Blake shuffled through his bag of supplies.
This is bullshit. Complete bullshit! Why me?
***
He remembered he was one of the few who sat un-moving as Steven Wilson played the tape. The first time he had seen it had been wretched, but now it seemed distant, faded and irrelevant. Blake was sweating profusely and looking around the room frantically. Not a one of his good friends was in the class room. Most of his friends were at schools across town and all over town. This couldn't be good. He didn't have a single ally. This game was going to be rough, it was going to be brutal, but Blake was certain, he gulped down his doubts and tried to convince himself.
I have to do this. I have to get back. This has too be a dream. All that we see and seem is but a dream within a dream...
***
Blake had run. He had run more than he ever had in a long time. He ran till his veins pumped sweat and his lungs burned like battery acid. He didn't think. He hadn't seen or heard anybody. Panic and adrenaline had taken over. It was too much right now. He would get out of the way and get himself sorted out. It was then he found himself in the residential ghost town. He had to make a plan.
He braced himself against the wall of the house he was currently rummaging. Watching the first SOTF had given him a head start. He knew where things had to go from here. Things went bad. That's where they went. The wall paper was peeling on the wall and flakes of it fell onto Blake's green and black jacket. His palms sweated as he unintentionally ripped little thumb holes into his oversized hoody effectively turning the cuffs into gloves.
"Thank God I wore my jacket today," Blake sweated under the extra layers but he was glad he had them. His heavy green and black jacket was water proof and had a number of pockets, and his black hoody provided adequate warmth under that. As he sorted through the bag he placed his water bottle and assorted gear into his many pockets. He continued to shuffle through the bag in search of a weapon and casually swatted two books out of the way. One of them he recognized as he survival guide, he had already read it after the first SOTF, the other was all black and hard-covered. There was nothing left in the bag but the rations and these two books.
What? Where's my gun? They forgot to give me a weapon?
Blake grabbed the other book in desperation and turned it over.
No fucking way!
The Holy Bible. That was what it said in golden ingrained letters. His only weapon. A fucking book. I suppose this might be funny if someone where to say it was 'the most powerful weapon of all.' But Blake wasn't going to try to instil faith in his peers while they shot him in the face. He didn't even believe in God himself, he never really had, how could he right now?
Very funny, Danya. I beat that the viewers at home are laughing their heads off.
He touched at his collar for the second time. He had to think he had to do something. That's why Blake was raiding houses right now. He was getting everything he could finds that he could fit into an empty pocket. That's when he came across the duct tape sitting in a random kitchen drawer. He looked at the Bible in his other hand. He had been holding it out as a weapon since he had found in.
Heh, this gives me an idea.
Blake removed his Jacket and his hoody, he held the Bible against the top centre on his chest. Right above were most of the vital organs were. He took the duct tape and wrapped it around his chest. It was tight and the bible was uncomfortable against his chest but it was heavy and it was thick. He pulled his black hoody back over his head, and wrapped his jacket around himself again. This whole time he never realized he was still panting, he tried to calm himself.
Ok, let's go see what we can find.
Blake wandered around from house to house. The game was starting. He had to make a plan...
Scrounging for gear.
Scrounging for gear.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
Little did Blake know, he was not alone. At least, it was unlikely the boy noticed the most notorious of his classmates following him, stalking through houses and alleys, watching him from the occasional window, even once considering following him into one of the houses, though he hid behind a wall when the boy walked out. Indeed, he may have thought he was alone in the Residential District of the island the students of Bathurst High School had been dumped into. But he was wrong there.
The very presence of one Walter Smith proved that much. He'd returned to consciousness some time before Blake had arrived, sprawled on the kitchen floor of a house, with a pack reading "B15-Smith" lying next to him. Taking a second to get his bearings, he was unaffected as the memories of what happened in that room returned to him (though he did feel anger at the apparent betrayal of Steven Wilson, the quiet and tough, but impartial new principal they had gotten at the beginning of the year), the clip not interesting him and the nerd's death being unfortunate but in the end inevitable. Rummaging through his pack, he had seen Danya's instruction manual, just as Wilson said he would, and read through it. Satisfied that he was familiar with the rules and had been reminded of any he might not have known from watching the previous Program (he had not watched much of it, admittedly, especially when the cameras lost their signals around the ninth day), he eventually put it back, noticing the rations, medical supplies and water, but then seeing something else.
"A rock...? Why is this in here?" he had wondered to himself, arching one of his eyebrows before taking it out along with the "rulebook" (which is what he'd call the manual Danya had given the students from now on), flipping through to see if a rock was mentioned anywhere. after a short time, he determined this was supposed to be his assigned weapon. Now, while most would be infuriated at getting such a poor weapon, Walter simply calmly placed the rulebook back into his bag, zipped it up, and examined the rock. At least the rock they'd picked was decently large and rough, looking capable of doing some damage with a proper hit.
"Interesting...but I don't see how I could make much use of it." he had again said to himself, making a proper point. It wasn't that he wasn't comfortable with killing the scum also known as his classmates, in fact his only regret about that was that Jack Bexley hadn't been in school that day, but it would take too long to kill someone with a rock.
I suppose I could throw it at someone...but then I need something to back it up with. he thought at the time, looking around. On one of the counters, he saw a holder of sorts, though it did not have any knives like such things usually did. Grimacing, he searched through the drawers one would expect to find silverware in. Nothing. He'd have to improvise. Looking around the kitchen, he didn't see anything useful. Or at least, anything that wouldn't take too long to make into a weapon anyway. Looking around, he found his eyes passing by a sliding glass door in the living room that went out into a yard.
Damn it, nothi- he did a double take in the middle of this thought, returning his eyes to the sliding glass door.
Of course, the glass! Well, at least now I've got a use for that rock. he thought again, picking up the rock and moving towards the glass door. When he was close enough, he raised the rock, but stopped, lowering it. If he were to break the door from where he was, most if not all of the glass would simply fall outside onto the patio and lawn, it would be an unnecessary hassle to try to pick up a suitable piece then. Knowing this, he opened the door and stepped outside, closing the door behind him before taking a few steps and turning around.
There was a loud crashing sound as the glass door shattered, a rock flying straight through it and landing a few inches away from the mess caused. Glass everywhere, shards large and small, some just powdered dust completely crushed by either the stone or the shoes of the man who walked through the hole. Walter was careful to step around the glass, not because he was worried about being cut, but because he had broken that glass door for a reason. Stepping around all the glass as best he could, he looked over the pile. There weren't many satisfactory ones, but one immediately came to mind. It was one that had been almost right next to where the rock hit, but it was still decently-sized. It was about five inches long, and had a rather nasty-looking jagged end that'd suit him just fine for now. Being careful to grab the flat bottom part of the shard as to not cut himself, he also took the rock, putting both on one of the counters in the kitchen. Aware that there probably weren't gloves in the house, and that he'd only risk injuring his hand if he wielded the shard with just the bare glass, he considered his options. The easiest choice would be to tape up part of the bottom and use that as a handle, so he started to look through the house for tape. After a couple of frustrating minutes searching, he managed to find a roll of duct tape and taped up the bottom two inches (more or less), gripping it to make sure it worked alright. Satisfied at this, he pocketed his improvised knive, making sure the taped part was sticking out a bit.
It might not be the best weapon out there, but it'll do. As long as I'm careful I can do just fine with this until I find something better. he again thought. He had heard two shotgun blasts a bit earlier, but it didn't matter too much. He didn't even know how to use the things anyway, beyond "point gun, pull trigger". This brought his attention to the refridgerator, rather conspicuous in the small kitchen.
I should stock up a bit, I'll be damned if I stick with those rations. That's scum food. I'm Walter Smith for fuck's sake! I deserve better. thinking this, he opened the bag, put the rock in, picked it up and opened the door of the refridgerator. With the electricity limited, the lights weren't working in the fridge, and only a slight cool breeze was coming out, indicating it was starting to fail. Looking through, he only decided to take a few Pepsi cans, a Gatorade bottle and a cold slice of pizza he saw and placed on the counter, placing the cans in the bag. Moving onto the closet on the other side of the kitchen, he looked through there, putting in a few loaves of bread, and a couple of energy bars, having found little else. Reminding himself that he only needed enough food to keep himself alive, and that the human body could last a few days without food if necessary, he closed the bag again and, after heating up the pizza and eating it, left the house.
That's when he saw Blake Ross entering a house near the one he just left. Surprised at the sudden encounter, Walter had pulled out the glass shard and moved to intercept Blake, but the boy was in the house before Walter got to him, having walked when the smart thing to do would've been to sprint at Blake while he had the element of surprise. Regardless, he contemplated following Blake inside and killing him, but decided against it. It wasn't that he was reluctant to kill, but he had no idea what weapon the other boy had received, and that a shiv made from a glass shard was hardly the most durable of weapons. For all he knew (as he did not know Blake at all), the boy could be waiting in there with a trap for Walter. It would not do for him to die so early in the game.
So he waited, standing by the part of the wall that would be concealed from the boy's view by the door opening. This prevented Walter from being seen when Blake eventually left, and Walter proceeded to follow the boy in between houses. He was confused, but not disturbed by the fact that Blake had left that first house seemingly as he'd entered, unarmed. The area was rather desolate this early in the game, so Blake could've easily heard Walter if he'd shouted to him, but Walter surpressed the sudden urge to yell something like "Outlander! We have your woman!" to the other boy, and simply waited for his chance. As Blake moved from house to house, Walter would follow, occasionally going into the newly vacated house to check for things left behind (such as extra food and clothing, though he found nothing apparently useful in the weapons department, forcing him to continue to rely on the shard of glass and rock for now.). He'd pause to take the rock out and keep it in his left hand when Blake entered the most recent house, and when Blake inevitably left this one, Walter would wait for the boy to move a couple of feet away and then hurl the rock at him, hopefully hitting him in the head and knocking him down in order to stun him for Walter's charge, intending to run the boy through.
Just as Wilson said, Survival of the Fittest. I'm the fittest, the only one who deserves to live. I'll kill them all, and damn right I'll enjoy it!
OOC: Two things, Nealosi: 1) No, I don't intend to kill Blake here, just a bit of an opening scuffle, and 2) I did not intend to come across as controlling him, so sorry if I did.
The very presence of one Walter Smith proved that much. He'd returned to consciousness some time before Blake had arrived, sprawled on the kitchen floor of a house, with a pack reading "B15-Smith" lying next to him. Taking a second to get his bearings, he was unaffected as the memories of what happened in that room returned to him (though he did feel anger at the apparent betrayal of Steven Wilson, the quiet and tough, but impartial new principal they had gotten at the beginning of the year), the clip not interesting him and the nerd's death being unfortunate but in the end inevitable. Rummaging through his pack, he had seen Danya's instruction manual, just as Wilson said he would, and read through it. Satisfied that he was familiar with the rules and had been reminded of any he might not have known from watching the previous Program (he had not watched much of it, admittedly, especially when the cameras lost their signals around the ninth day), he eventually put it back, noticing the rations, medical supplies and water, but then seeing something else.
"A rock...? Why is this in here?" he had wondered to himself, arching one of his eyebrows before taking it out along with the "rulebook" (which is what he'd call the manual Danya had given the students from now on), flipping through to see if a rock was mentioned anywhere. after a short time, he determined this was supposed to be his assigned weapon. Now, while most would be infuriated at getting such a poor weapon, Walter simply calmly placed the rulebook back into his bag, zipped it up, and examined the rock. At least the rock they'd picked was decently large and rough, looking capable of doing some damage with a proper hit.
"Interesting...but I don't see how I could make much use of it." he had again said to himself, making a proper point. It wasn't that he wasn't comfortable with killing the scum also known as his classmates, in fact his only regret about that was that Jack Bexley hadn't been in school that day, but it would take too long to kill someone with a rock.
I suppose I could throw it at someone...but then I need something to back it up with. he thought at the time, looking around. On one of the counters, he saw a holder of sorts, though it did not have any knives like such things usually did. Grimacing, he searched through the drawers one would expect to find silverware in. Nothing. He'd have to improvise. Looking around the kitchen, he didn't see anything useful. Or at least, anything that wouldn't take too long to make into a weapon anyway. Looking around, he found his eyes passing by a sliding glass door in the living room that went out into a yard.
Damn it, nothi- he did a double take in the middle of this thought, returning his eyes to the sliding glass door.
Of course, the glass! Well, at least now I've got a use for that rock. he thought again, picking up the rock and moving towards the glass door. When he was close enough, he raised the rock, but stopped, lowering it. If he were to break the door from where he was, most if not all of the glass would simply fall outside onto the patio and lawn, it would be an unnecessary hassle to try to pick up a suitable piece then. Knowing this, he opened the door and stepped outside, closing the door behind him before taking a few steps and turning around.
There was a loud crashing sound as the glass door shattered, a rock flying straight through it and landing a few inches away from the mess caused. Glass everywhere, shards large and small, some just powdered dust completely crushed by either the stone or the shoes of the man who walked through the hole. Walter was careful to step around the glass, not because he was worried about being cut, but because he had broken that glass door for a reason. Stepping around all the glass as best he could, he looked over the pile. There weren't many satisfactory ones, but one immediately came to mind. It was one that had been almost right next to where the rock hit, but it was still decently-sized. It was about five inches long, and had a rather nasty-looking jagged end that'd suit him just fine for now. Being careful to grab the flat bottom part of the shard as to not cut himself, he also took the rock, putting both on one of the counters in the kitchen. Aware that there probably weren't gloves in the house, and that he'd only risk injuring his hand if he wielded the shard with just the bare glass, he considered his options. The easiest choice would be to tape up part of the bottom and use that as a handle, so he started to look through the house for tape. After a couple of frustrating minutes searching, he managed to find a roll of duct tape and taped up the bottom two inches (more or less), gripping it to make sure it worked alright. Satisfied at this, he pocketed his improvised knive, making sure the taped part was sticking out a bit.
It might not be the best weapon out there, but it'll do. As long as I'm careful I can do just fine with this until I find something better. he again thought. He had heard two shotgun blasts a bit earlier, but it didn't matter too much. He didn't even know how to use the things anyway, beyond "point gun, pull trigger". This brought his attention to the refridgerator, rather conspicuous in the small kitchen.
I should stock up a bit, I'll be damned if I stick with those rations. That's scum food. I'm Walter Smith for fuck's sake! I deserve better. thinking this, he opened the bag, put the rock in, picked it up and opened the door of the refridgerator. With the electricity limited, the lights weren't working in the fridge, and only a slight cool breeze was coming out, indicating it was starting to fail. Looking through, he only decided to take a few Pepsi cans, a Gatorade bottle and a cold slice of pizza he saw and placed on the counter, placing the cans in the bag. Moving onto the closet on the other side of the kitchen, he looked through there, putting in a few loaves of bread, and a couple of energy bars, having found little else. Reminding himself that he only needed enough food to keep himself alive, and that the human body could last a few days without food if necessary, he closed the bag again and, after heating up the pizza and eating it, left the house.
That's when he saw Blake Ross entering a house near the one he just left. Surprised at the sudden encounter, Walter had pulled out the glass shard and moved to intercept Blake, but the boy was in the house before Walter got to him, having walked when the smart thing to do would've been to sprint at Blake while he had the element of surprise. Regardless, he contemplated following Blake inside and killing him, but decided against it. It wasn't that he was reluctant to kill, but he had no idea what weapon the other boy had received, and that a shiv made from a glass shard was hardly the most durable of weapons. For all he knew (as he did not know Blake at all), the boy could be waiting in there with a trap for Walter. It would not do for him to die so early in the game.
So he waited, standing by the part of the wall that would be concealed from the boy's view by the door opening. This prevented Walter from being seen when Blake eventually left, and Walter proceeded to follow the boy in between houses. He was confused, but not disturbed by the fact that Blake had left that first house seemingly as he'd entered, unarmed. The area was rather desolate this early in the game, so Blake could've easily heard Walter if he'd shouted to him, but Walter surpressed the sudden urge to yell something like "Outlander! We have your woman!" to the other boy, and simply waited for his chance. As Blake moved from house to house, Walter would follow, occasionally going into the newly vacated house to check for things left behind (such as extra food and clothing, though he found nothing apparently useful in the weapons department, forcing him to continue to rely on the shard of glass and rock for now.). He'd pause to take the rock out and keep it in his left hand when Blake entered the most recent house, and when Blake inevitably left this one, Walter would wait for the boy to move a couple of feet away and then hurl the rock at him, hopefully hitting him in the head and knocking him down in order to stun him for Walter's charge, intending to run the boy through.
Just as Wilson said, Survival of the Fittest. I'm the fittest, the only one who deserves to live. I'll kill them all, and damn right I'll enjoy it!
OOC: Two things, Nealosi: 1) No, I don't intend to kill Blake here, just a bit of an opening scuffle, and 2) I did not intend to come across as controlling him, so sorry if I did.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.
((An opening scuffle you say? I'm intrigued, sir. You didn't come across as controlling at all. It's all good here.))
Blake continued to fill his pockets with random knick-knacks from the houses. He was careful not to make much noise and he always pushed open the doors slowly with his feet. This was a terrible situation, but he was determined to stay focused. He needed to secure his position. He would not be the killed off. Blake knew what he was doing, well at least, he knew better than many. He had read all about SOTF, he had even watched the program and he was convinced he could survive maybe even to the end.
His pocket packed with all sorts of accessories and his emptied bag stocked with food from different houses Blake had an idea. His bag was wearing on his shoulders and his jacket was fairly heavy by now, he could put up with a little more easily, but the thought best to keep it a little light. He could always come back later for more supplies. The last thing Blake did in preparation for the island was reach into a patch of rough gravel and sand and shove it into his back pant pocket.
It was just then, in the backyard of a small villa, that Blake heard a shuffling behind him. He looked around, didn't see anything, but opted to run for cover behind a large stone in the garden. He dropped into a crouch behind the rock and dirtied his baggy cargo pants in the rich garden soil.
Shit, I don't even believe this. This is so fucked up. I can't deal with this shit. I want to live you fuckers.
Blake continued to glance about nervously. Cautiousness was his friend from this point on. He made a mental note to move from house to house a little more conspicuously next time. He checked his jacket pockets one time, duct tape, yarn, Ziploc bags, aluminium foil, band-aids, safety pins and a few other things. All his food was in the bag and everything else he wouldn't need immediately. Gathering everything had calmed him a bit. Blake didn't like being a situation he couldn't control. He was thrown into this, and he hated being out of his element - one of the other reason Blake had spent much of his life in self-isolation. He laid down and felt the hard lump in his jacket bang against sternum.
This fucking Bible. This is such a stupid idea. Let's just hope they're harmless.
Blake stood up and called out. He kept his voice fairly quiet and tried his best to prevent it from sounding panicked. "Hey I know your there, come out and I won't hurt you. I'm armed and dangerous." It was just then that Blake eyed Walter.
Holy shit! It's Walter fucking Smith!
Blake had seen him in homeroom every now and then. He'd heard all the stories and after seeing the boy, he believed most of them to be true. This couldn't have been a worse chance encounter. He was taller, probably stronger and he was already moving. Blake could see Walter's body reacting to himself.
This is not good. This is not fucking good!
Blake's body tightened and tensed for impact. This was not going to be fun...
Blake continued to fill his pockets with random knick-knacks from the houses. He was careful not to make much noise and he always pushed open the doors slowly with his feet. This was a terrible situation, but he was determined to stay focused. He needed to secure his position. He would not be the killed off. Blake knew what he was doing, well at least, he knew better than many. He had read all about SOTF, he had even watched the program and he was convinced he could survive maybe even to the end.
His pocket packed with all sorts of accessories and his emptied bag stocked with food from different houses Blake had an idea. His bag was wearing on his shoulders and his jacket was fairly heavy by now, he could put up with a little more easily, but the thought best to keep it a little light. He could always come back later for more supplies. The last thing Blake did in preparation for the island was reach into a patch of rough gravel and sand and shove it into his back pant pocket.
It was just then, in the backyard of a small villa, that Blake heard a shuffling behind him. He looked around, didn't see anything, but opted to run for cover behind a large stone in the garden. He dropped into a crouch behind the rock and dirtied his baggy cargo pants in the rich garden soil.
Shit, I don't even believe this. This is so fucked up. I can't deal with this shit. I want to live you fuckers.
Blake continued to glance about nervously. Cautiousness was his friend from this point on. He made a mental note to move from house to house a little more conspicuously next time. He checked his jacket pockets one time, duct tape, yarn, Ziploc bags, aluminium foil, band-aids, safety pins and a few other things. All his food was in the bag and everything else he wouldn't need immediately. Gathering everything had calmed him a bit. Blake didn't like being a situation he couldn't control. He was thrown into this, and he hated being out of his element - one of the other reason Blake had spent much of his life in self-isolation. He laid down and felt the hard lump in his jacket bang against sternum.
This fucking Bible. This is such a stupid idea. Let's just hope they're harmless.
Blake stood up and called out. He kept his voice fairly quiet and tried his best to prevent it from sounding panicked. "Hey I know your there, come out and I won't hurt you. I'm armed and dangerous." It was just then that Blake eyed Walter.
Holy shit! It's Walter fucking Smith!
Blake had seen him in homeroom every now and then. He'd heard all the stories and after seeing the boy, he believed most of them to be true. This couldn't have been a worse chance encounter. He was taller, probably stronger and he was already moving. Blake could see Walter's body reacting to himself.
This is not good. This is not fucking good!
Blake's body tightened and tensed for impact. This was not going to be fun...
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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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LadyMakaze†
- Posts: 475
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 9:48 pm
((Uh guys, just to let you know, I don't think you can pull weapons out of the environment. I may be wrong, but don't be too surprised if a mod calls on that.))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler LadyMakaze. 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.
((I asked already if I could take the duct tape and I'm not using any of the other stuff as weapons. Beyond that sure it will be okay if I take some dirt))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
Heh. He's making this too easy! Walter thought as he charged towards Blake, a boy he had seen once or twice in homeroom but didn't really know. His rock throw had missed when the boy ducked behind a boulder that was inexplicably in one of the houses' garden, but Blake had soon after stepped out from it, calling out to Walter before seeming to realize that the six foot tall psychopath was charging at him with an improvised knife in hand. Walter had not responded to the call, after all, when one is barreling towards a classmate with the intend to stab them to death with a piece of broken glass, idle chatter is the last thing on ones mind. Such was the case with Walter, whose eyes had gained a mean, wild quality the instant he had started his attack. Like a predator. Pure rage and bloodlust were the only things he was feeling at the moment.
Kill the scum, tear it to shreds! Slice it to rags and use it as rations! It must not live! this was the demented inner voice of Walter, the source of his insane urges, his acts of violence, his bouts of uncontrolled rage. It was not an alternate personality, more like a hidden aspect of him, spurring him on to do the deeds the rumors spoke of. The look in his eyes was now matched with a wild grin on his face, wide enough to show most of his top and bottom teeth. Still grinning, he continued to charge, now going into a sort of bounding gait, raising the shard as he did so.
"Die!" he screamed at Blake, lunging at him and swinging the shard in a motion similar to a right hook, aimed at the carotid artery on Blake's neck. If it was a successful attack, it would be quick and efficient, and if not he could still recover in time.
I'm the only one of these wretches that deserves life, I'll kill them all!
OOC: Yeah, I fixed the weapon thing. Sorry it's pretty short, I'm kind of tired and rushed it.
Kill the scum, tear it to shreds! Slice it to rags and use it as rations! It must not live! this was the demented inner voice of Walter, the source of his insane urges, his acts of violence, his bouts of uncontrolled rage. It was not an alternate personality, more like a hidden aspect of him, spurring him on to do the deeds the rumors spoke of. The look in his eyes was now matched with a wild grin on his face, wide enough to show most of his top and bottom teeth. Still grinning, he continued to charge, now going into a sort of bounding gait, raising the shard as he did so.
"Die!" he screamed at Blake, lunging at him and swinging the shard in a motion similar to a right hook, aimed at the carotid artery on Blake's neck. If it was a successful attack, it would be quick and efficient, and if not he could still recover in time.
I'm the only one of these wretches that deserves life, I'll kill them all!
OOC: Yeah, I fixed the weapon thing. Sorry it's pretty short, I'm kind of tired and rushed it.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.
Holy Shit!
Gather supplies had adequately distracted Blake from the initial horrors of the game. He had thought he was adapting well. He was gathering survival supplies and preparing for the worst. He had seen how bad it could get, and he wasn't going to get robbed of his life by some random psychopath.
It isn't just the game either. It was people. Human beings are the problem. If we were the least bit altruistic as a race this whole game would be a joke. That was the problem with it, with everything. Nobody was willing to make concessions in this innately selfish society.
This game isn't about Darwinism. Human beings have long since proved that we are beyond the spectacle of evolution. We don't abide by the rules of any other species on the planet. We just grow and grow and we keep growing until we burst. That's what this is. It's society bursting at the seams. For your viewing pleasure...
At the though Blake took half an instant to look for a camera just so that he could mouth the words 'fuck you' before Walter Smith beat the crap out of him. He had been one of those people who had eagerly watched the first SOTF at home, and now it was his turn. A punishment for his vicariousness. Blake wanted to shoot someone in the mouth for this. It wasn't funny anymore. It never was...
A ray of sunlight flashed from behind Blake's sturdy form revealing a small glimmering shard tightly clasped in the hand of Walter Smith. Blake squinted to catch a better view of the tiny object.
What the fuck?!
It seemed that Blake hadn't been the only one getting wise. It seemed that Walter had also managed to improvise with the resources at hand. Blake admired Walter for his ingenuity just as he leaned back to dodge the glass shard turned dagger. The small shard sliced down as the powerful arm of Walter tore through a loose patch of his black hoody.
I can't fucking believe this. I'm not going to be Smith snacks.
He wasn't the strongest 16 year old kid, nor was he the most athletic, but God bless good genes and occasional exercise. Blake threw all his weight forward and drove his fist towards the stomach of Walter Smith before he began to loose his balance. He tried to step back but was over-extended and Blake began to stumble backwards as his foot caught itself against the large stone he had previously used for cover.
Shit, this isn't going well. Time to start thinking fast. Time to start improvising.
((Dare you challenge the Blakeness in mortal combat?!
))
Gather supplies had adequately distracted Blake from the initial horrors of the game. He had thought he was adapting well. He was gathering survival supplies and preparing for the worst. He had seen how bad it could get, and he wasn't going to get robbed of his life by some random psychopath.
It isn't just the game either. It was people. Human beings are the problem. If we were the least bit altruistic as a race this whole game would be a joke. That was the problem with it, with everything. Nobody was willing to make concessions in this innately selfish society.
This game isn't about Darwinism. Human beings have long since proved that we are beyond the spectacle of evolution. We don't abide by the rules of any other species on the planet. We just grow and grow and we keep growing until we burst. That's what this is. It's society bursting at the seams. For your viewing pleasure...
At the though Blake took half an instant to look for a camera just so that he could mouth the words 'fuck you' before Walter Smith beat the crap out of him. He had been one of those people who had eagerly watched the first SOTF at home, and now it was his turn. A punishment for his vicariousness. Blake wanted to shoot someone in the mouth for this. It wasn't funny anymore. It never was...
A ray of sunlight flashed from behind Blake's sturdy form revealing a small glimmering shard tightly clasped in the hand of Walter Smith. Blake squinted to catch a better view of the tiny object.
What the fuck?!
It seemed that Blake hadn't been the only one getting wise. It seemed that Walter had also managed to improvise with the resources at hand. Blake admired Walter for his ingenuity just as he leaned back to dodge the glass shard turned dagger. The small shard sliced down as the powerful arm of Walter tore through a loose patch of his black hoody.
I can't fucking believe this. I'm not going to be Smith snacks.
He wasn't the strongest 16 year old kid, nor was he the most athletic, but God bless good genes and occasional exercise. Blake threw all his weight forward and drove his fist towards the stomach of Walter Smith before he began to loose his balance. He tried to step back but was over-extended and Blake began to stumble backwards as his foot caught itself against the large stone he had previously used for cover.
Shit, this isn't going well. Time to start thinking fast. Time to start improvising.
((Dare you challenge the Blakeness in mortal combat?!
))This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
A small hissing sound would escape from Walter's mouth, still grinning insanely, as he exhaled while stepping back briefly, knocked back by the force of Blake's punch. He hadn't been expecting the boy to throw such a good shot, nor for said punch to hit as hard as it did. Quickly recovering from being winded by the punch, he saw Blake backed up against the large rock and moved forward again, drawing back the glass shard for another strike.
Kill it, kill it KILL IT!
These two words would loop endlessly in his mind as he pushed his hand forward, sending the shard at Blake's chest in a stabbing motion. If it worked, he would end up stabbing the boy right in the heart. While not the most efficient way to kill, such stabs worked well enough (after all, nobody has survived a stab to the heart before, or at least as far as Walter knew), and Walter could use the extra time it'd take for Blake to die from such a wound to vent some frustrations on the boy. Frustrations from being kidnapped in the first place, from being betrayed by a confidant of his father's, and from countless other sources. The look in his eyes did not change, but subconsciously the glare he wore deepened. It was clear that Male Contestant No.15, Walter Smith, was implacable, hell bent on murder. The beligerant caretaker years ago had seen this look, the Jackals had seen it, the Hellbirds had seen it, even innocent individuals who had done nothing but live in Denton and cross his path one day had seen it.
And now, Blake Ross was looking it right in the eye. People usually used the term "beast of a man" to refer to someone of great physical size and stature, but it would be a more fitting descriptor of a man who acted somewhat like an animal, savage and feral. Such a description would easily fit Walter as he attempted to murder the first person he had met since his class had been gassed (for the second time, really it was a miracle that the gas didn't kill anyone either time) and dumped on the island.
Kill it, kill it KILL IT!
These two words would loop endlessly in his mind as he pushed his hand forward, sending the shard at Blake's chest in a stabbing motion. If it worked, he would end up stabbing the boy right in the heart. While not the most efficient way to kill, such stabs worked well enough (after all, nobody has survived a stab to the heart before, or at least as far as Walter knew), and Walter could use the extra time it'd take for Blake to die from such a wound to vent some frustrations on the boy. Frustrations from being kidnapped in the first place, from being betrayed by a confidant of his father's, and from countless other sources. The look in his eyes did not change, but subconsciously the glare he wore deepened. It was clear that Male Contestant No.15, Walter Smith, was implacable, hell bent on murder. The beligerant caretaker years ago had seen this look, the Jackals had seen it, the Hellbirds had seen it, even innocent individuals who had done nothing but live in Denton and cross his path one day had seen it.
And now, Blake Ross was looking it right in the eye. People usually used the term "beast of a man" to refer to someone of great physical size and stature, but it would be a more fitting descriptor of a man who acted somewhat like an animal, savage and feral. Such a description would easily fit Walter as he attempted to murder the first person he had met since his class had been gassed (for the second time, really it was a miracle that the gas didn't kill anyone either time) and dumped on the island.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.
Time slowed to a crawl as Blake began to fall backwards with Walter's ominous dagger plunging towards his heart. As time slowed Blake's mind raced with possibilities, but mostly he just stared in awe into the eyes of Walter Smith. He was an animal. He was a monster made for this game and Blake could not remember being truly afraid of a person more than now. Blake felt something was over him as he resigned to his fear and his desperation. He was backed against the wall with no other choices but to fight, and he would fight, with all his fear-racked heart and panic-stricken mind.
He slowly moved his free hand down towards his jacket pocket as the blade descended towards his chest. He didn't know if the knife would hit him or not but he had to think fast. In his state of panic Blake did what he'd always been good at doing, thinking.
Falling onto his back with a resounding thud, the revitalizing shock ran through Blake's entire body. He looked down to see that the knife was mere inches from his heart. He reached deep, hoping to grasp a large handful of dust and gravel. The knife hit him then, square in the heart.
Blake looked down to see the small glass shard protruding from his black hoody. He didn't feel the pierce of the blade. It didn't matter at this point. Blake pulled a gob of gravel and dirt from his pocket and tossed in the direction of Walter's eyes. He reached down to check his chest and silently thank the terrorists for giving him the Bible. It made a fine piece of body armour.
He began to scrabble to escape the grasp of Walter Smith; hopefully the pocket sand and the broken shiv had startled him enough so that he could escape. He squirmed and writhed like a pinned rodent trying to break loose and escape the sharp talons and rending fangs of the hawk.
((Continued in Hiding in the Barn))
He slowly moved his free hand down towards his jacket pocket as the blade descended towards his chest. He didn't know if the knife would hit him or not but he had to think fast. In his state of panic Blake did what he'd always been good at doing, thinking.
Falling onto his back with a resounding thud, the revitalizing shock ran through Blake's entire body. He looked down to see that the knife was mere inches from his heart. He reached deep, hoping to grasp a large handful of dust and gravel. The knife hit him then, square in the heart.
Blake looked down to see the small glass shard protruding from his black hoody. He didn't feel the pierce of the blade. It didn't matter at this point. Blake pulled a gob of gravel and dirt from his pocket and tossed in the direction of Walter's eyes. He reached down to check his chest and silently thank the terrorists for giving him the Bible. It made a fine piece of body armour.
He began to scrabble to escape the grasp of Walter Smith; hopefully the pocket sand and the broken shiv had startled him enough so that he could escape. He squirmed and writhed like a pinned rodent trying to break loose and escape the sharp talons and rending fangs of the hawk.
((Continued in Hiding in the Barn))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nealosi. 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.
What the...?
Needless to say, Walter Smith's temporary return to conscious thought when he saw his improvised weapon stick into Blake's chest but fail to kill him came at a very bad time. In the few split seconds he had spent staring in surprise before extracting the weapon (which had somehow not broken, a surprisingly sharp shard), Blake reached into his pocket and threw something at him. Said something was a clump of dirt, sand, and pebbles, and Blake was too close to Walter to miss. Indeed, he didn't, as the mass hit him dead on in the eyes. Letting out a surprised shout, he stumbled back, his left hand desperately rubbing at his eyes.
Shit! How could I have been so careless?!
Walter was crazy, but he wasn't stupid. Not even close. Thus, the instant the dirt entered his eyes, he knew he was in trouble. For all he knew, that very second, Blake was drawing a concealed gun and taking aim. Ergo, he did the only thing that made sense. He turned around, and ran like hell, moving in a slight zig-zag pattern to throw off Blake's possible aim. Assuming Blake did not pursue the man who just tried to kill him, Walter would eventually disappear around a corner, having limped onto a doorstep and fumbled with the knob until he managed to throw it open. He had his eyes partially open, but they were blurred and he was blinking frantically, so sight was almost impossible. Regardless, he struggled through the house, eventually finding one of the bathrooms by process of elimination. Moving over to the sink, his eyes red both from the irritation and the tears his body produced to try and wash out the dirt (and mostly succedded, there was only a small amount left), he placed the glass shard on the side of the sink and turned on the water, making sure it was cold water and cupping it in his hands, splashing it into his face to wash out his eyes. He would do this repeatedly until the dirt was washed out. Sighing in relief as he felt the last irritants leave his eyes, he rubbed the visual receptors of his body with his hands for a few seconds before taking up the shard again and leaving.
I will have to be more careful, from now on. he found himself thinking as he traced his steps back to where he remembered putting his bag. This was true, next time he might not be so lucky as to only get some dirt in the eyes. Picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, he noticed Blake was no longer there. Quickly looking around to make sure that the boy wasn't right behind him, striking a killing blow, he sighed and shook his head.
"Looks like I have to start all over again." he muttered to himself, starting to walk away. Stopping briefly when he saw one camera, he turned his head to glare at it.
"I hope you're watching, Mister Wilson, because when I'm through with the rest of the scum you put on this island with me, I'm going after you next!"
With that said, Walter would silently leave the area, paying no heed to anyone except his own thoughts.
((Continued in Stopping for the Night))
Needless to say, Walter Smith's temporary return to conscious thought when he saw his improvised weapon stick into Blake's chest but fail to kill him came at a very bad time. In the few split seconds he had spent staring in surprise before extracting the weapon (which had somehow not broken, a surprisingly sharp shard), Blake reached into his pocket and threw something at him. Said something was a clump of dirt, sand, and pebbles, and Blake was too close to Walter to miss. Indeed, he didn't, as the mass hit him dead on in the eyes. Letting out a surprised shout, he stumbled back, his left hand desperately rubbing at his eyes.
Shit! How could I have been so careless?!
Walter was crazy, but he wasn't stupid. Not even close. Thus, the instant the dirt entered his eyes, he knew he was in trouble. For all he knew, that very second, Blake was drawing a concealed gun and taking aim. Ergo, he did the only thing that made sense. He turned around, and ran like hell, moving in a slight zig-zag pattern to throw off Blake's possible aim. Assuming Blake did not pursue the man who just tried to kill him, Walter would eventually disappear around a corner, having limped onto a doorstep and fumbled with the knob until he managed to throw it open. He had his eyes partially open, but they were blurred and he was blinking frantically, so sight was almost impossible. Regardless, he struggled through the house, eventually finding one of the bathrooms by process of elimination. Moving over to the sink, his eyes red both from the irritation and the tears his body produced to try and wash out the dirt (and mostly succedded, there was only a small amount left), he placed the glass shard on the side of the sink and turned on the water, making sure it was cold water and cupping it in his hands, splashing it into his face to wash out his eyes. He would do this repeatedly until the dirt was washed out. Sighing in relief as he felt the last irritants leave his eyes, he rubbed the visual receptors of his body with his hands for a few seconds before taking up the shard again and leaving.
I will have to be more careful, from now on. he found himself thinking as he traced his steps back to where he remembered putting his bag. This was true, next time he might not be so lucky as to only get some dirt in the eyes. Picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, he noticed Blake was no longer there. Quickly looking around to make sure that the boy wasn't right behind him, striking a killing blow, he sighed and shook his head.
"Looks like I have to start all over again." he muttered to himself, starting to walk away. Stopping briefly when he saw one camera, he turned his head to glare at it.
"I hope you're watching, Mister Wilson, because when I'm through with the rest of the scum you put on this island with me, I'm going after you next!"
With that said, Walter would silently leave the area, paying no heed to anyone except his own thoughts.
((Continued in Stopping for the Night))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.