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he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts
A plan. An idea. One of resisting the game. One of fighting against the people who had put them here. Admittedly, Jasmine still wasn’t quite sure what the plan even was - they were still vague about it, she supposed it was so they wouldn’t attract attention - but she had her doubts. She had her misgivings. If she wanted to live, if she wanted to show everyone that she could win this game, then why would she go against the people running it? Why would she badmouth the people who said that they could blow her head off at a moment’s notice? It made no sense. There was no point in doing that. There was no point in attempting rebellion. It was stupid. Unconstructive. Detrimental to her chances.

And think about it, the two people coming up with this awful plan are the two just pitying you right now.

What does that say about them?

What does that say about you?

But there was a benefit to saying yes.

Leaders. Meatshields. People who Jasmine could stand behind.

That sounded appealing.

“I’m, ah, not really sure what this plan actually is,” she said, looking at the two in front of her. “But if it means I don’t have to kill anyone, I’m in.”

She saw the movement as she spoke. The person.

The killer.

“We’d, um, probably need more people though, so, um...”

Honestly, she had to try and resist her face breaking into a grin.

“I dunno,” she said, before calling out to the person behind Lance and Chuck. “Would you like to join up with us, Sophie?”

Now This Looks Like A Job For Me, So Everybody… Just Follow Me
There were voices, in the tunnels. Questions directed towards him. People he had to respond to.

None mattered, though.

None except Felicia.

Because she was there. Standing. Right in front of him. Even if Michael was trying to help him, even if Ramona was trying to talk, nothing about what they could do in this moment measured up to the fact that Felicia was there. Alive. Unhurt. Even if she was comparatively less important than some of the other people on this island, even if the two had broken up before, it didn’t matter. She was here. She was his friend. She was one of the only people in this school Maxwell could say he liked and she was there. Standing. Right in front of him. Uninjured. Unfazed by everything that had happened in the past few days.

And she was there.

With him.

And now he could protect her.

And now he could make sure that no-one else on this island could do anything to her.


The words forced themselves out of his throat as he stood up.


As he took a step.

As he fell forward down to the ground, pain screaming in his arm.


he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts
And Lance believed her.

And Lance pitied her.

And there was a slight pang of irritation whisked away as Lance continued to talk, as Lance stated that neither him nor Chuck were threats. Admittedly, Jasmine wasn’t sure if that even meant anything. It wasn’t as if everyone who wanted to win would have killed, it wasn’t as if she herself had been on those announcements, so why would she be able to trust them? In the event that she joined up with them, what was stopping them from just betraying her then?

Well, if they tried to do that you could just, like, take them out and stuff.

Not like they’ve got shit on you, or anything.

Regardless, though, apparently Lance had a plan of sorts? She wasn’t exactly going to go take her shirt off like Chuck apparently wanted her to do but if he was telling the truth…

A pause.

She looked at Lance.

“A plan?”

Now This Looks Like A Job For Me, So Everybody… Just Follow Me

The word had been spoken as if saying her name would tell Michael all that he needed to know. As if no other explanation was needed as to why he was crawling through these caverns, why his body had become what it had become. Would that be fair? Would that make sense? Had Jasmine done anything after she had escaped that would warrant her name being said like that? To be honest, Maxwell didn’t know. To be honest, he wasn’t sure about anything that had happened other than the fact that people had killed and people had died and that he had to find a way out of these tunnels, he had to find people out there.

And he had to accept the mercy of Michael of all people if he wanted to make it to the surface.

And part of him hated that.

And part of him knew what was going to happen, part of him knew that Michael was going to laugh, sneer at him because he needed help. Because the man standing at the top of the totem pole couldn’t even walk down a tunnel without the help of one of his infidels.

And part of him wanted to just tell Michael to fuck off. Tell him he didn’t need any help. Tell Michael he didn’t need someone like him to laugh, to tell him what he already knew.

But he couldn’t.

Because he knew he needed to make it out of these tunnels. He knew he had to be fixed. If he couldn’t, if he wasn’t, then there would be people dying out there.

People whose deaths he could have stopped.

Murderers who he could have put down.

So as much as he hated it, he knew he needed Michael’s help. He knew he needed Michael’s sneer. He knew he needed to hear that hyena-esque cackling if he wanted to do what he knew he needed to do.


He supposed he could grin and bear it.

“She attacked me. Shot me in the shoulder yesterday. I… tried bandaging it myself, but it looks like it won’t hold unless…”

A pause. Part of him honestly wanted to look away.

“Unless someone else helps me with it.”

Silence, for a moment.

Then another voice. Not his. Not Michael’s. A girl, calling from another part of this tunnel.

Another girl, standing right behind her.


he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts
And there it was.

The concern. The worry. The idea that Jasmine was just an innocent little girl who needed help and protection from the two men in front of her. The idea that Jasmine was just a victim who couldn’t even last two days on this island without the help of somebody else. It was… bitter. Aggrivating. Disappointing, in a way. All she had done on this island, all she had achieved during these first two days on here and yet it seemed all the two in front of her wanted to focus on were her failures. Her injuries. The reminder of what she had to sacrifice to achieve what turned out to be nothing back at those cliffs.

Of course, it was... understandable that they wouldn’t know. Good for her that they didn’t know. She could play the victim. Pretend as if she had been the one attacked.

Make them pity you even more than they do now.

Make them think ‘oh wow, look at poor little Jasmine. Man, she really isn’t going to last that long with all those injuries all over her face.’

Make them just feel sorry for you.

She felt a twinge. A spark erupting from her arm as she tried not to clench her fist.

Didn’t matter.

She just needed to do this.

She just needed to make them think of her as that.

“It was… It was Maxwell,” she said, her voice raising in pitch slightly. “He…”

She paused.

“Attacked me. Hit me. I got away, but…”

Another pause.

Now This Looks Like A Job For Me, So Everybody… Just Follow Me
He’d stopped moving, as he saw the light darting across the floor. Stopped breathing, as the light stopped to focus on his feet. Reeled back, as the light forced itself through his eyes, his arm raising itself to stop what felt like the sun from burning his eyes. Even after that, though, he could still feel the light. The orange covering his eyelids, the vivid shapes and movements that the insides of his eyes created. The holes, the black spots in his vision that were more pronounced, more easy to notice now that he was finally able to see light, now that someone else in this school had found him, now that someone had seen what a day on this island had turned him into.

But given the scratchy, high pitched voice calling from behind the light, given the person who Maxwell knew that voice belonged to, Maxwell couldn’t exactly say that he was all too happy right now.

“Tell me about it.” He said to Michael, trying to move his arm away, trying to look into the light.

he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts
She heard the people walking up to where she was standing. She cocked her head behind her, tried to see who they were. Lance Adams. Chuck… something. They were people. Not necessarily ones she really knew, not necessarily ones she talked to a lot - although she’d talked to Lance about homework, at some point, she remembered that - but people she knew about, to an extent. Lance was dating Kasumi, Chuck generally hung out with the nerdy people. Neither had been people mentioned on the announcements. It wasn’t very useful information - honestly, it wasn’t anything good either, it wasn’t anything she would put in her gossip dossier - but it told her enough. They were friendly. Non-threatening.



She shook her head. Stepped forward. They were friends. Potential allies, if Paris was still alive.

She could still get people on her side.

She could still get through this part of the game in the optimum way.

All she had to do was make a good first impression. Make the two like her. Make them think of her as some poor sweet innocent victim who was attacked by the evil Maxwell Lombardi and only got out by the skin of her teeth. Make them pity, disregard, care about her.

But do you really wanna do that, though?

Do you really just wanna be that person who everyone just pities?

Didn’t matter.

She needed this.

“Hey,” she said. Paused as she looked at them. Scratched her head, slightly.

“You, um, doing okay, Lance?”

Now This Looks Like A Job For Me, So Everybody… Just Follow Me
He’d made it all of twenty metres before his body forced him to stop again.

And he supposed - even though it pained him to say it, even though it pained him that he could barely even walk forward before his arm began to scream in pain again - that this was a new record. Not for him, not in total - he remembered being able to run across all of Denton’s neighborhoods in one sitting - but for now, as he tried to move through his tunnels. As he brought his hand upon the cavern wall, dragging it along as his eyes searched for a way out. As his ears searched for any noise, any indication that somebody other than him was in these tunnels. That somebody could arrive and help him, allow him to stop the pain.

And he hated that. He hated the pain. He hated that he couldn’t find a way out, couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even move twenty metres before the pain became too much to handle.

And he hated that he had to find someone else. Had to accept their help. He hated that he needed them to fix him, to reveal his bandages, to do what he couldn’t with only one arm.

But he did.

And he needed them.

Because his bandages, the white cloth he had wrapped around his shoulder had unravelled. Began to fall off. His arm hurt to move, hurt to do anything with. He needed fixing. He needed help.

Because he knew that there were people out there. People who were fighting. Killing. People that he knew he wasn’t going to let win. People he knew he had to stop.

And he knew that if he stayed in here, if he traversed these tunnels forever, they would just fight and kill and there would be nothing he could do about it.

So as much as he hated it, as much as he would loathe to need the help of somebody else in this school, he knew he needed it. He knew he needed to make it out of these tunnels.

So he pushed forward. Dragged his hand along the cavern wall. Let his ears listen out for any noise made.

Looked around, just hoping that these next few metres would provide him with an exit to this place.

he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts
She could feel the bruises on her face, as she looked out to the sea. The aching in her bones. The pain crawling under her skin, always throbbing, always hurting, always staying no matter what she tried to do, no matter what she tried to treat her body with. She’d earned her scars back at the cliffs, when she had ran. When she had gotten away. When she had felt that feeling of pride in the tunnels, knowing that she had won. Knowing that she had been better than everyone back there who had tried to stop her. She’d loved that. Because she’d won. Because she’d been able to show the whole world - her parents, Saffron, everyone else in her family - that she was better. That she would be the fittest.

But even though she’d done it, even though she’d had that victory, it seemed as if the world wouldn’t let her have it. It seemed as if everything she had accomplished within the previous day was hollow now.

Because apparently Paris had managed to survive.

Because apparently what she’d done wasn’t enough.

And she could feel the bruises on her face, as she looked out to sea. The aching in her bones. The pain crawling under her skin, reminding her of what had happened, back there. Reminding her of what she’d had to pay attain her victory.

Telling her that she had lost.

But that was okay, right? She could recover. Flourish. Make the best of this. If Paris wasn’t dead - if he had somehow managed to make it though what she’d done - then it meant she hadn’t killed anyone. It meant that no-one would think she would be able to do what she’d already done. They’d underestimate her. Think of her just as an aspiring serial killer's next victim.

And the bruises. They’d help too, she realized. They’d see her weak, they’d see her as easy prey, and if someone were benevolent - if someone was dumb enough to think that helping people was the way out of here - they’d take pity on her. They might accept her. They might try to protect her.

And she could go with them.

And it would work.

Do you really wanna do that, though?

Do you really want to be that girl who needs other people to do things for her?

It didn’t matter.

It was the choice that would let her win.

And as she put her hand on the post before the rope bridge, as she looked out at the sun and the sea, she knew what she was going to do. She knew she was going to find people again. She knew that she was going to do whatever it took after that.

And she knew she was going to win.

Bad Guy
He was gaining on her.

He was running. Down the tunnel. Down the slope. She was doing the same thing. Running. Slowing. Looking behind her, realizing that she was slowing down. Realizing that he was getting closer.

And he could feel his body heat up.

And he could see the expression of fear on her face.

And he could feel something. A tingling. Crawling up the skin of his arms, tingling and tickling and wanting to be moved. Wanting to be used. Wanting to get to Jasmine and push her down and make her hurt, make her scream, make her fucking pay for what she did to Paris. Make her fucking feel everything that he had when she’d brought her foot down on him.

And he could barely feel the his own exhaustion.

He could barely feel the pain. The gunshot in his shoulder. The way his arm was screaming at him to stop, to help it, to stop the pain that she caused. Stop the pain that she needed to feel back.

And as the dog closed in on the fox, it could feel something. An image of the fox under its foot. An image of her screaming. An image of her begging for mercy, apologizing for what she’d done to it. What she’d done to Paris.

And as it raised its hand to stop her, to drag her back, it could feel a smile, a grin coming across its face.

And at that moment, the ground disappeared under Maxwell’s foot.

And at that moment, there was nothing but empty air as his body flew. Hurtled. Hit the ground with a thump and a crack and kept going. Down the slope.

And as his head hit the ground, everything went black, blank for a brief moment.

And as his head hit the ground again, there was a crack, a thud, and nothing more.

All it had taken was a few hours of Maxwell being on this island and already he had gone crazy.

The first thing he’d felt as he regained consciousness was the ringing in his ears. The arm, numb underneath his body. He could barely even feel it, but in a way, he still could. He couldn’t even move it but yet it was still there, the occasional prick of what felt like a needle into his arm telling him that it was still there. Still feeling, even despite the high pitched drone sounding in his ears, even despite the feeling of pain - dull, aching - all over his body. Still alive, even despite everything he felt.

Still sane, even despite what he’d done. How his… mind had thought, during those moments.

Admittedly, he couldn’t quite remember all of it. Admittedly, everything felt like a blur, a sort of mishmash in his head. He remembered enough though, to know what he had done.

To know what this island had made him become, even if only for a moment. To chase that girl down the tunnels, knowing that he was going to kill her if he caught her…

He didn’t know what that meant.

To be honest, he didn’t even want to think about it.

So he pushed the thought aside. Saved it for later. Standing up - getting out of here - was probably for the best. He got his arm - the one not under him, the one where the pain wasn’t coming from - into a bent position, pushed his body up. The arm below him was still numb, still unmoving as he dragged it from below. He moved into a kneel. Pushed his right arm against the ground and pushed his body up again. Stood. Tried to take a step forward and tried to find a way out of these tunnels.

Felt blackness - dots swimming - in his vision as a feeling overtook him. Rocked his body. Sent him careening backwards onto the ground.

And he felt his breath get torn out of his body.

He felt his head begin to spin, ache.

And he felt his shoulder cry at the rest of his body. Tell it needed fixing. Tell that it couldn’t bear the injury any longer.

And he supposed even if he was injured, even if his state was so bad that he could barely even walk now, he could still try to help his body. Stop the pain in his shoulder. He moved. Rolled to the side. Felt the pain in his head reign over him as he crawled. Felt the cavern wall. Placed his body upwards as he brought his bag out from behind his back.

Saw - however faint the light was - the blood, the wound on his shoulder as he propped his back up. Let himself rest.

Only for the moment he could afford though. He brought his right hand over to his bag and began to bring items out.

The arrival of daylight didn’t do a lot to help with Maxwell’s vision.

He had woken up a couple of… minutes earlier, he imagined. There was no real way of telling the time down in this place. His head still hurt, his shoulder still stung and admittedly the cavern hadn’t been an ideal place to sleep in but he was still alive. Still… okay, he supposed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to use his arm, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to fight for the time being, but he was still alive. He could still stay alive. He knew that he would have to change his strategy, he knew that fighting wasn’t as much of an option now, but that didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have even been smart to fight anyway, if he wanted to win.

Admittedly, he wasn’t sure anymore.

Admittedly, he didn’t know whether playing to win, taking out his classmates was the route he wanted to take anymore.

But he was still here. Everyone else was still out there. He could leave those thoughts, he could leave his choice until later. He looked to his left, down at his shoulder. The arm of his shirt had been forced up over his arm. The coat he had - a recent purchase, around $600 - had been cast to the ground, covered in dirt. Admittedly, part of him hadn’t wanted to ruin his favourite coat, but he needed to be able to see his wound, treat it. Cover it with the bandage it was covered in now. It was white - stained brown and red - and wrapped around his left shoulder. He knew he probably needed a sling, he knew that he didn’t want his left arm to be free, but he didn’t have a choice in regards to that.

He supposed he would have to do that later.

He supposed he would have to find someone to help him, put their mercy and care upn him.

And he supposed that to do that, he was going to have to find a way out of these tunnels.

So he stood up. Pushed his back up along the cavern wall. Took a moment to breathe, took a moment to keep his balance - he hoped this wouldn’t be an issue as he walked, God knew how he’d handle it then - as he took a step. Moved forward. Placed his right hand, his useful hand along the wall, pushing his weight onto it and-

Moving his hands, trying to block his ears as an absolute screech filled them. Surrounded him. Hurt and couldn’t make him stop and couldn’t make it-


Silence, before a voice began to call out. The man on the bus. The man who put them here. Victor, his name was. Danya. Not someone Maxwell really respected. Not someone Maxwell really liked from the little they had seen each other.

But that didn’t matter. Odds were he had something important to say. Something that Maxwell needed to hear. He closed his eyes. Stepped forward. Let Victor’s voice fill his ears.

Killers. Victims. News that - given the people announced - was only semi-important to Maxwell. He took a step forward. Heard the names. Heard that people he had never really talked to - people he had never really known - had died. Had become never to be seen again. He knew that there was something he could say, some faux-philosophical remark about how he would forever regret not being able to see those faces again, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. All he needed to do right now was find a way out of these caverns. Once he did that, he could worry about the details. Ask someone else who had killed-

Yasmin Carrol.

Lost her legs and her life to Katarina Konipaski.

And he felt something. Like a knife tearing its way through his spine. Like a punch impacting deep into his gut. Yasmin was gone. Someone had managed to get into the cabin. Someone had managed to break it apart.

Someone - Katarina - had managed to kill Yasmin.

And she was dead now.

That quiet girl, that arty girl he’d met at the party, at the cabin was gone.

And he’d never see her face again.

And he wanted to say something. Express his regrets. Think about how he wanted to know her more, get to understand her like he had with Paris, Felicia, Lyndi, but he couldn’t. He had to get back to the cabin, back to Daniel and Baxter. He had to make sure they were safe. He had to make sure his group was still in-...

Lyndi Thibodeaux.



And he felt the world spin around him. He felt a force hit him in the gut again, send his body packing downwards. His hand clutched a part of the cavern wall, pushed in. He closed his eyes. Kept them as tight as possible. Tried to stop hearing.

Because Lyndi was dead.

That girl he had seen cheerlead at one point. That girl that he had met, talked to, left the cafeteria with. That girl who had asked him out on the grounds, looking at the sky together. That girl who went out with him, that girl who he always seemed to be able to have fun with, even when they weren’t actually with each other. That girl who always seemed so friendly. So upbeat. So caring. That girl he had planned to spend the future with, travel the world with Paris and Soren in tow. To have as much fun as they possibly could before the future, his aspirations as a composer took the two away from each other.

The girl who loved him.

The girl who he loved.

She was gone.


And he’d never see her face again.

He’d never see her smile. He’d never feel her touch.

And they’d never travel the world. They’d never need to leave each other.

They’d never need to meet on this island.

And he wouldn’t have to kill her.

Because he knew that he would have had to do it, didn’t he? He’d said it himself, back in the bedroom, back at the cabin. He wasn’t going to die here. He wasn’t going to let them win. He was going to do whatever it took for him to get off of this island alive. He was going to do whatever it took to get ahead of all the other people here. He… didn’t want to die. He didn’t want his life to end on this island, to these people. That was his logic. That was the train of thought he had been going off for the past few days.

And that was what caused him to think of the group around him as people to use. Means to an end.

And that was what caused him to split off from them. Leave them alone. Leave Yasmin to die.

And even though he could still barely remember it, he knew that was what caused him to attack that girl.

And that was what caused him to enjoy it. Want her to die by his hand.

And he hated that.

He hated that these terrorists, he hated that Victor had made him do that.

All it had taken was a few hours of being on this island and already he had gone crazy.

And he hated that.

He hated that these people - the ones on the bus, the ones all around him on the island - had been the ones who turned him into that.

But what could he do?

What way was there for him to fight against that? What way could he do that without becoming the martyr for a cause only he would care about?

He didn’t know.

But as he took another step forward, he was able to remember. Back at the cliffs. When he and Paris had split themselves off from the other three and Paris had revealed his grand and stupid plan. To be a hero. To traverse the island, stopping all the villains and wooing all the damsels in distress. Admittedly then, Maxwell remembered that he hadn’t been fond of the plan. He remembered expressing his doubts. He remembered Paris saying something in response, saying something about how it was his destiny to stop the people causing harm, how he had to do something about this game, all the people on this island.

And Maxwell remembered something else he said. How nobody here was going to just lay down and die. How there were going to be people who actively tried to pursue victory.

And he remembered saying that they - he and Paris - needed to stop them. Needed to make sure that they weren’t the ones crowned the Fittest at the end of this competition.

And he knew he had been unsure of that. Of the idea that he could be a hero galavanting around the island actively trying to help people who weren’t himself. It’d seemed stupid. Actively detrimental to his chances of survival. He was the one atop the totem pole. He was the one who he imagined everyone on this island was predicting to kill, predicting to main, predicting to win. What place did he have to be a hero? How would that in any way benefit him?

He didn’t know.

But he’d said it. His piece. His idea of pitious heroism.

So he supposed - even if he himself wanted to win, even if he himself wanted to live - that he was going to have to commit to it.

Because what were the other options? Die? That one was out of the question. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to let anybody here kill him.

But what was the other option? Maim? Kill? Act the villain and hurt anybody who stood between him and victory?

Let everyone else turn him into that?


He wasn’t going to win.

He wasn’t going to live.

Not like that.

Never like that.

He still wasn’t sure what his plan was. He knew he couldn’t just push it until later like all the other things he didn’t want to bother him.

But he knew he wasn’t going to let them change him.

He knew he wasn’t going to let them win.

So he took a step across the cavern wall. Another. Felt his hand slowly fade its way off the rock face as he began to see the entrance, his exit.

And he knew that out there were people. On this island. Playing this game. People who weren’t going to just lay down and die. People who were going to actively pursue victory.

And even though he didn’t know how he was going to do it, even though he could still feel the pain in his shoulder, in his head, across his body, he knew that he had to try and stop them, he knew that he wasn’t going to be one of them anymore.

He knew that he was going to do whatever it took to stop one of them from winning.

((Maxwell Lombardi, continued elsewhere))

SC2 Second Rolls
i use my villain card so that cicada has to die instead

SC2 Second Rolls
officially calling for kill offers, send me a pm if you wanna kill me

She’d gotten away.

Even though she could barely even see anything in these tunnels, even though she could barely even breathe as she walked, as she lurched her way through the empty darkness, she had gotten away. She had escaped. Maxwell had been chasing her down and even though she had never ran as far as she had in her life she’d been able to get away and that was all because of her. All because she was faster. Tougher. Better than Maxwell was.

And she could feel something in regards to that. In regards to the fact that she’d won.

Heat rising.

Skin tingling. Tickling.

A feeling like what she had felt before. At the cliffs. When Paris had been below her. It was like that. It was like when she was standing at assembly, shaking the hand of the principal as the whole school applauded her for her achievements.

When everyone knew what she had been able to do.

When everyone couldn’t help but appreciate that.

And even though she couldn’t breathe, even though she could only wheeze as her body leaned on one of the cavern walls, she couldn’t help but laugh, let all the air force itself out of her throat.

Because she’d done it.

She’d gotten away.

Because she was her.

She was better than everyone else there.

And there wasn’t anyone on this island who could deny that.

So she stopped. Let gravity slide her down the cavern wall. Let her laughter fill, echo through the tunnels as she sat there, trying to get her body to breathe. She couldn’t, though. She couldn’t stop laughing because she’d done it. She’d actually done it. She’d made Paris pay for everything he did to her and she’d lived to tell the tale. Outran Maxwell. Even if she hadn’t made it out uninjured, even though she could faintly feel the bruises all over her face, it didn’t matter. She’d made it out. She’d lived to tell the tale.

And all the people back at the cliffs, Brigid and Chris and Maxwell and Paris? They knew what she could do now.

They knew now that she was someone they needed to fear.

”And hey, they gotta give you credit. You did that all yourself.”

She could hear the sounds as her laughter began to die. High and low. Quiet and loud. Like everything and nothing at the same time.

“You’re back,” Jasmine said, calling out to wherever the voice was.

”Never left.” The voice replied. I was like, right there when you were wrecking shit. Cheering you on, y’know?

Jasmine giggled. Admittedly the image was funny. Admittedly, she liked the idea that at least somebody was cheering for her when he did that.

”Because hey, fucker deserved it, y’know?” The voice said. “Like, he messed with you. He fucked you over. He acted like you two were gonna be forever and then dropped you first opportunity he could. No way you coulda just let him do that. Walk over you. Act as if everything was all fine and dandy and that you two were the best of buddies.”

Silence, then:

”I mean, yeah, maybe killing him was a bit much but hey. Paris can just consider it karma for what he did to you.”


Did the voice just say-

”Yep. Odds are you killed him,” it said. “You heard his ribs crunch, right? No way he’s getting up and walking from that.

And her breath stopped. Her body froze. The heat, the tingling of her skin, the sense of adolescent pride she felt in her body was gone, replaced with cold. A feeling like there was something in her chest that was just gone. Missing. As if she was in the music room, waiting until it was time for her to give a performance to the examiners. As if there was a question on a Maths test that Yakubovich hadn’t prepared her for. As if she had only just remembered what the correct word was on a Spanish exam and couldn’t remember whether she had used it or not. Whether she would do good on the test or not.

Whether she would ever be able to show her achievements to her parents and have them be proud of her. Whether they would notice her over everyone else.

But that would never happen.

Because she’d messed up.

Because she had hurt. She had maimed. She had killed. That wasn’t something she wanted to do. That wasn’t something that would help her win. They’d see her as a monster now. They’d see her as some sort of evil bitch because she killed Paris and they’d hunt her down. Kill her for what she did to him. See themselves as if they had any sort of moral right because clearly she was worse than they were and clearly an eye meant an eye and clearly no-one would miss her when she was gone because she was nothing but Eris’ attack dog, some bitch who people only ever used back at school and who didn’t even last a day before attacking, before killing someone else.

And she’d messed up. She’d jepordised herself by killing this early. By making it known that she wanted to win. By putting her name in the announcements. Because of what she did, because of what Paris did she was gone. Dead in the water. Her chances of winning this had dropped further down than she could possibly imagine.

But it was more than that. More than this game. She hadn’t wanted to kill anyone because it was… wrong. Bad. She couldn’t quite put words to it and it annoyed her that she couldn’t but she didn’t know. Even if she had to, even if it was right for her to take back from Paris she’d never wanted to do that. She’d never wanted to do anything wrong.

Yet it actually felt right, in a way. Because she could feel it. The air warming around her. The hairs on her skin tingling. That familiar sense of pride coming back.

Because she’d done that. She’d killed Paris. She’d brought that feeling upon herself.

And admittedly, she liked that.

”And hey, look on the bright side,” the voice said. “Now that you’ve done it the first time it’s gonna be easier on you to do it again.”

And her body froze. Her muscles locked. The tunnel, the air around her vanished. The idea of her killing, the idea of doing it again came to the forefront. Filled her mind.

Because she couldn’t do it again, couldn’t she? She’d done it and she’d made it out and honestly she felt fine about it, but doing it again? Taking her gun and shooting someone and knowing what she was about to do? It felt wrong to Jasmine. It felt bad. It felt-

”No it doesn’t,” the voice said, as a feeling - cold, bare - felt itself up Jasmine’s arms. ”Like. Seriously. Stop trying to convince yourself that.”


”Like, riddle me this,” the voice said. ”Give me one person in this school who you actually give a shit about.”

And the names came flooding into her head.


”Nah.” Jasmine felt a thud on her body. Soft, as if something was sitting on her legs. ”You know she only uses you. You know she only sees you as her attack dog.”


”How much do you even talk to her?” She felt something on her shoulders.


”Okay, I’ll give you that one,” it laughed, as Jasmine’s head fell back against the cavern wall. ”You like him because he wants to fuck you, though. He’s only passable otherwise.”

But that wasn’t true. She liked them. She cared-

”Just as you cared about your darling Paris?”

And her body seized up again. Her hands clenched. Fingernails dug into her skin because she knew she- she knew that the voice was right. Even if she did like them, even if she did care, that didn’t mean they cared back. That didn’t mean that they actually gave a shit about her.

But that didn’t mean she had to kill. She wasn’t sure what the voice was saying. She knew she had to rely on herself, but that didn’t mean she could abandon her friends. She had to work with people. She couldn't take this game alone.

”And how well is that going to work out for you?”

Jasmine froze. What was being said- what the voice said couldn’t be right. She needed people. She needed a group if she wanted to win this game and-...

Who would want to work with her now? She’d seen what happened when she attacked Paris. She’d seen how quickly people had turned on her. What would they think of her when they found out she killed him? What would they see her as then?

Not someone friendly.

Not someone they would want on their team.

But that didn’t mean she had to kill. She didn’t have to listen to the voice. She knew she could rely on herself. She knew that there was someone out there who would find her. Accept her. She couldn’t just give up. Not yet. She wanted to live, she wanted to live, so if she wanted to do that she had to find a group. She had to stick out these early stages of the game.

”And how well is that going to work out for you?”

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know.

”Because here’s the thing,” the voice said, the tone of its voice intensifying. ”All that’s gonna happen if you do that is that you’re gonna walk around, you’re gonna just fucking fail to find a group and then die when someone finally loses it at you. No. You can’t do that. You can’t lose.”


She didn’t have to do it.

She didn’t have to kill.

”Besides, you liked it, right?”


Her body locked. Her mind froze because she did. She’d thought that before. She had felt something when she’d been back at the cliffs, when she had made it away from Maxwell. A sense of pride. A sense that she was better than the people below her, the people who had failed to catch her.

And for once, there was nobody to undercut it. No Saffron to have done it before. No parents to just fawn over anybody else.

Even though it was gone, even though she couldn’t feel it at all, she knew that she could get that feeling back.

She knew she could make it last.

A laugh sounded as something cold - something wet - pressed against her forehead. Left its wet, caring remains there.

”So you gonna make yourself feel it again?”

And she saw an image. Of Paris. On the ground. Under her foot.

And she saw another. Of Maxwell. Him trying to catch her, him trying to beat her. Him losing to her.

“Yeah,” she said.

”Atta girl.”

And as she felt the cold feeling - the wet feeling - press on her neck, she saw another image. One of someone - a girl, a person, whatever - sprawled on the ground. Begging for mercy. Looking up at Jasmine, hoping that her so-called ‘friend’ would save her.

And as the cold feeling became warm - became so much like pleasure - she saw another image. One of the end. One of the people on the bus picking her up. Collecting her. Calling her the winner.

And as she laughed, as she let her sounds fill and echo against the empty caverns, she saw one last image. One of everyone - her parents, Saffron, Aster, Primrose, Eris, everybody - standing in front of her. Clapping. Applauding her.

Because they knew she was better.

Because they knew she’d won.

And because they knew she’d shown them all.

((Jasmine King, continued elsewhere))

Take a Bite of My Heart Tonight
Jasmine King couldn’t exactly say that she was all that happy right now.

Yakubovich had decided that her maths lesson for whatever reason needed to go far past the boundaries the school bell had set. Jasmine had already completed her work, she was far past ready to just pack up her bags and leave, but because some other people weren’t quite getting things the whole class had to stay behind while the teacher finished the lesson. Which was annoying. Which was aggravating, because seriously, was Yakubovich so obsessed with Maths that she was willing to keep everyone behind just so she could get everything she possibly could out? Were the people - always the same people - seriously just unable to bite their tongues and go to a friend or a tutor or something like that? Was that one single class seriously just going out of its way to make her day as bad as possible?

She clenched her hands as she walked down the cafeteria. Whatever, she supposed. It wasn’t as if she needed to get out as quickly as possible this time around.

But still, today was supposed to be one of her social days. One of the days where she didn’t have to feel guilty about skimping on her studies. Now - because of Yakubovich - she didn’t have as much time to talk. Now - because of those asshole students in the back - she wasn’t going to be able to do as much as she wanted to.

But she could deal. She’d done it before. Eris and Rachael hadn’t minded her being late to their meeting, so whoever she was talking to today could deal as well. Who even was she supposed to meet, today? She’d forgotten to think about that. Today was Tuesday, so…

That was right, today she was meeting Damion. She smiled at that. Today was the day she was supposed to meet up with her boyfriend. Talk with him. Allow him to act all lovey-dovey with her. Admittedly, she didn’t quite feel the same way about him as he did with her, but she liked that. Admittedly, she had developed a fondness for him. A tingly feeling whenever he touched her skin. A sense of… something, whenever he complimented her. When he actually understood what she was talking about. Pride. Attraction? Admittedly, she wasn’t quite sure, but she liked it. Maybe it wasn’t quite the same as it was with… him, but still! She liked him. She definitely liked being with him.

And hey, it’s pretty great when you have a guy who’s all over you. Who basically bends himself over to make sure you like him.

Who likes you more than anyone else in this school.


Admittedly, it was pretty great.

She found him pretty quickly. Saw him tapping something on one of the cafeteria tables. She didn’t need any of the food there - she’d brought stuff from home, a surprise from her parents, apparently - and she was late enough already. She walked over to the table, hop in her step, and placed herself down right next to him.

“Heyyyyyyy, Dami.”

Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
There was a thud. A smack. A feeling as if the whole world was surrounding Jasmine as her body reeled. Struggled to even keep itself up as her feet pedaled, threw themselves backwards along the ground of the cliffs.

And the heat was gone.

Her skin stopped tingling.

And that feeling within her - that sense of happiness, that sense of pride - was gone. Whisked away. Never to be seen again.

And it’s all because of the person standing in front of you.

He hit you.

He hurt you.

And you’ve gotta make him pay for that.

Right, sister?


She raised the gun and-

Felt a shape, felt a force plow into her chest, the whole world surrounding Jasmine as she was knocked to the ground.

All it had taken was a few minutes of Maxwell looking in the other direction and already somebody had gone crazy.

Jasmine wasn’t exactly a person that Maxwell knew all that well. Of course he recognized her, and of course he knew about her skill in academics, but it wasn’t exactly comparable to knowing who she was as a person, what exactly made her tick. He had heard the stories of her snootiness, of course. He had heard Paris talk about her, go on about how amazing she seemed to be but nothing more than that. When Paris stopped talking about her, when he began to spend all his time with the other popular kids again Maxwell didn’t question him. He hadn't really seen a point in finding out what happened, since Paris never spoke then Maxwell respected that privacy.

But now he wished he hadn’t..

And now he wished that he hadn’t done it. Leave Paris behind. Go back to the rest of the group.

Maybe he could have stopped this.

Maybe he could have saved Paris.

But he couldn’t. He was hurt now.

And there was nothing Maxwell could do about that.

And there was nothing Maxwell could do to save his friend.

But at the very least, he could make sure Jasmine didn’t get away with this scot free.

At the very least, he could make her pay.

So he ran. Empty air rushed against his body as he lept. Gravity pushed him as he tackled Jasmine down onto the ground.

Felt the air surrounding him heat up as he saw her below him.

Felt his skin tingle as he felt her under his body, trying to push herself out.

He felt a feeling - one of pride, one of satisfaction - rise up within him as he saw the fear in her eyes.

And he knew that what he was about to do wasn’t good.

And he knew that this wouldn’t be what Paris wanted. That he wouldn’t want Maxwell to commit an act of revenge on his behalf.

But he didn’t care.

She hurt Paris.

She hurt his friend.

And he was going to make her pay for that.

He felt a grin appear on his face as he brought the first punch down.

He felt it grow as he brought down the second.

Jasmine felt a crunch as the first punch hit her jaw.

Felt a squish, a crack as the second punch hit her cheek.

Felt everything turn to black for a second as the third punch hit her eye.

And she tried pulling.herself out, getting herself out of his grip, but she couldn’t.

She couldn’t do anything.

She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t defend herself. She couldn’t do anything against him.

She couldn’t win.

And she hated that. There was nothing she could do. Nothing she could say. She would die on this island and everyone would see it and they would all forget about her. All the people here would run. Fight. Live. All the people at home - all the people in her family - would carry on. Her parents would keep just fawning over Saffron. Saffron would keep on doing nothing to deserve it. Aster would keep on being too busy to care about his sister. Primrose would continue just being a little shit.

And they’d all forget about you.

Just as they always did.

And maybe one day someone would find you. See you die right in front of their eyes.

And then they would look you up.

And then they would find out all about you.

And you know how they’d feel? You know what they’d say?

‘Aww, the poor girl. She tried so hard and yet she still failed.’

‘To be honest, I just feel so sorry for her.’


She wasn’t going to die here.

She wasn’t going to let anyone else do that to her.

She saw the gun. On the ground. Next to her.

To be honest, there wasn’t a lot else to what she was doing. She picked up the gun, aimed it at Maxwell, and pulled the trigger.

He barely even registered the sight of the gun as she pulled it up to face him.

He barely even heard the noise as she fired it at him, point blank.

He felt the pain though, as the bullet tore itself through his shoulder. As the hole the bullet left roared, screamed at his mind. It was numb, it was dull but it was sharp and absolutely clear at the same time.

And for a moment, he couldn’t think of anything other than the pain. And for a moment, the heat, the tingling, the feeling in his body was gone.

And then there was a thud, a crack as a foot went against his face.

And his body was pushed, thrown back as a feeling - dull, numb - hit his face. As his shoulder, his nose became warm.

But he saw her. Getting up. Running away.

Getting away from what she’d done.

Not having paid for attacking Paris.

And immediately, the feeling - the heat, the tingling, the sense - came back.

Because she was running.

She’d hurt Paris.

She’d hurt him.

And he knew that he wasn’t going to let her win.

He knew that he wasn’t just going to let her run off scot-free for what she did.

He was going to have to make her pay.

So he moved. Got up.

Chased after her, as fast as he could.

((Jasmine King, continued elsewhere))
((Maxwell Lombardi, continued elsewhere))

Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
There was a thunk as the gun hit against his face.

A force pushing against Jasmine’s body as the gun dug into his cheek, throttling him, off of his feet and onto the ground.

And there was something Jasmine was feeling as she saw Paris on the ground below her.

Heat rising.

Skin tingling.

A feeling as if she’d won a prize at the fair. As if she’d gotten a grade far better than what she’d imagined she’d get. As if she had played one of her performances absolutely perfectly and the audience was right there in front of her, applauding.

Because it had all been so bullshit, hadn’t it? He was the one who had fucked her over. He was the one who pretended to be in love with her. He was the one who made her fall in love with him, and he was the one who dropped her like she was nothing. Like all the things she did for him meant nothing. He was the one who ignored her. Acted as if they had never even talked to each once everything was said and done, and he was the one acting like everything was absolutely fine right now. Like he and Jasmine were always friends. Like she should just ignore what he did and act like everything was just fine.

As if she was the one in the wrong for being angry at him.

As if she was the one being unreasonable.

As if anything she felt was invalid.

And she didn’t want that.

And she couldn’t help it.

And the gun had smashed against his face. Knocked him to the ground. She’d taken a step forward. Stood over his body.

And she could feel the heat searing.

Her skin tingling.

That feeling of pride rising up within her as she grinned. Looked down into his eyes.

Sew the expression of absolute fear on his face as she raised her foot.

And you know what you want to do. And you know that it’s bad. You know that it’s dumb. You know that regardless of the way you think it you can’t do this. You shouldn’t.

But it’s his fault.

He fucked you.

He hurt you.

He made you believe that just for a moment you had someone who actually understood you, and he took that away. He made it clear that he was like everyone else. Made it clear that he didn’t ever give a shit about you.

It’s his fault.

So do it.

Make him break.

Make him bleed.

Make him pay.


The foot went down against his chest, flesh and bone failing to stand up as it broke. Crunched. Paid.

And then the foot went down again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

PV3 Prologue Game Unofficial Weapon Claim Thread



Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
Air burning. Searing her lungs.

Hands clenched, gun in between. Fingernails piercing her skin.

But she couldn't feel the pain.

She looked him in the eyes.

"Fuck you."

Swung the gun towards his face.

SC2 Theme Music
Cicada Nights
Sep 5 2017, 12:11 PM
Nominating Keiji's theme music on Namira's behalf:

take a guess as to which meme i picked
Also Keiji's theme.

Hey can I have your pacifist group protect my Gilbert for me?

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