The others seemed to like his plan to search for extra junk and Brendan couldn't help but smile, glad to see that, at least for now, he was the impromptu leader of this little band. Everything really was working out like he thought it would...well, besides the lack of an actual weapon and the fact that Chris didn't really find anything useful laying around inside the Jeep. If it was the movies, there would have been a gun in there for some reason and then they'd really have some sort of protection. Still...this wasn't a movie and reality always had a nice way of shitting on your parade.
He sighed and shrugged. "Well, there's really nothing we can do about it if nothing's lying around. Thanks for searching, Chris."
Brendan began sliding on the boxing gloves that he can received from Wendy, squeezing his fists to see if they felt okay. They weren't too tight, but they were kind of heavy...nothing he couldn't handle, of course. "Well...we can spread out more and see if there's anything else hidden in the corners of this place, but I'd rather not have us split up. And if we've gotten all we can from here, let's head off."
'But where to go...Officer's Quarters or the Hospital...' He thought to himself. "Let's try the Officer's Quarters. Hopefully we'll find some better equipment there and it sounds like a good place where we can hole up for a while, right? If none of you have any objections...let's go. And make sure we all stick together. I just found all you guys, I don't want to lose any of you."
'Classic hero line! I could really get used to this, actually.'
Question?
M28 - Chris Mitchell Start, OPEN
Moderator: Sh4dE
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Casey The Undead*
- Posts: 196
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:44 am
Chris didn't find anything, which was...disheartening to say the least. Megan combed a hand through her hair, feeling the migraine coming on. This was perfect. Just perfect. Up shit creek without a weapon.
Okay, so we have a snarky bitch-queen with a helmet, a pantsless cheerleader, a ginger with a pipe, and a drama king with some spiffy gloves and butane.
Megan cocked her head to the side. "Well this could have all gone better."
Brendon mentioned the Officer's Quarters, and Megan nodded slightly. All she'd done the whole game is bitch and run away. It was like she was at home!
...Except the running part. But hey, one out of two isn't that bad.
And besides, Brendon appeared to be cracking jokes- at least she hoped to God he was cracking jokes with that wonderfully cheesy tidbit about not wanting to lose them- so what did she have to worry about? Nothing, that's what. She'd be jus-
The announcements blared to life, scaring the ever loving crap out of Megan and causing her to leap about a foot into the air. "Holy crap!" Her hand flew to her heart, which was now desperately trying to release itself from her chest.
"Damnit. It's been six hours already?" Time flies when you're having fun, I guess. ...Clearly time has a fucked up definition of fun, but, hey, whatever floats your boat.
...One kid. One kid was dead. "That's it?"
That sounded meaner than she had intended it too. But Megan loved watching the Program, and in all of her years of watching it, she swore that there were usually more than just one person killed in the first six hours. These games usually went a lot faster.
Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe no one had cracked, and no one was killing, or the people who were killing just really fucking sucked at it, or whatever. The point was that she wasn't dead, and that was all that really mattered.
Not that it would last long, she figured. What were her odds, really?
I wonder if he went to heaven. If there is a heaven. Maybe he just faded away. Maybe it's just black. No heaven, no hell, no purgatory, just....black. No more seeing anyone he loved. No more talking, or laughing just....black. Pitch black.
Megan swallowed the lump in her throat, pushed aside the fear in her stomach, and blinked away the slowly forming tears.
You cry and your makeup smears, and then you look like shit on national TV, and that is not good. Man up right now Missy.
"Right. Didn't anyone ever tell that man that it's rude to interrupt people when they're planning out how to live without a decent weapon? Geeze. Some people just have no manners, I swear."
She glanced around the group. "Kay, looks like it's priority list time. Weapons, beds, shelter, safety, pants. Or...no, wait, lemme try again. Weapons, safety, shelter, beds, pants. Yeah. That sounds better."
She looked up at Brendon. "Well Mr. Leaderman, you wanna take our ragtag group out of here?" She flipped the helmet back on her head, securing it. She hit it twice. "I'm ready to roll."
Okay, so we have a snarky bitch-queen with a helmet, a pantsless cheerleader, a ginger with a pipe, and a drama king with some spiffy gloves and butane.
Megan cocked her head to the side. "Well this could have all gone better."
Brendon mentioned the Officer's Quarters, and Megan nodded slightly. All she'd done the whole game is bitch and run away. It was like she was at home!
...Except the running part. But hey, one out of two isn't that bad.
And besides, Brendon appeared to be cracking jokes- at least she hoped to God he was cracking jokes with that wonderfully cheesy tidbit about not wanting to lose them- so what did she have to worry about? Nothing, that's what. She'd be jus-
The announcements blared to life, scaring the ever loving crap out of Megan and causing her to leap about a foot into the air. "Holy crap!" Her hand flew to her heart, which was now desperately trying to release itself from her chest.
"Damnit. It's been six hours already?" Time flies when you're having fun, I guess. ...Clearly time has a fucked up definition of fun, but, hey, whatever floats your boat.
...One kid. One kid was dead. "That's it?"
That sounded meaner than she had intended it too. But Megan loved watching the Program, and in all of her years of watching it, she swore that there were usually more than just one person killed in the first six hours. These games usually went a lot faster.
Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe no one had cracked, and no one was killing, or the people who were killing just really fucking sucked at it, or whatever. The point was that she wasn't dead, and that was all that really mattered.
Not that it would last long, she figured. What were her odds, really?
I wonder if he went to heaven. If there is a heaven. Maybe he just faded away. Maybe it's just black. No heaven, no hell, no purgatory, just....black. No more seeing anyone he loved. No more talking, or laughing just....black. Pitch black.
Megan swallowed the lump in her throat, pushed aside the fear in her stomach, and blinked away the slowly forming tears.
You cry and your makeup smears, and then you look like shit on national TV, and that is not good. Man up right now Missy.
"Right. Didn't anyone ever tell that man that it's rude to interrupt people when they're planning out how to live without a decent weapon? Geeze. Some people just have no manners, I swear."
She glanced around the group. "Kay, looks like it's priority list time. Weapons, beds, shelter, safety, pants. Or...no, wait, lemme try again. Weapons, safety, shelter, beds, pants. Yeah. That sounds better."
She looked up at Brendon. "Well Mr. Leaderman, you wanna take our ragtag group out of here?" She flipped the helmet back on her head, securing it. She hit it twice. "I'm ready to roll."
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chitoryu12*
- Posts: 64
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:16 am
((John Ferrara continued from Calm Like a Bomb))
There was still a distant tinge of oil somewhere in the air. The trucks weren't going anywhere any time soon, but they used to be functional and well-maintained. The garage still had a scent of oil and gasoline, albeit faint. A glimmer of the compound's former functionality.
John was always a soccer guy, ever since he was a small child. He was still able to recognize football, however. A rough and tumble sport where big men in tight pants tackled each other and celebrated moving three feet closer to the opponent's goal.
Meaning he was quite confused at the sight of a girl wearing a football helmet. Being ducked behind the wall, however, he was fairly confident that they did not notice his muttered "What the fu..."
There was also a girl with no pants. Her underwear had strawberries on them. That probably helped with his reaction.
Do or die, Johnny. Get back home.
And kill plenty of innocent children along the way.
Matt deserved it. He was a racist fuck with no redeeming values.
Sure, kill them. But why kill the others?
Survival.
Let them kill each other off. No blood on your hands.
Fuck it, let's at least do something.
Crouching and leaning around the corner, John sighted on a red tool cart next to the girl with the football helmet; probably empty, knowing the cleaning job the military did with them.
BANG
Ears ringing again, he watched as the tool cart shook and spun slightly away from helmet girl, a fresh hole in the dusty red surface. He turned, aiming another shot at the front of a jeep with its hood up.
BANG
He barely heard that next one. A neat hole appeared right in the grill, sending microscopic bits of metal shrapnel out. He decided one more would be good.
Click
Eh?
He pulled the trigger again.
Click
Frustrated and ignoring the fact that he just alerted an entire garage of people to his location, he began looking over the gun, and almost immediately found the problem; a shiny piece of brass was sticking out of the ejection port in the side of the gun.
The technical term for this was a stovepipe jam; the casing fails to eject properly, the bolt coming forward before it's completely out and trapping the brass. Fixing a stovepipe is a simple procedure: pull the bolt handle back, tilt the gun to let the casing fall out, let the bolt handle snap forward to load the next round.
John Ferrara knew absolutely none of this. He thus proceeded to slap the side of the gun like a sentient otter, hoping that whatever happened would be fixed.
There was still a distant tinge of oil somewhere in the air. The trucks weren't going anywhere any time soon, but they used to be functional and well-maintained. The garage still had a scent of oil and gasoline, albeit faint. A glimmer of the compound's former functionality.
John was always a soccer guy, ever since he was a small child. He was still able to recognize football, however. A rough and tumble sport where big men in tight pants tackled each other and celebrated moving three feet closer to the opponent's goal.
Meaning he was quite confused at the sight of a girl wearing a football helmet. Being ducked behind the wall, however, he was fairly confident that they did not notice his muttered "What the fu..."
There was also a girl with no pants. Her underwear had strawberries on them. That probably helped with his reaction.
Do or die, Johnny. Get back home.
And kill plenty of innocent children along the way.
Matt deserved it. He was a racist fuck with no redeeming values.
Sure, kill them. But why kill the others?
Survival.
Let them kill each other off. No blood on your hands.
Fuck it, let's at least do something.
Crouching and leaning around the corner, John sighted on a red tool cart next to the girl with the football helmet; probably empty, knowing the cleaning job the military did with them.
BANG
Ears ringing again, he watched as the tool cart shook and spun slightly away from helmet girl, a fresh hole in the dusty red surface. He turned, aiming another shot at the front of a jeep with its hood up.
BANG
He barely heard that next one. A neat hole appeared right in the grill, sending microscopic bits of metal shrapnel out. He decided one more would be good.
Click
Eh?
He pulled the trigger again.
Click
Frustrated and ignoring the fact that he just alerted an entire garage of people to his location, he began looking over the gun, and almost immediately found the problem; a shiny piece of brass was sticking out of the ejection port in the side of the gun.
The technical term for this was a stovepipe jam; the casing fails to eject properly, the bolt coming forward before it's completely out and trapping the brass. Fixing a stovepipe is a simple procedure: pull the bolt handle back, tilt the gun to let the casing fall out, let the bolt handle snap forward to load the next round.
John Ferrara knew absolutely none of this. He thus proceeded to slap the side of the gun like a sentient otter, hoping that whatever happened would be fixed.
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CorruptDropbear*
- Posts: 53
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 4:03 am
[[Permission to skip given]]
Chris had heard real gunfire only once in his life, once when his sister had to go to target practise when his parents were out and he had to tag along. The second he heard the crack and saw the red tool cart fall back, he knew that someone was wanting them dead. This prompted him to let off a line of swearing before another crack went into the jeep. Too close. Dropping to the floor, he yelled out "GET THE FUCK DOWN!" and proceeded to search. The guy was way too fucking obvious. Right next to the door, pressed against the wall.
Think quick. He has a gun, a good distance away. But he's not bothering to continue fire. In fact, he's thwacking it as if it was jammed. Opportunity. He had the pipe. If he could make the distance without the guy fixing the jam, he'd easily win the fight. But if he didn't, he'd get a good hole in his head. Chris frowned, trying to process what he should do. The gun meant power. If you had a gun, you could do whatever you liked.
High risk.
But an even higher reward.
Leaping up with pipe in hand, he proceeded to swiftly sprint over, breathing deeply, crouched over. His mind was focused on one thing: getting that gun. The walls around the deport blurred as he got closer, heart pounding, and then as he got near to him, he tried to swing at his side, trying to put everything he had behind it.
Chris had heard real gunfire only once in his life, once when his sister had to go to target practise when his parents were out and he had to tag along. The second he heard the crack and saw the red tool cart fall back, he knew that someone was wanting them dead. This prompted him to let off a line of swearing before another crack went into the jeep. Too close. Dropping to the floor, he yelled out "GET THE FUCK DOWN!" and proceeded to search. The guy was way too fucking obvious. Right next to the door, pressed against the wall.
Think quick. He has a gun, a good distance away. But he's not bothering to continue fire. In fact, he's thwacking it as if it was jammed. Opportunity. He had the pipe. If he could make the distance without the guy fixing the jam, he'd easily win the fight. But if he didn't, he'd get a good hole in his head. Chris frowned, trying to process what he should do. The gun meant power. If you had a gun, you could do whatever you liked.
High risk.
But an even higher reward.
Leaping up with pipe in hand, he proceeded to swiftly sprint over, breathing deeply, crouched over. His mind was focused on one thing: getting that gun. The walls around the deport blurred as he got closer, heart pounding, and then as he got near to him, he tried to swing at his side, trying to put everything he had behind it.
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Things were going great. Everyone seemed content to make him the leader for now and they even had a plan. Sure, they're weapons kind of sucked, but at least that was a situation that could be remedied. Brendan was in pretty high spirits from the whole thing and he knew that somehow, he'd get his little group to the top of the hill. What was next, he didn't know, but he'd do his damn best to make sure his friends lived for as long as he was able. The moment he heard gunshots, though, he felt his heart sink like a stone. 'No way, already?! Dammit!'
He looked for the source of the gunfire and saw him, John Ferrara. The soccer kid. The soccer kid with a gun that had just fired at them. 'That damn bastard!'
Brendan charged at him, a few seconds behind Chris. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Adrenaline, fear for his friends, and fear that all his words...he just said the cheesiest heroic line he could think of and now some bastard was going to take the moment away?! If that happened...no way. Wendy and Megan were his friends and while he didn't know Chris that much, he knew enough that they were at least allies for now. Brendan would beat John into the ground if he had to.
"You son of a bitch!" He roared as he came up and aimed at punch straight at John's head.
He looked for the source of the gunfire and saw him, John Ferrara. The soccer kid. The soccer kid with a gun that had just fired at them. 'That damn bastard!'
Brendan charged at him, a few seconds behind Chris. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Adrenaline, fear for his friends, and fear that all his words...he just said the cheesiest heroic line he could think of and now some bastard was going to take the moment away?! If that happened...no way. Wendy and Megan were his friends and while he didn't know Chris that much, he knew enough that they were at least allies for now. Brendan would beat John into the ground if he had to.
"You son of a bitch!" He roared as he came up and aimed at punch straight at John's head.
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Casey The Undead*
- Posts: 196
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:44 am
The gunshots came out of nowhere, and Megan actually screamed a little. She hit the floor almost immediately, covering her head- or helmet, really- with her hands. Her heart was pounding wildly, her eyes tearing up, her breath horse and loud. She was going to die. Fuck it all to hell she was going to fucking die and holy goddamned shit she'd never see her parents or her dog or her brother or brush her teeth or listen to music again because she was going to die because this moron, this dumbass fucking moron was going to kill her.
And then the gunshots stopped. She held her breath, shaking slightly. She lifted her head off the ground, peeking around at her surroundings. She couldn't see the kid at first, and it made her maddeningly paranoid. Where was he?
Her eyes caught Chris, who was holding his pipe tightly. She saw his target- the kid who'd shot at them. Fuck. She knew him, didn't she? Josh or something- John. It was John.
John fucking Ferrara from the announcements. The only killer in the game right now. Who just happened to fucking waltz into the very room Megan was in. Of all the garages and all the children in this damn Program, and he runs right into me. I have the worst goddamned luck ever.
She tried to get her mind together, but it was rarely together even when she wasn't getting shot at by fucking insane people, so getting it together now was as likely as her getting a tan. Which was the to say, yeah, never gonna happen.
It took her three seconds longer than it should have to notice that both Chris and Brendon where rushing the kid. She couldn't even see Wendy. Her mind was racing. No. No. "Fucking hell balls shit damnit!" She sprang up and got a good look at John Fucking Ferrara, resident gun-wielding psycho. He was smacking his gun like a moron. It wasn't firing. But that didn't mean it wouldn't fire- it could go back to being unbroken at any moment. And Chris and Brendon were prime targets.
Two shots. How many bullets would that gun even hold? More than two, probably. Fuck I don't know anything about guns. I fucking hate guns. Did he shoot that kid he killed? Why can't I fucking remember?
She was wasting time. She had to act.
Feeling lucky Megs?
No. But fuck luck, I got friends on the line.
"Brendon, Chris! Damnit, don't be fucking heroes- it's not worth it!" She ran towards them, hoping to reach them in time, pull them to the ground, convince them to run- something to stop John Fucking Ferrara from taking them away from her.
And then the gunshots stopped. She held her breath, shaking slightly. She lifted her head off the ground, peeking around at her surroundings. She couldn't see the kid at first, and it made her maddeningly paranoid. Where was he?
Her eyes caught Chris, who was holding his pipe tightly. She saw his target- the kid who'd shot at them. Fuck. She knew him, didn't she? Josh or something- John. It was John.
John fucking Ferrara from the announcements. The only killer in the game right now. Who just happened to fucking waltz into the very room Megan was in. Of all the garages and all the children in this damn Program, and he runs right into me. I have the worst goddamned luck ever.
She tried to get her mind together, but it was rarely together even when she wasn't getting shot at by fucking insane people, so getting it together now was as likely as her getting a tan. Which was the to say, yeah, never gonna happen.
It took her three seconds longer than it should have to notice that both Chris and Brendon where rushing the kid. She couldn't even see Wendy. Her mind was racing. No. No. "Fucking hell balls shit damnit!" She sprang up and got a good look at John Fucking Ferrara, resident gun-wielding psycho. He was smacking his gun like a moron. It wasn't firing. But that didn't mean it wouldn't fire- it could go back to being unbroken at any moment. And Chris and Brendon were prime targets.
Two shots. How many bullets would that gun even hold? More than two, probably. Fuck I don't know anything about guns. I fucking hate guns. Did he shoot that kid he killed? Why can't I fucking remember?
She was wasting time. She had to act.
Feeling lucky Megs?
No. But fuck luck, I got friends on the line.
"Brendon, Chris! Damnit, don't be fucking heroes- it's not worth it!" She ran towards them, hoping to reach them in time, pull them to the ground, convince them to run- something to stop John Fucking Ferrara from taking them away from her.
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chitoryu12*
- Posts: 64
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:16 am
Smack.
Clink
Snap
The spent casing fell to the ground, the unblocked bolt snapping shut and pulling the next round into the chamber. The hammer was cocked. The gun was ready to kill again.
There was an almost collective scream as a human wave surged up at him. Two people, one with a pipe and one unarmed, were charging at him. Everyone was screaming, yelling, panicking. A few harmless bullets had turned the entire garage into a den of screams.
John was running on automatic at this point. He had little recollection of what happened later. His gun went up and he felt his finger twitching. He didn't even hear anything except a pounding in his head. He would never remember what happened.
All he remembered was the barrel pushing up against the stomach of the boy with the pipe and his finger twitching three times.
BAM
Something slammed into his head, jarring his mind into action and awareness. His vision blurred and dimmed slightly, and he fell to the side. The gun stayed tight in his hands. Trying to ignore the pain welling up in his temples, he crawled and rolled backwards away from the pair.
Trigger discipline can bite someone in the ass easily.
As he fell back on his rear and prepared to swing the gun over at the boy who just punched him, he felt the gun buck again. He didn't know what happened, only to come to the realization later that his finger squeezed the trigger by accident. Sending a round straight toward one of the girls.
That one bullet would be the one he always regretted.
Clink
Snap
The spent casing fell to the ground, the unblocked bolt snapping shut and pulling the next round into the chamber. The hammer was cocked. The gun was ready to kill again.
There was an almost collective scream as a human wave surged up at him. Two people, one with a pipe and one unarmed, were charging at him. Everyone was screaming, yelling, panicking. A few harmless bullets had turned the entire garage into a den of screams.
John was running on automatic at this point. He had little recollection of what happened later. His gun went up and he felt his finger twitching. He didn't even hear anything except a pounding in his head. He would never remember what happened.
All he remembered was the barrel pushing up against the stomach of the boy with the pipe and his finger twitching three times.
BAM
Something slammed into his head, jarring his mind into action and awareness. His vision blurred and dimmed slightly, and he fell to the side. The gun stayed tight in his hands. Trying to ignore the pain welling up in his temples, he crawled and rolled backwards away from the pair.
Trigger discipline can bite someone in the ass easily.
As he fell back on his rear and prepared to swing the gun over at the boy who just punched him, he felt the gun buck again. He didn't know what happened, only to come to the realization later that his finger squeezed the trigger by accident. Sending a round straight toward one of the girls.
That one bullet would be the one he always regretted.
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They looked through the garage and depot for what seemed like hours, with an announcement blaring up midway through. Everything seemed pretty good for what they had. They had plans. Brendan was their fearless leader. They were ready to go. Things were looking up!
BANG!
A loud sound, something Wendy never heard like any other erupted through out the vicinity. The destination was horrifyingly close, hitting the cart next to Megan. The cart spun uncontrolled toward her, from the force of the impact. It took seconds to register, as Wendy's mind simply went into a dazed confusion. She really didn't know what to think, or what was going on. Everything went into slow motion. There was swearing. There was yelling. Wendy saw Megan, scream, but it seemed like she couldn't actually hear it.
"GET THE FUCK DOWN!" One of the boys, Chris? ordered. It was hard to register for some reason. Everyone got down, crawling on the floor hiding behind anything they could find in the garage to shelter themselves. Wendy was last to get down, completely lost, in everything. This wasn't happening. This isn't happening.
BANG!
A bullet, shot into the front of the jeep, from where she stood. This second bullet, finally told Wendy what was happening. Someone, was shooting, at them. Wendy unleashed a scream of her own, and instinctively dropped down to floor, and hid behind one of the vehicles.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud.
Wendy's heart beat was going extremely fast. She could feel the beating in her own ears. Terror. This moment of terror, was 1000x worse than any she had ever had before. Unquestionably much worse than her encounter with Sheri Schatcher. Everything went quiet for a moment. What. What was going on? Is the shooter just waiting for us to show ourselves, so he doesn't waste bullets? Is he gone? Oh god oh god oh god.
The ally closest to her, was Chris Mitchell, who was ducked on the other end of the vehicle. Wendy watched for any lead the others would have to get out of this mess. She would probably follow. Chris was watching, for the shooter. Wendy followed his eyes, and found the shooter, pressed against a wall. Was this the John Ferrara from the announcement? He seemed to be fiddling with the gun. "Chris..."
Before Wendy could even say anything to boy, Chris did the unthinkable. He rose to his feet, and started dashing TOWARD, the gunman.
WHAT IS HE THINKING? OH MY GOD.
Following Chris Mitchell's lead, Brendan's movement caught the far corner of her eye. From his hiding place behind some empty crates, Brendan Arrington, rose to his feet, and darted toward the very same assailant.
"You son of a bitch!"
"BRENDAN! DON'T!" Wendy meant for it to be a yell. But the words came out way to soft for anyone to really hear. Out of her dry throat, it came out like a hoarse whisper.
"Fucking hell balls shit damnit!" Wendy looked over to see Megan was also running toward the three boys. "Brendan, Chris! Damnit, don't be fucking heroes- it's not worth it!"
"MEGAN!" This time no words came out at all. Wendy turned around sitting and leaning against the side of the vehicle. Wendy wasn't brave like them. She was far to terrified to really move, let along dash out of there, to a hostile guy who had already shot at them. A long stream of tears, poured down her face. Her allies, her friends. They were going to die. And Wendy was too chicken-dung to do anything about it. It wouldn't be long, until Wendy realized after they were done with, she would be next. To die. She stood up, after hearing the sounds of a struggle. She crept along the sides of the closest vehicle, still trying to remain hidden but get a better view.
She saw the close fight, of the boys hitting the other boy. With lots of shouting. Who Wendy convinced herself was the boy from the announcements, John Ferrara. They were trying to wrestle the gun away from him.
*
BAM.
BAM.
BAM.
Was all she heard. Her ears were practically ringing from all this. She couldn't bare to watch. She didn't know what happened. Did somebody get shot? Wendy dropped to the floor shocked senseless, and scurried, clumsily to her bag. She got to it and pressed it against her body as if she was hugging it. Now was the time to get with her allies so they could all make a run for it. But before she could -
BAM. THUNK. And something that sounded like splashes of water.
It was strange. Wendy turned her head around, realizing she was on the floor again. Her bag dropped in front of her. She sat sprawled on the floor her body leaning again the nearby vehicle she was previously standing in front of.
She was wet. There was a strong smell flowing into her nose. She looked on the floor.
Gasoline. The smell confirmed it. It was streaming from the vehicle, soaking her legs and flowing around the area in a neat long stream line heading toward the exit, passing through whatever debris was left in that garage depot. Wendy was surprised the vehicles still had fuel in them, even with no engine, for them to even work. Maybe these automobiles were left there on purpose, for a reason by these game-makers. In hopes that someone might be lucky enough, to use that gas in this twisted game?
But how? How did that happen. She noticed a hole - a bullet hole on the side of the automobile, which must have punctured the gas tank.
Then. Something else. She looked at the floor and realized the Gasoline had some Red in it. She felt something. She put her hand near that odd feeling in her belly. It felt weird. She pulled her hand up and looked at it. Her hand too.. was Red.
Her Pink Shirt. It was now splotched in Red. Her back, Red. Everything: RED.
"HAAAH." Wendy let out a audible horrified gasp. Her belly was crimson. There was a hole in her shirt. Front AND Back.
The world started getting dizzy. Everything now made sense. She was shot, through the abdomen, the bullet passing.... Right. Through. Her.
And into the gas tank.
With realization setting in, Wendy's mind went even more dizzy. She could feel the pain yes, but it didn't feel like the kind of pain one would expect from getting shot through the midsection. It was really a blur. It should have hurt more. But her brain, it just wasn't registering the pain. Her mind. She was in a panicked. Shock.
Her mind went blank for several seconds...
I... Megan. Brendan. My Friends. Chris. I have to do something.
Wendy crawled toward her bag. Pain, now in the EXTREME boiled throughout her body, she could feel the blood dripping out and mixing with the gasoline. She unzipped it with all her energy. Something like that shouldn't normally be so difficult, but with a gaping hole in your body, it was.
She spotted her skirt and her fuzzy blue sweater and pulled them out, throwing them. The coat tossed surprisingly far ahead of her, near the group of Megan, and the three boys. The skirt, thrown somewhere on the gasoline trail. Where the Hell is it!
She cursed; Even in her mind, something Wendy never did. But you know what? Fuck it! and Where the fuck is it?
There. There it was. Wendy closed her bag, and threw the bag far forward, near the sweater. She reached toward the skirt that was still pretty close. She stood up, clutching her belly, still in crucial pain, and picked up the skirt. She doused it in butane, and dumped more onto the floor.
She wasn't going to do anything yet. Not until the others knew to get out of there. Especially Megan. The short moment spent with the hyper girl, cheered up, what was the worst day of her life. She was going to warn her.
With whatever strength she could muster up, she yelled. "Megan!" Pain throbbed, throughout her entirety, causing her to collapse to the floor once more, gripping her wound. "Guys! Run now, while you can!"
Question? Lighter + Butane Drenched Skirt + Gasoline streamed across the floor = A perfect distraction?
((OOC - Added few parts to the end to help Wendy's storyline finish up, as I'm already going past the roll deadline.))
BANG!
A loud sound, something Wendy never heard like any other erupted through out the vicinity. The destination was horrifyingly close, hitting the cart next to Megan. The cart spun uncontrolled toward her, from the force of the impact. It took seconds to register, as Wendy's mind simply went into a dazed confusion. She really didn't know what to think, or what was going on. Everything went into slow motion. There was swearing. There was yelling. Wendy saw Megan, scream, but it seemed like she couldn't actually hear it.
"GET THE FUCK DOWN!" One of the boys, Chris? ordered. It was hard to register for some reason. Everyone got down, crawling on the floor hiding behind anything they could find in the garage to shelter themselves. Wendy was last to get down, completely lost, in everything. This wasn't happening. This isn't happening.
BANG!
A bullet, shot into the front of the jeep, from where she stood. This second bullet, finally told Wendy what was happening. Someone, was shooting, at them. Wendy unleashed a scream of her own, and instinctively dropped down to floor, and hid behind one of the vehicles.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud.
Wendy's heart beat was going extremely fast. She could feel the beating in her own ears. Terror. This moment of terror, was 1000x worse than any she had ever had before. Unquestionably much worse than her encounter with Sheri Schatcher. Everything went quiet for a moment. What. What was going on? Is the shooter just waiting for us to show ourselves, so he doesn't waste bullets? Is he gone? Oh god oh god oh god.
The ally closest to her, was Chris Mitchell, who was ducked on the other end of the vehicle. Wendy watched for any lead the others would have to get out of this mess. She would probably follow. Chris was watching, for the shooter. Wendy followed his eyes, and found the shooter, pressed against a wall. Was this the John Ferrara from the announcement? He seemed to be fiddling with the gun. "Chris..."
Before Wendy could even say anything to boy, Chris did the unthinkable. He rose to his feet, and started dashing TOWARD, the gunman.
WHAT IS HE THINKING? OH MY GOD.
Following Chris Mitchell's lead, Brendan's movement caught the far corner of her eye. From his hiding place behind some empty crates, Brendan Arrington, rose to his feet, and darted toward the very same assailant.
"You son of a bitch!"
"BRENDAN! DON'T!" Wendy meant for it to be a yell. But the words came out way to soft for anyone to really hear. Out of her dry throat, it came out like a hoarse whisper.
"Fucking hell balls shit damnit!" Wendy looked over to see Megan was also running toward the three boys. "Brendan, Chris! Damnit, don't be fucking heroes- it's not worth it!"
"MEGAN!" This time no words came out at all. Wendy turned around sitting and leaning against the side of the vehicle. Wendy wasn't brave like them. She was far to terrified to really move, let along dash out of there, to a hostile guy who had already shot at them. A long stream of tears, poured down her face. Her allies, her friends. They were going to die. And Wendy was too chicken-dung to do anything about it. It wouldn't be long, until Wendy realized after they were done with, she would be next. To die. She stood up, after hearing the sounds of a struggle. She crept along the sides of the closest vehicle, still trying to remain hidden but get a better view.
She saw the close fight, of the boys hitting the other boy. With lots of shouting. Who Wendy convinced herself was the boy from the announcements, John Ferrara. They were trying to wrestle the gun away from him.
*
BAM.
BAM.
BAM.
Was all she heard. Her ears were practically ringing from all this. She couldn't bare to watch. She didn't know what happened. Did somebody get shot? Wendy dropped to the floor shocked senseless, and scurried, clumsily to her bag. She got to it and pressed it against her body as if she was hugging it. Now was the time to get with her allies so they could all make a run for it. But before she could -
BAM. THUNK. And something that sounded like splashes of water.
It was strange. Wendy turned her head around, realizing she was on the floor again. Her bag dropped in front of her. She sat sprawled on the floor her body leaning again the nearby vehicle she was previously standing in front of.
She was wet. There was a strong smell flowing into her nose. She looked on the floor.
Gasoline. The smell confirmed it. It was streaming from the vehicle, soaking her legs and flowing around the area in a neat long stream line heading toward the exit, passing through whatever debris was left in that garage depot. Wendy was surprised the vehicles still had fuel in them, even with no engine, for them to even work. Maybe these automobiles were left there on purpose, for a reason by these game-makers. In hopes that someone might be lucky enough, to use that gas in this twisted game?
But how? How did that happen. She noticed a hole - a bullet hole on the side of the automobile, which must have punctured the gas tank.
Then. Something else. She looked at the floor and realized the Gasoline had some Red in it. She felt something. She put her hand near that odd feeling in her belly. It felt weird. She pulled her hand up and looked at it. Her hand too.. was Red.
Her Pink Shirt. It was now splotched in Red. Her back, Red. Everything: RED.
"HAAAH." Wendy let out a audible horrified gasp. Her belly was crimson. There was a hole in her shirt. Front AND Back.
The world started getting dizzy. Everything now made sense. She was shot, through the abdomen, the bullet passing.... Right. Through. Her.
And into the gas tank.
With realization setting in, Wendy's mind went even more dizzy. She could feel the pain yes, but it didn't feel like the kind of pain one would expect from getting shot through the midsection. It was really a blur. It should have hurt more. But her brain, it just wasn't registering the pain. Her mind. She was in a panicked. Shock.
Her mind went blank for several seconds...
I... Megan. Brendan. My Friends. Chris. I have to do something.
Wendy crawled toward her bag. Pain, now in the EXTREME boiled throughout her body, she could feel the blood dripping out and mixing with the gasoline. She unzipped it with all her energy. Something like that shouldn't normally be so difficult, but with a gaping hole in your body, it was.
She spotted her skirt and her fuzzy blue sweater and pulled them out, throwing them. The coat tossed surprisingly far ahead of her, near the group of Megan, and the three boys. The skirt, thrown somewhere on the gasoline trail. Where the Hell is it!
She cursed; Even in her mind, something Wendy never did. But you know what? Fuck it! and Where the fuck is it?
There. There it was. Wendy closed her bag, and threw the bag far forward, near the sweater. She reached toward the skirt that was still pretty close. She stood up, clutching her belly, still in crucial pain, and picked up the skirt. She doused it in butane, and dumped more onto the floor.
She wasn't going to do anything yet. Not until the others knew to get out of there. Especially Megan. The short moment spent with the hyper girl, cheered up, what was the worst day of her life. She was going to warn her.
With whatever strength she could muster up, she yelled. "Megan!" Pain throbbed, throughout her entirety, causing her to collapse to the floor once more, gripping her wound. "Guys! Run now, while you can!"
Question? Lighter + Butane Drenched Skirt + Gasoline streamed across the floor = A perfect distraction?
((OOC - Added few parts to the end to help Wendy's storyline finish up, as I'm already going past the roll deadline.))
She hoped they got the message. She got up again, and flicked the lighter on. Now or never. Before that shooter, would mess things up again. Holding the lighter next to the butane drenched cloth of her skirt, she lit it on fire. Hopefully the threat of fire, or the threat of a 'possible 'boom' like in the movies, would scare the attacker enough, to halt his moves, and let the group escape. Wendy hoped that no one else, got hurt, like she was, except maybe the gunman, who Wendy fully believed was the game's only killer so far; John Ferrara.
The smell of the smoke entered her nose, the color lit up her weakened eyes.
Run guys, while you can. Ferrara, I hope you choke and fry.
Seconds later Wendy let the flammable cloth fall to the ground. Fire traveled down every which way the gasoline had traveled, rising higher and faster with every spread and touch of debris and rags on the garage floor. One of those trails included, the one leading to the group.
The fire probably wasn't very large, but from Wendy's perspective on the ground, it sure was. Wendy didn't really see past most of it, enough to watch the group scramble. What Wendy saw, was the rise of smoke, nearly blanketing her view, from her position on the floor, and the brightness of the red-orange flames. But that was only a moment, as not a second later, the flame followed the trail of butane and gasoline on her body, from the initial leak.
The trail went up her uggz boots, touching her skin and following up the trail to her torso. Her clothes began catching fire in select spots. Pain, she could barely feel it. She had so much from the gun shot earlier to her belly, and now from some flames, that her body was just practically numb from it all.
All Wendy could do was drag herself along the floor of the garage, through the fire, scrapping her belly amongst the gasoline on the floor.
She could feel wetness underneath her, probably her own blood, seeping onto the floor from her wound and mixing with the gasoline, creating more fire. She could feel her own skin peeling off from her knees and forearms from the crawling in combo with the burns and her hair practically shriveling back from the heat. Wendy opened her eyes, which if they weren't completely dried up, would have been teared up right now.
Flipping over, from her belly to her back, to catch some more of that sweet air, wasn't exactly the best of decisions. The poison of the gasoline secreted deeper into the gun shot wound in her belly. With the air helping it, the fire followed the gasoline trail, right into her wound.
Disorientation was now kicking in as Wendy could feel her insides literally burning.
Through her blurred vision, on the ground, she noticed a shadow suddenly cover her. Looking up, Wendy saw a silhouette, looking down, watching her.
Suddenly there was no more fire, no more smoke, no more pain. The figure seemed to take all the suffering away. Wendy realized it could only be one person. Yes, she battled her way through hell to reach her destination. Still clutching her belly, Wendy gave way to her last thought.
This must be heaven....
The smell of the smoke entered her nose, the color lit up her weakened eyes.
Run guys, while you can. Ferrara, I hope you choke and fry.
Seconds later Wendy let the flammable cloth fall to the ground. Fire traveled down every which way the gasoline had traveled, rising higher and faster with every spread and touch of debris and rags on the garage floor. One of those trails included, the one leading to the group.
The fire probably wasn't very large, but from Wendy's perspective on the ground, it sure was. Wendy didn't really see past most of it, enough to watch the group scramble. What Wendy saw, was the rise of smoke, nearly blanketing her view, from her position on the floor, and the brightness of the red-orange flames. But that was only a moment, as not a second later, the flame followed the trail of butane and gasoline on her body, from the initial leak.
The trail went up her uggz boots, touching her skin and following up the trail to her torso. Her clothes began catching fire in select spots. Pain, she could barely feel it. She had so much from the gun shot earlier to her belly, and now from some flames, that her body was just practically numb from it all.
All Wendy could do was drag herself along the floor of the garage, through the fire, scrapping her belly amongst the gasoline on the floor.
Smoke, there's so much smoke I can't see...
The smoke entered Wendy's mouth, nose, and lungs, causing uncontrollable coughing and gagging. She felt nauseated, and weak. Stinging was entering her body, from all the poisons of the area, as she continued to drag herself on the floor. Air... Air.. need air.
It' was instinct now, her body was telling her to get out of there. To Live, To breathe.She could feel wetness underneath her, probably her own blood, seeping onto the floor from her wound and mixing with the gasoline, creating more fire. She could feel her own skin peeling off from her knees and forearms from the crawling in combo with the burns and her hair practically shriveling back from the heat. Wendy opened her eyes, which if they weren't completely dried up, would have been teared up right now.
Fire. Awful Smoke. Everywhere. Everywhere. This must be what Hell, is like.
Hell, no. Not Hell. This was a living hell. Initiated by the devil that was John Ferrara. It was ironic though. What she had just wished upon John, was exactly what was happening to her right now. Choking and frying.Hell? You don't belong in Hell, Wendy. There's no way, you of all people belong there. Get out of there. Go where you belong.
She could see it now. Feel it now. The slight breeze of air, and the faded light of the outside away from the fire and smoke. It was near, yet a journey to get there. The air. It was freedom from the poisons with in the area. She needed. More.Flipping over, from her belly to her back, to catch some more of that sweet air, wasn't exactly the best of decisions. The poison of the gasoline secreted deeper into the gun shot wound in her belly. With the air helping it, the fire followed the gasoline trail, right into her wound.
Disorientation was now kicking in as Wendy could feel her insides literally burning.
So much pain.. so much. I'm gonna die.
Thoughts began flashing into her mind. Images of people and moments through her life. School, cheerleading, friends. Family. Mom, dad!No No No. NO. I can't. This can't...
She reached the light of the outside, with the slightly more clear air. She escaped Hell. Was she in...? She could barely see anymore. Was she outside now? Was she alive? She could still feel her bullet wound, leaking the last bit of blood that hadn't dried up from the burning. She layed there for what seemed like hours to her. Her mind just blank. Then... Footsteps .Through her blurred vision, on the ground, she noticed a shadow suddenly cover her. Looking up, Wendy saw a silhouette, looking down, watching her.
Suddenly there was no more fire, no more smoke, no more pain. The figure seemed to take all the suffering away. Wendy realized it could only be one person. Yes, she battled her way through hell to reach her destination. Still clutching her belly, Wendy gave way to her last thought.
This must be heaven....
Female Student #18: Wendy K. Fischer - DECEASED
(OOC: Skipping Dropbear to avoid inactivity because grumble mumble. Also mild godmodding approved by Casey)
Brendan was caught up in the moment. There was John Ferrara, the bastard who had shot at him and his friends right in front of him and Chris was at his side, the boy's lead pipe aimed straight at the other boy. There was a bang...three bangs. Gunshots...muffled slightly. Brendan barely had time to register the sound as his gloved fist caught the Italian across the face and sent him tumbling to the ground. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he saw the kid begin to aim the gun in his direction and he quickly tried to aim a kick at John's hand to jar his aim or do something. But he was too late. Another bang. Anticipation of hot, burning lead running through his body...
But nothing. He looked down. Saw the gun pointed somewhere else. Followed it. His eyes widened. There was Wendy on the ground, lying in a pool of gasoline. Gasoline that has a slightly reddish tinge to it. The world seemed to freeze around him, his mind racing to try to find some way to justify this. Some way to make this right. It was just a trick of the light. Maybe the red was just some sort of iron impurities that somehow found its way into the gasoline. But even as his mind tried to bullshit more and more ridiculous explanations, he knew at his heart that she had been shot and he had failed. His promise to keep them all alive...Chris had gotten shot, he was almost certain. And now Wendy? Wendy too? She hadn't even done anything and yet John...John Ferrara had shot her.
And then rage burned away the sorrow. Brendan turned his attention to the other boy, his breath ragged as he as just leapt at him, aiming kicks, punches, whatever he could do just make John Ferrara dead. He would smash the Italian's face open. Smash it until it was nothing more than an unrecognizable mush of flesh, blood, and bone. He would tear it apart and he would feel good doing it...feel good extracting every measure of revenge he could on the boy. Hold him up as an example of what would happen to those who hurt Brendan's friends...a sack of meat that couldn't even be called human anymore. But he couldn't.
There was a tug on the collar of his shirt, a powerful one that tore him away from John before he could fire more than a few shots at the other kid. Brendan staggered backwards, looking back at see who had stopped him. It was Megan...Megan Jacobson. And seeing her panicked and scared expression was all that was required to snap Brendan out of the berserk rage he had found himself in before. Her name slipped dully from his lips, but it was enough.
There was a thud from behind her. Wendy's bag was there, along with the blue sweater that the other girl wore. He looked at Wendy. The other girl yelled. Warned them to get away. Told them to run. 'Why run? It's not like gasoline is going to hurt us but...oh no. No...'
He had the gloves. He had traded Wendy for them not...what, ten minutes ago? And that meant she had the lighter...'Oh god no!'
But it's not like he could do anything. And Wendy had set her skirt on fire and let it fall to the to the gasoline soaked ground, setting it ablaze...along with her own body. He couldn't even scream or yell...he could only watch. And then the acrid smell of smoke and...and roasting flesh drove him to action. There was no way he could stay in here...no way either of them could stay here. Wendy had...she had given them a chance to escape even though she was dying...and he? He had done nothing.
Brendan ran over and took Wendy's bag...he had his own slung around his shoulder (odd how he had never noticed the weight until now). It felt heartless...it felt wrong to take it. It wasn't his...some part of him wanted to leave it as a sort of tribute...some sort of thanks for her sacrifice. But it would be wrong to just let it burn...these were the last things that Wendy had with her...at least maybe...they'd have some sort of memory. Some sort of significance. So he took it and slung it over the other shoulder
He ran back to Megan, took her by the hand. Looked back at the fire. Looked back at John. Tears stained his cheeks. "Let's...let's get the fuck out of here, Megan."
He ran away. It was wrong. It never happened like this in the movies. Not now...it wasn't right. The hero was supposed to win...the hero was always supposed to win.
'This isn't how it was supposed to be.'
(Brendan Arrington continued in Actions Speak Louder Than Words.)
Brendan was caught up in the moment. There was John Ferrara, the bastard who had shot at him and his friends right in front of him and Chris was at his side, the boy's lead pipe aimed straight at the other boy. There was a bang...three bangs. Gunshots...muffled slightly. Brendan barely had time to register the sound as his gloved fist caught the Italian across the face and sent him tumbling to the ground. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he saw the kid begin to aim the gun in his direction and he quickly tried to aim a kick at John's hand to jar his aim or do something. But he was too late. Another bang. Anticipation of hot, burning lead running through his body...
But nothing. He looked down. Saw the gun pointed somewhere else. Followed it. His eyes widened. There was Wendy on the ground, lying in a pool of gasoline. Gasoline that has a slightly reddish tinge to it. The world seemed to freeze around him, his mind racing to try to find some way to justify this. Some way to make this right. It was just a trick of the light. Maybe the red was just some sort of iron impurities that somehow found its way into the gasoline. But even as his mind tried to bullshit more and more ridiculous explanations, he knew at his heart that she had been shot and he had failed. His promise to keep them all alive...Chris had gotten shot, he was almost certain. And now Wendy? Wendy too? She hadn't even done anything and yet John...John Ferrara had shot her.
And then rage burned away the sorrow. Brendan turned his attention to the other boy, his breath ragged as he as just leapt at him, aiming kicks, punches, whatever he could do just make John Ferrara dead. He would smash the Italian's face open. Smash it until it was nothing more than an unrecognizable mush of flesh, blood, and bone. He would tear it apart and he would feel good doing it...feel good extracting every measure of revenge he could on the boy. Hold him up as an example of what would happen to those who hurt Brendan's friends...a sack of meat that couldn't even be called human anymore. But he couldn't.
There was a tug on the collar of his shirt, a powerful one that tore him away from John before he could fire more than a few shots at the other kid. Brendan staggered backwards, looking back at see who had stopped him. It was Megan...Megan Jacobson. And seeing her panicked and scared expression was all that was required to snap Brendan out of the berserk rage he had found himself in before. Her name slipped dully from his lips, but it was enough.
There was a thud from behind her. Wendy's bag was there, along with the blue sweater that the other girl wore. He looked at Wendy. The other girl yelled. Warned them to get away. Told them to run. 'Why run? It's not like gasoline is going to hurt us but...oh no. No...'
He had the gloves. He had traded Wendy for them not...what, ten minutes ago? And that meant she had the lighter...'Oh god no!'
But it's not like he could do anything. And Wendy had set her skirt on fire and let it fall to the to the gasoline soaked ground, setting it ablaze...along with her own body. He couldn't even scream or yell...he could only watch. And then the acrid smell of smoke and...and roasting flesh drove him to action. There was no way he could stay in here...no way either of them could stay here. Wendy had...she had given them a chance to escape even though she was dying...and he? He had done nothing.
Brendan ran over and took Wendy's bag...he had his own slung around his shoulder (odd how he had never noticed the weight until now). It felt heartless...it felt wrong to take it. It wasn't his...some part of him wanted to leave it as a sort of tribute...some sort of thanks for her sacrifice. But it would be wrong to just let it burn...these were the last things that Wendy had with her...at least maybe...they'd have some sort of memory. Some sort of significance. So he took it and slung it over the other shoulder
He ran back to Megan, took her by the hand. Looked back at the fire. Looked back at John. Tears stained his cheeks. "Let's...let's get the fuck out of here, Megan."
He ran away. It was wrong. It never happened like this in the movies. Not now...it wasn't right. The hero was supposed to win...the hero was always supposed to win.
'This isn't how it was supposed to be.'
(Brendan Arrington continued in Actions Speak Louder Than Words.)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Tythanin. 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.
-
Casey The Undead*
- Posts: 196
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:44 am
((OOC: Yeah...post order kinda died here. Posting to avoid inactivity, get Megan out of here, and because I'm bored.))
Megan didn't notice.
She didn't fucking notice.
She was so dead set on helping Brendon, on stopping John Ferrara, on saving her friends that had rushed foolishly into the heat of the battle instead of turning their tails and running away, that she didn't notice.
She didn't notice until after she'd pulled Brendon down to the ground. She didn't notice until it was much to late to do anything.
Wendy was on fire. Everything was on fire. Smoke filled her lungs, and she began to cough, tears running down her cheeks.
"No." Her eyes locked where Wendy was...Megan could see the blood. She could see the gasoline.
"No. No. Fuck!" Megan sprang to her feet, her eyes scanning through the smoke. "God damnit. Wendy! Wendy! Fucking Christ! What are you doing!? WENDY!"
Megan couldn't move. Her feet were stuck to the ground, her heart was pounding, her mind was racing. She was scared. More scared than she had ever been in her whole life.
"God damnit. My rules. My own fucking rules." Megan was choking on smoke, but she didn't care. She was too caught up in the past, in her own head, to think of the pain. She had broken her own rules. The first thing she'd done was lay out rules- rules for Dom and Jen. Don't run away. Don't break down. Don't be a hero.
And yet Megan had ran away. Megan was having a breakdown. And Wendy was now trying to be a hero. She'd broken her own rules and people were going to die for it. Megan was a killer. "Fucking Christ. It's not worth it. Why can't anyone else see that it's not fucking worth it, this goddamned game...this goddamned life...fuck."
Megan sobbed. It hurt, raking her whole body. She doubled over, coughing out smoke and tears. Her heart slammed against her chest, her brain throbbed, her arms ached and her legs shook. Her whole body heaved with the sobs. "WENDY! Please...please..."
She was begging to no one. Wendy was gone. Megan could smell it. It smelled like smoke, and pain, and flesh. It smelled like violence. It was death. It was the Program. Megan let the sobs go. She was just going to die, then. End of story. It would be easier. It was inevitable anyway, so really, why should she try to escape it? Wendy was dead, Chris and Brendon were...somewhere. Probably already dead too. Everyone was dead. That was the Program. Everyone dies. No escape. No winning. No-
Oh shut the fuck up. You aren't dead you whiny little dumbass! You saved Brendon! You couldn't save Wendy, but Wendy died to help you! Now get off your fatass and move it before you make her death completely pointless, you selfish bitch!
Megan blinked, wiping the mascara off of her cheeks. Her lungs burned, and the room was getting unbearably hot.
You can wallow in self-pity all you like, but the longer you stay here, the closer you get to dying. The end. No heaven, not for you, you just get blackness. Or hell. And newflash, that's not gonna be fun. So man up and get the fuck out of here!
"I could have saved her." Megan was whispering, letting her thoughts get lost in the smoke.
No. You couldn't. I couldn't. She did this for me, didn't she?
Megan forced herself onto her feet, covering her hand and nose with her mouth. She had to get out.
Fuck death. I'll show it. It's spent my whole life taunting me. Well fuck it! I'm gonna live. Just to prove it wrong. I'll die on my own accord. I'll die when I damn well want to die, not when General Whateverthefuckhisnamewas or John Fucking Ferrara or Wendy or this damn game or this damn Country decide. Fuck death. Fuck it all. Megan Jacobson doesn't back down without a fight, that's for damn sure.
She felt Brendon grab her free hand. She turned to face him, nodding.
It was time to go.
But first, there was some unfinished business she had.
Megan whipped around, screaming into the smoke. "Hey! Ferrara! I don't know where the fuck you are, but if you're here listen up! This is your fault. This is blood on your hands motherfucker! And while that probably doesn't bother psychos like you, you made a very vital mistake. You killed my friend. That's right you whore, you killed my fucking friend, and the number one rule you need to remember is that no one, not God, or Death, or little pussies like you, who hide behind guns, fucks with me. You're a dead man Ferrara. And if I die before you, then I'll meet you in hell you sick son of a bitch. So you better get yourself some more bullets asshole- because I'm going to rip you limb from limb! Keep running John! I'll find you! I'll fucking find you asshat!"
Megan was screaming at the end of it, her voice echoing across the smoke. The tears were back, but they came with a smile. Even if no one heard it, it felt better to scream.
She coughed again, pain searing through her throat. Right. Time to run.
Megan turned and fled from the building, leaving the fire, the pantless cheerleader- her friend-, and the psycho with a gun behind her. She ran.
She didn't notice that Chris wasn't with them.
Not until it was too late to do anything, at least.
((Megan Jacobson, continued in Actions Speak Louder Than Words))
Megan didn't notice.
She didn't fucking notice.
She was so dead set on helping Brendon, on stopping John Ferrara, on saving her friends that had rushed foolishly into the heat of the battle instead of turning their tails and running away, that she didn't notice.
She didn't notice until after she'd pulled Brendon down to the ground. She didn't notice until it was much to late to do anything.
Wendy was on fire. Everything was on fire. Smoke filled her lungs, and she began to cough, tears running down her cheeks.
"No." Her eyes locked where Wendy was...Megan could see the blood. She could see the gasoline.
"No. No. Fuck!" Megan sprang to her feet, her eyes scanning through the smoke. "God damnit. Wendy! Wendy! Fucking Christ! What are you doing!? WENDY!"
Megan couldn't move. Her feet were stuck to the ground, her heart was pounding, her mind was racing. She was scared. More scared than she had ever been in her whole life.
"God damnit. My rules. My own fucking rules." Megan was choking on smoke, but she didn't care. She was too caught up in the past, in her own head, to think of the pain. She had broken her own rules. The first thing she'd done was lay out rules- rules for Dom and Jen. Don't run away. Don't break down. Don't be a hero.
And yet Megan had ran away. Megan was having a breakdown. And Wendy was now trying to be a hero. She'd broken her own rules and people were going to die for it. Megan was a killer. "Fucking Christ. It's not worth it. Why can't anyone else see that it's not fucking worth it, this goddamned game...this goddamned life...fuck."
Megan sobbed. It hurt, raking her whole body. She doubled over, coughing out smoke and tears. Her heart slammed against her chest, her brain throbbed, her arms ached and her legs shook. Her whole body heaved with the sobs. "WENDY! Please...please..."
She was begging to no one. Wendy was gone. Megan could smell it. It smelled like smoke, and pain, and flesh. It smelled like violence. It was death. It was the Program. Megan let the sobs go. She was just going to die, then. End of story. It would be easier. It was inevitable anyway, so really, why should she try to escape it? Wendy was dead, Chris and Brendon were...somewhere. Probably already dead too. Everyone was dead. That was the Program. Everyone dies. No escape. No winning. No-
Oh shut the fuck up. You aren't dead you whiny little dumbass! You saved Brendon! You couldn't save Wendy, but Wendy died to help you! Now get off your fatass and move it before you make her death completely pointless, you selfish bitch!
Megan blinked, wiping the mascara off of her cheeks. Her lungs burned, and the room was getting unbearably hot.
You can wallow in self-pity all you like, but the longer you stay here, the closer you get to dying. The end. No heaven, not for you, you just get blackness. Or hell. And newflash, that's not gonna be fun. So man up and get the fuck out of here!
"I could have saved her." Megan was whispering, letting her thoughts get lost in the smoke.
No. You couldn't. I couldn't. She did this for me, didn't she?
Megan forced herself onto her feet, covering her hand and nose with her mouth. She had to get out.
Fuck death. I'll show it. It's spent my whole life taunting me. Well fuck it! I'm gonna live. Just to prove it wrong. I'll die on my own accord. I'll die when I damn well want to die, not when General Whateverthefuckhisnamewas or John Fucking Ferrara or Wendy or this damn game or this damn Country decide. Fuck death. Fuck it all. Megan Jacobson doesn't back down without a fight, that's for damn sure.
She felt Brendon grab her free hand. She turned to face him, nodding.
It was time to go.
But first, there was some unfinished business she had.
Megan whipped around, screaming into the smoke. "Hey! Ferrara! I don't know where the fuck you are, but if you're here listen up! This is your fault. This is blood on your hands motherfucker! And while that probably doesn't bother psychos like you, you made a very vital mistake. You killed my friend. That's right you whore, you killed my fucking friend, and the number one rule you need to remember is that no one, not God, or Death, or little pussies like you, who hide behind guns, fucks with me. You're a dead man Ferrara. And if I die before you, then I'll meet you in hell you sick son of a bitch. So you better get yourself some more bullets asshole- because I'm going to rip you limb from limb! Keep running John! I'll find you! I'll fucking find you asshat!"
Megan was screaming at the end of it, her voice echoing across the smoke. The tears were back, but they came with a smile. Even if no one heard it, it felt better to scream.
She coughed again, pain searing through her throat. Right. Time to run.
Megan turned and fled from the building, leaving the fire, the pantless cheerleader- her friend-, and the psycho with a gun behind her. She ran.
She didn't notice that Chris wasn't with them.
Not until it was too late to do anything, at least.
((Megan Jacobson, continued in Actions Speak Louder Than Words))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Casey The Undead. 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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chitoryu12*
- Posts: 64
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:16 am
Something was warm.
Warm was not good.
Warm accompanied by a glow was NEVER good.
Wendy Fischer was sitting in a pool of copper-tinted gasoline. Flames were beginning to creep up her legs.
And it was all John's fault.
Something shot through John's brain for the first time this entire game. Something that went all the way down into his gut and punched it in.
Guilt.
John got up, ignoring everyone and everything around him, and ran up to Wendy. He was vaguely aware of the warmth on his legs growing.
She had a red hole in her gut. Blood was pouring out, a trail consumed by the encroaching flames.
She was smiling up at him.
Nononononononononononononononono
John Ferrara ran. He ran right out of the garage, never once looking back.
((John Ferrara continued in Strange Fruit))
Warm was not good.
Warm accompanied by a glow was NEVER good.
Wendy Fischer was sitting in a pool of copper-tinted gasoline. Flames were beginning to creep up her legs.
And it was all John's fault.
Something shot through John's brain for the first time this entire game. Something that went all the way down into his gut and punched it in.
Guilt.
John got up, ignoring everyone and everything around him, and ran up to Wendy. He was vaguely aware of the warmth on his legs growing.
She had a red hole in her gut. Blood was pouring out, a trail consumed by the encroaching flames.
She was smiling up at him.
Nononononononononononononononono
John Ferrara ran. He ran right out of the garage, never once looking back.
((John Ferrara continued in Strange Fruit))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler chitoryu12. 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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CorruptDropbear*
- Posts: 53
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 4:03 am
There's a fire here. And a gunshot wound. Yeah. Only the leg. If he could bandage it up, it could be OK to limp on. Nothing too serious. In this though, being unable to run away was bad. As in, dead. Bad. Yeah. Ow. That hurt to think about. Fuck, you idiot. You had to take the chance. And now he was in no condition to even think about leaving. Chucking his lead pipe at the retreating back of John, he fell over, swearing.
Bandaids. Need bandaids. Or something. His skin was getting paler by the second, his senses starting to blur. No wait. That was the fumes and smoke from Wendy's fire. Wendy? Oh shit. She was dead, wasn't she. On fire and dead. Chris felt his body shiver, swallowing, trying to put it out of his mind. Gotta go on. She was protecting you. Yeah. Fuck, she wanted to help me and she's dead- don't think about that.
Stagger over to your bag. Wherever it is. Somewhere near the fire. No, no. It was the fire. It caught on fire. The insides burst into flame, the gauze and roller bandages gone into the inferno. Fuck. His leg was already covered in red. He was going to die to blood loss. Or the fumes. They were bad fumes, causing him to use the rest of his energy to cough it out and seek air. Goddamn it, Wendy. You had to play the hero.
Then again, Chris played the hero. And now he felt his fingertips slipping away, the fire creeping closer. Shit. No way out. He tried to stagger to the door. Right. Fall flat on your face. The flame of a lifeless body near you. Sounded like something out of a creepy horror novel. It was a horror novel. He always liked those. Arms and legs were almost gone, as well as use of mouth. His nerves were just failing to even notice the fire creeping up his leg. He was on fire, and he couldn't even feel it.
Just aware of the fact that he was set alight, he rolled slowly, trying to put it out, wincing as his muscles died out. Nothing. All he had managed to do was roll closer to Wendy, her blackened hand close to his face.
He tried to hold it. Warm. That's all he could feel now. He was going with her, in a way.
One moment, he was smiling at what his sister would think of him going out with a girl like that.
Then something just felt off.
Then nothing.
M28: Chris Mitchell - DECEASED
Bandaids. Need bandaids. Or something. His skin was getting paler by the second, his senses starting to blur. No wait. That was the fumes and smoke from Wendy's fire. Wendy? Oh shit. She was dead, wasn't she. On fire and dead. Chris felt his body shiver, swallowing, trying to put it out of his mind. Gotta go on. She was protecting you. Yeah. Fuck, she wanted to help me and she's dead- don't think about that.
Stagger over to your bag. Wherever it is. Somewhere near the fire. No, no. It was the fire. It caught on fire. The insides burst into flame, the gauze and roller bandages gone into the inferno. Fuck. His leg was already covered in red. He was going to die to blood loss. Or the fumes. They were bad fumes, causing him to use the rest of his energy to cough it out and seek air. Goddamn it, Wendy. You had to play the hero.
Then again, Chris played the hero. And now he felt his fingertips slipping away, the fire creeping closer. Shit. No way out. He tried to stagger to the door. Right. Fall flat on your face. The flame of a lifeless body near you. Sounded like something out of a creepy horror novel. It was a horror novel. He always liked those. Arms and legs were almost gone, as well as use of mouth. His nerves were just failing to even notice the fire creeping up his leg. He was on fire, and he couldn't even feel it.
Just aware of the fact that he was set alight, he rolled slowly, trying to put it out, wincing as his muscles died out. Nothing. All he had managed to do was roll closer to Wendy, her blackened hand close to his face.
He tried to hold it. Warm. That's all he could feel now. He was going with her, in a way.
One moment, he was smiling at what his sister would think of him going out with a girl like that.
Then something just felt off.
Then nothing.
M28: Chris Mitchell - DECEASED
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler CorruptDropbear. 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.