. Better in the long run. Mr. Kwong's problems for her were still in the swamp. She could remember a few, symbols clattering around in her brain. Prove that there are infinitely number of k's such that 4k + 3 is prime. Maybe there were math textbooks in one of these houses, that she could steal.
The garage was cold. She wrapped her arms around her. Body heat was seeping out. Maybe she would sleep.
(Liz Polanski continued in Metalcrafting)
Liz leaned back against the wall. She was tired. She hurt. She was trying to think of more things to do. More ways to escape. Brute force it 'till it's done.. Or as Mr. Kwong said, try, try, try again.
But it was hard to think now. And hard not to listen. Because this boy's words hurt.
Liz Polanski was not used to taking what other people said into account. But right now she was too vulnerable not to, too sick at heart, and the words hit close.
You're just the fucking dumb whore who thought she could beat the system.
A lot of boys had called her that. A fucking dumb whore. He wasn't the first one, nor the one with the most precedent. But somehow it was him, Garrett Hunter, who was making her most want to cry.
Yeah. The island was getting to her. Her raw hands and burnt feet stung. She was falling apart, right here, right now, her body was literally falling to pieces. It disturbed her to see.
"You thought you were the special one, the one who had it in her to get everyone home safely to their mommies and their shitty fucking lives. And guess what? You were wrong, you know now that you're as big as a fucking idiot as the rest of them. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. And you're going to die like a dog like everyone else out there."
It was true.
I was going to be a mathematician. I was going to go to University, like a real girl.
Danya doesn't care.
And that was the nasty thing, of course, about this show. The terrorists didn't care what you were going to be. They just saw you now as cannon fodder, entertainment tool--
Motherfucker. All Liz wanted to do was do math. She wanted to do math until she died, because it was easier than dealing with everything else. Everything made sense, made so much sense when numbers were involved. Numbers and clear paper and a quiet room.
You're going to die like a dog like everyone else out there.
Garrett punched the wall behind him. Liz startled, put a hand to her knife instinctively. No, don't stab. It won't end well.
"Now get the fuck out of here before I decide to kill you myself."
And Liz was scared. Liz was scared of Garrett Hunter. She couldn't push back emotions, let cold rationality take the lead, because rationality had failed her, it had failed with Nick LaMonde and Alex P. White and everyone who wanted to kill her. It had failed her hands and feet, burnt raw after not so many days. And so she couldn't go cold in front of Garrett Hunter, leave quiet and stoic and unshaken.
She was scared like an animal now. And she was no better, no smarter than anyone else.
Yes. I wanted to live.
But her job now was to get out of here. Obey Garrett Hunter.
There were two exits. Garrett was standing in front of one. She took the other, so as not to bother him. Made sure Cyrille's bag was on her back as she left.
She was shaking. When she was out of the room with Garrett, she was shaking more. Needed a light. Not going to get one. Her cigarettes were drowned.
Twist and turn, get lost until you get out of the house. Retreat into a cold garage, with a door that sticks and bolts behind you. The garage smells of polish and mildew.
The next best thing to a cigarette was a math problem. Better in the long run. Mr. Kwong's problems for her were still in the swamp. She could remember a few, symbols clattering around in her brain. Prove that there are infinitely number of k's such that 4k + 3 is prime. Maybe there were math textbooks in one of these houses, that she could steal.
The garage was cold. She wrapped her arms around her. Body heat was seeping out. Maybe she would sleep.
(Liz Polanski continued in Metalcrafting)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler storyspoiler. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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Hollyquin†
- Posts: 332
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:24 am
As irritated as Garrett had been getting at the baby-freak, he found himself yet more annoyed at her sudden departure. What had he been doing in the residential district to begin with? He remembered her words- looking for a fight? and grunted an affirmative to himself. That was exactly what he'd been looking for, he just hadn't realized it, and now that this girl was fleeing like a fucking scared puppy he was incredibly pissed off at her for doing just what he'd told her to do.
Fucking girls. A man would have stood and fought. A man, or Mirabelle.
He growled at the memory of Mira-fucking-belle-fucking-Nesa, she who kicked Garrett's ass hardcore (not that it was a fair fight, no, she clearly had the upper hand considering Garrett's weapon handicap).
She's going to pay for that bullshit, he told himself, not for the first time since he left the swamp. I'll fucking kill her. Her and baby-freak. and anyone else who fucks with me.
The real question was do I mean that shit? At home kill means fuck up beyond recognition. Here kill means...fuckin'...kill. Nah, I can't fuckin' kill anyone, shit. I shouldn't...shouldn't...that shit's wrong, isn't it? Killing people.
He remembered the name Raymond K. Hessel, just for a moment, and then let it slip away.
No, no killing. Fighting. Keep myself alive, let the others kill each other...yeah.
Fight. Gotta fight to live. Always fighting.
He was tired, and he was hungry. Sitting on the giant bed, he pulled a baguette from his bag and ripped off a huge piece, gnawing on it like a mouse.
So much fighting...this place would be fuckin' perfect for me if they took all the goddamn guns away. Hah. Wonder if all this fighting's gonna get me out of here. Maybe I could do some other shit.
Start some shit. Fuck some shit up. Fuck with Danya! Yeah...that would be fuckin' sweet.
He smiled a sleepy smile. The pink tint of sundown was starting to touch the sky. It was early, by his standards, but he was inexplicably exhausted. His thoughts slowed and dripped through his mind like molasses.
Gotta...do something else. Not just fighting. Fighting's not gonna fuckin' get me out of here...is it? Not against...guns and shit. Get ridda' the guns, maybe then, but I can't do that shit. But fucking with Danya, I can do that.
Having finished the bread, he laid back on the bed, kicking his shoes off, throwing his daypack unceremoniously on the ground.
I'm gonna be so pissed if someone busts in here.
Garrett was asleep in seconds, dreaming of things that sucked slightly less than this.
[[Garrett Hunter continued on Day 4 in Burn the Louvre]]
[[THREAD CLOSED]]
Fucking girls. A man would have stood and fought. A man, or Mirabelle.
He growled at the memory of Mira-fucking-belle-fucking-Nesa, she who kicked Garrett's ass hardcore (not that it was a fair fight, no, she clearly had the upper hand considering Garrett's weapon handicap).
She's going to pay for that bullshit, he told himself, not for the first time since he left the swamp. I'll fucking kill her. Her and baby-freak. and anyone else who fucks with me.
The real question was do I mean that shit? At home kill means fuck up beyond recognition. Here kill means...fuckin'...kill. Nah, I can't fuckin' kill anyone, shit. I shouldn't...shouldn't...that shit's wrong, isn't it? Killing people.
He remembered the name Raymond K. Hessel, just for a moment, and then let it slip away.
No, no killing. Fighting. Keep myself alive, let the others kill each other...yeah.
Fight. Gotta fight to live. Always fighting.
He was tired, and he was hungry. Sitting on the giant bed, he pulled a baguette from his bag and ripped off a huge piece, gnawing on it like a mouse.
So much fighting...this place would be fuckin' perfect for me if they took all the goddamn guns away. Hah. Wonder if all this fighting's gonna get me out of here. Maybe I could do some other shit.
Start some shit. Fuck some shit up. Fuck with Danya! Yeah...that would be fuckin' sweet.
He smiled a sleepy smile. The pink tint of sundown was starting to touch the sky. It was early, by his standards, but he was inexplicably exhausted. His thoughts slowed and dripped through his mind like molasses.
Gotta...do something else. Not just fighting. Fighting's not gonna fuckin' get me out of here...is it? Not against...guns and shit. Get ridda' the guns, maybe then, but I can't do that shit. But fucking with Danya, I can do that.
Having finished the bread, he laid back on the bed, kicking his shoes off, throwing his daypack unceremoniously on the ground.
I'm gonna be so pissed if someone busts in here.
Garrett was asleep in seconds, dreaming of things that sucked slightly less than this.
[[Garrett Hunter continued on Day 4 in Burn the Louvre]]
[[THREAD CLOSED]]
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Hollyquin. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.