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wAtCH thIS giRl gEt SokAiNg wET
((the formatting (mostly) ends))

have to run have to run no hes
getting closer no no please
closer closer so close too close dont kill me dont kill me i dont want
to die
She was safe, she couldn't hear him anymore

so she slowed down and saw some sort of brick building, whose door she began to nervously approach while ambient noise continued on

And Rachael's weak ankle betrayed her. She stumbled and something else stumbled, flying across the infinity of the unknown, unfathomable space that was the space she couldn't see with her own two eyes, behind her own head, where monsters and nightmares dwelt.
And the black figure found her.

Rachael's body screamed for respite, for rest perhaps eternal, but Rachael herself screamed aloud, in that alien gazelle hyena voice she didn't recognize. She screamed and screamed as much as her faltering breath would allow, as much as the presence of something malicious on her chest would allow
as much as the hands on her throat would allow

Rachael desperately swiped and clawed, once more, she had to get the hands on her throat off
there was flailing, blood dripping, tears and sweat and

Give up. It's over, they've won.
I want this torture to end.

Still, Rachael fought with that viciousness that didn't belong.

ÐǮȝ ꟼ cᵙ⏚Ș
((and she still ran
he still followed
and followed

she trampled flowers
heard him do the same.
She was running still but he never stopped running after her, she was going to die.
never stopping
Her lungs screamed
she screamed as she turned and fired bullets
her gun threatening to run from her grip
i don't want
Still running.
to die
Ever, always running.
her feethurt
and she continued to scream

The calm ocean absorbed her cries into a hug

Ever present, the green figure
((Blaine Eno continued elsewhere))

shallow breaths
((A green figure still running))

,she was exhausted. The pain in her shoulder became a line of purulent stitches through her breast, down the heaving, broken contour of her rib cage.

Noises all around, behind her, the noises like the monster under the bed or inside the closet or outside the window were perpetually closer and closer.

She breathed hard for each breath, wheezing and sobbing for oxygen that fled her lungs quickly as it came, and she couldn't possibly breathe enough. Her forearms were scratched, lacerations of reds and nasty yellows and stings and splotchy pulsations and she continued to abuse herself, her body as her only means of escape as she lashed out at the overgrowth that stood in her way, still running with guns and bullets on her body clattering and clanging

always running

He's still behind you.

A house ahead but Rachael ran past, stumbling, scraping, begging without a sound; another face would only be another set of footsteps galloping after her like the steed of Death so she kept running but not matter how she ran there was

something always behind her and always watching, always waiting
((Blaine Eno continued))

Future Concepts
my TV3 concepts, my ideas continue to get worse by the version, and pop music throwbacks

Keep Track Of Things That Happened
The Coastal Woods

In a clearing area deep in the woods several trees have been bullet ridden. There are abandoned supplies scattered about including a bag, a full set of food and water, several cartridges of H&K MP7 ammo, and a puke stained green sweater.

(Day 1)

Victim, Victim, Honey You're My Fifth One
Rachael still had no ability to consciously make a noise it was squeezed out of her with a disgusting throaty pop like someone splattering a slab of meat onto tile.

Barely a minute ago she'd been fine or at least alone with her own pain. She'd continued to gag, continued to choke on her own faltering attempts at calming breathing, continued to sift through her stuff, continued with a fresh cartridge of bullets into her gun and more fistfuls of cartridge stuffed into her arms cradled close like her own first born

She heard her own history narrated to her in the third person in her own head. She'd looked up while she'd been gathering her little shiny candies of sin and murder. A rustle, a shadow. The sole of a shoe, dominating the horizon and stamping itself onto her eyeball like a brand. Her nose exploded, the flesh resettled only with difficulty, in bloody cracks and scars. Rachael fell back, screaming wildly, only holding onto her precious violent treasures barely.

She could once more hear an anger that wasn't her own. Bestial,


Two cases of bullets tucked under the bookends of one elbow. Rachael forgot the meaning of the word hesitation. Her mind screamed a thousand furious words of fear and retribution and not one of the screams was conscious, not even the one roaring out of her jaw-cracked mouth. She for once did not stumble, she held herself aloft with alien willpower, her blank mind host to such parasite.

She felt no pain. Only the pistoning rattle of her gun, three times, as she fired at the other specter she only barely recognized to be human and backpedaled.

Shells hitting the ground.

Where am I?
Why am I doing this?

Retreat became rout.

((Rachael Langdon continued in shallow breaths))

Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
"We'll make it work, alright?" Paris nodded with a slight wave off. It sounded like a good plan to Paris. Maxwell doing his thing, Paris doing something else. They'd cover more ground that way, for sure.

"And I'll stay safe, Maxwell. See ya!"

Paris watched Maxwell leaving, nodding to himself. Maxwell was a good dude, he was going to do good work and Paris was pretty sure of that. That left Paris' half of the equation. He looked back up the lighthouse longways, it's imposing tallness towering over him, casting a huge shadow over the ground with the sun high and a slight glare in Paris' face, so he put a hand to his brow. He also put his bag down on the ground, and began to search through it. A packed scarf, Kenneth Cole, and underneath it was a paper-wrapped loaf of bread, whole wheat. A little bit of energy for the long road ahead, by the looks of it. Bread would do. Paris tore off a pinch worth, popped it into his mouth and grunted. It was kind of stale. Paris closed his eyes briefly, relaxing for a second.

Memories returned to him. Smells of the briny ocean, sounds of a familiar voice.

Paris turned around. And softly smiled.


Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
"I don't know about you dude. But me?"

Paris glanced back for a second, he saw the three figures in the distance tiny, like Paris was up here and they were all down there. Elevations were reversed in reality, of course. He looked back to the facade of the lighthouse. Paris swore he could see splatters of blood painted over the doorway leading in, but he was probably just seeing things.

"Yeah. I have to do something, even if I don't know what."

He watched Maxwell for just a second. He didn't know what Maxwell was thinking, Paris realized. Paris didn't really read into the meanings or values in the contortions of Maxwell's face.

"I think Aria might be better with you and your friends, not going with me. Maybe you should take him." Paris laughed a bit. "I can vouch for him, he's cool."

The lighthouse was probably another minute's worth of flat terrain away. Paris began to pick up the pace, slightly, his legs pumping a bit faster. Maxwell would start to fall behind if he didn't also speed up to match.

"My take on it, though. No accounting for whatever you might think."

Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
"Well duh."

One last clanging rattle and Paris disengaged his hand from the still standing fence.

"That's what everyone wants isn't it? No one wants to die, like. Not yet, not when we're so young and meaningful still."

Paris now had two free arms, which he crossed and tucked slightly under his ribs. He gazed out into the deep expanses of the ocean.

"It's why I'm doing what I'm doing, you know? And why you're going to be doing what you're going to be doing."

Paris glanced at Maxwell with a slight shrug hunching his shoulders.

"What do you think is going to happen? With all of this, I mean. How it all ends."

Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
"Anyone could, but we can only trust ourselves to get it done for sure. Everyone else that's all up to them."

Paris stopped for a moment, at a section of the fence right by the cliffside. He tentatively hung a hand off the rungs, pressing the rusty metal a bit into his flesh. It felt kind of unstable, like it'd give out and let him fall if he pushed any harder. He pushed a bit anyways, feeling the shifting weight, testing it with the assumption that it wouldn't give out.

"I mean what are your plans, anyways? If you've got a better idea, or like, need to focus on protecting those people in your hideout, I'd understand." Paris would understand, definitely.

He wouldn't approve so much, but that was just how it was.

Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
'Secure location' was kinda vague, like it was with people Paris knew sometimes being all kinds of vague and talking a lot about stuff in particular. Paris chose not to question it, at some point forgot what his question would have been anyways, he kept walking.

Paris shoved the barrel of the gun into his jeans, so the handle stuck out. It also made the fabric around his hip a bit tight, and he waddled and shimmied, crab walked a bit to adjust.

"Some guy attacked me." What had that guy's name been again? "He robbed Soren- you remember Soren, right?- robbed him of his gun and.. and ran off after he hit me with a sword for trying to intervene. Now I dunno where any of them are."

Paris glanced back at the others beginning to shrink and melt away into the distance as he and Maxwell continued ambling down the slopes.

"Anyways I have to find Soren again and help him out just in case. And, you know, guys like the guy that attacked him. We have to watch out, and warn others. It's you and me, Maxwell. You know?" Paris sighed a bit. There was some sort of weight somewhere balanced on his shoulders, wounded or otherwise. "It's going to be hard but someone has to do it. Why not us, you know?"

Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
Maxwell front and center, Paris nodded in recognition. Definitely a familiar sort of face, that one. Paris checked out the scene, as it stood. Aria over here, Maxwell over here, other people over there.

Paris tentatively massaged the bloody mess on his shoulder and grit his teeth, then he smiled.

"Good to see you too, but like. Better circumstances and all." Paris glanced the way of the distant pillar of the lighthouse rising from the earth, then began to slowly drift towards it, his shoes scrunching earth underneath. He got the sense that he should check that building out at some point or another, it dominated the horizon so it probably had a decent vantage point or something strategic like that.

"These all the people you've found so far? Not asking you to kiss and tell though." Paris segued into his next thought without delay. "I'm going to check out the way to the lighthouse, see if it's clear. We'll probably head there next."

And so he went, and the others all just did whatever.

Victim, Victim, Honey You're My Fifth One
Rachael's breath violently caught in her throat like the sickle hook of a fisherman through soft flesh, the moment her gun was clicking empty, she ignored the throb in her one good arm already tired of playing executioner and she began to stare wildly about for precious, precious ammunition

what is wrong with me

Rachael's undead finger continued to spasm over the trigger pointlessly.

Katarina was running. Rachael watched her go. The thunderous crunching of her footfalls onto murder-scene detritus of crumbled autumns and winters bygone, it for a moment washed Rachael's mind clear of thoughts.

It all rushed back and Rachael fell to her knees
Hey. Hear the trickle of fresh static snow, how it softly settles into the creases of your brow and wipes your vision white like a little girl's blanket pulled over your forehead before a kiss from Dad crystallizes the warmth of a memory. That warmth will be the last thing to leave your body when it is naught but cold compost and dregs.
she crawled hand over foot, swimming as did her vision in the dirt that invitingly embraced her fingers into the funeral depths, she pawed at the things she'd scattered in her flight. Metal casings, soft green fabric of her sweater that she lurched over, vomited over as a thin trail of ocher bile splattered over her own fingers and nails and she weakly sobbed, soundlessly, she had no energy left to actually make even a pittance of noise.

Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)
"... But yeah, dude, I think men like Mr. Dolph would go to heaven. He was a good teacher..."

Paris spoke to himself a bit, or he spoke to the person still following him.

((Paris Ardennes continued from The Land of Shadow))

"I'm just saying."

Paris had plenty more to say, though he wasn't sure how much of it was relevant. Ultimately he didn't really want to talk about the situation as it were too much. Plans, fears, those sorts of things seemed like a waste of time. His own two feet led them where they would, and Paris didn't know himself where that was.

He drunk in the scent of the ocean with deep, calm rises of his chest. He listened to the crunch of dry topsoil underneath his boots with each step, for a few more steps until he saw a few figures a way up the fence he'd been following. Paris waved casually, then approached until he was a respectful ways behind the girl with the purple hoodie, gazing over her shoulder.

"Maxwell!" Paris paused, figuring people would need a second if they hadn't noticed him approaching. The gun stayed visible, pointed right at the ground. "Am I interrupting anything? We all cool up here?"

The Trees and the Bramble
"Oh, yeah. Hey, cool." Paris smiled, nodding slightly.

Paris only vaguely recognized the name. Was she the one with the bangs to the forehead?

Anyways, he dismissed the thoughts of other people and got on with the rest of his day.

"So yeah, dude, good luck with that. Let me know if you need any help, maybe I could do something."

At some point he also remembered that they had to hash out the rest of the trip.

((Paris Ardennes continued in The Land of Shadow))

Victim, Victim, Honey You're My Fifth One
Rachael bit back a sob, a violent bite that tore a bloody gash in her lower lip. At least two of her fingers felt, looked like they had melted off the bone. Her stomach demanded in churning Morse that she take a second to keel over and puke. She didn't do that, rather, she ran and

someone was shooting at her

She flew forward, each foot simultaneously too far ahead of the other foot, her vision was stars and prints and the rushing and hurtling of earth closer to embracing the bridge of her nose. Somehow through sheer pained efforts of her core she forced herself to stay up, scrabbling hands managing to drag her bag alongside even as things tumbled out of the yawning zipper and scattered over the ground in her wingless flight.

run have to run

she barely dodged the cracking of own her skull onto the bark
grass guns
bullets it hurts it hurts

Rachael felt the throb of the ankle she'd twisted whenever centuries ago threatening to betray her.

it hurts
explosions of bark shrapnel, clouds of wooden shards as bullets ripped through the trees like they would her own pasty squishy mealy body
i'm going to

She found shelter behind a tree, a quivering pile of rags and flesh trembling with each breath
and she closed her hand around her gun and it was heavy why was it so heavy this time why did it threaten to fall out of her hands and take her crumbling wrist away with it

So she whipped around the blind spot of the tree trunk the moment there was no sound, none of her enemy's gun yelling at her, and she responded in kind, in curt monosyllables, the gun viciously ricocheting off the meat of her thumb with each moment of time she held down the trigger and she screaming mutely, the empty echo in her own head now the spitting of molten lead of a cold temper fury that wasn't her own.

The Land of Shadow
Paris glanced back.

"Hey, cool trumpet."

Looked like he would have a buddy. He'd need at least a couple, he figured. Staying strong in times like this wouldn't be easy. He returned his attention to looking forwards.

Paris knew, somehow just knowing, he knew that he was strong. Where others faltered he would step up. And everything would fall into place.

He could smell that particular smell, a memory of Denton. A bit briny and smoky, like someone barbecuing fish. The smell of the sea. He walked after it and someone followed.

((Paris Ardennes and Aria Samuels continued in Hi Kids! Do You Like Violence? (Yeah, Yeah!)))

Victim, Victim, Honey You're My Fifth One
It's over. I don't have to worry anymore.

Rachael's thrashing grew weak, lame, crippled. The pain in her shoulder and her lungs, her head,
her heart,
it wouldn't matter anymore but somehow it still hurt so badly, it was still all so overwhelming in the here and now and Rachael couldn't calm down, gross and oily fear dripped from the tattered ending of every nerve and her muscles were tensing, screaming for action that was never going to come.

I'm sorry
Rachael just had to accept it

but she was still struggling,
still fighting for each pathetic whimper of a breath
for whatever reason.

The story is already over. I have nothing left to say.

And Rachael remembered, vaguely, that the gun she had stuffed into her bag was the better talker.

I don't want to do that.
Hypocritical thoughts.
I don't want to be that girl.
Rachael was realizing something important, and of all the maelstrom of thoughts and emotions screaming for rights to her last breath it was the simple few syllables

I don't want to die.

Rachael whined, weakly. Snot and spit and the hissing of a deflating balloon escaped her lips. It was the arm with the shoulder that was in pieces that had the leverage to move and move it did, even as fragments of bone sunk deeper into the mincemeat of her ragdoll body and that body screamed aloud in pain that blubbered out of her mouth. Her head limping, neck in enough tatters to inadvertently protect Rachael from retaliation. Her body ratcheting, in a singular straight arc with a single unseen and unknown target at the end of that parabola.

A contrived convulsion of rebellion.

Rachael's knuckles one by one cracking as they sunk into Katarina's jaw.

Victim, Victim, Honey You're My Fifth One
((It hurt.))

She'd been lurching and stumbling her way down the slopes, she'd heard gunshots. From a distance but right in her own head as if the barrel of the gun had been gently kissed to her eardrum and the gunpowder of the bullets had been dripping out of the lobes of her own head. Burning, dull and persistent, set ache to her temples. A crushing sort of sensation. Rachael could see the world in ferociously violent colors, in strange buzzsaw lines painting themselves in the ethereally visceral space between her own optical nerve and the remainder of existence.

All the colors reminded her of blood.

You know that the mist of fresh sun-kissed morning dew beads, like the way blood beads when it begins to dribble from a long bare and elderly wound. That's how the heroine can tell when the battle is over, when she begins to see those gorgeous silken strands of those runny tears cried by the dead, each open and weeping wound a testament to the horrors of war, the horrors of what she has wrought.

Rachael shifted, her knees half padded by the hem of her skirt, half digging into sharp grasses. The air was cool and crisp and the sun was hiding itself from her shadow. She didn't know where she was or why she was here.


The single word from unfamiliar lips was louder than the earsplitting bullet that followed.

Rachael rolled forward, her latest aborted attempt at a calming breath becoming a heaving stitch in her lungs and a screech that murdered banshees. A mechanical springing bounced and bounded away from her ear, still too close by miles and light years. Rachael's desperate lunging carried her somewhere, anywhere that wasn't the fresh-dug and waiting grave for herself and all she'd ever cherished, but it couldn't carry her far enough and she plowed, by her injured shoulder, into the bag that had been seated by her, angled away from the gunshot's source. The bag toppled over, it lashed out by shrouding her in a tangled mess worth of sweater, her Turin.

Rachael was desperately rolling,
flailing, she didn't know at what, but she desperately threw claws and fists
and she just had to get away somehow. In her moment of violent thrashing her fabric death mask was tugged away just enough so that she could see the silhouette of her attacker standing over her. She froze, roadkill in the headlights.


The Land of Shadow
Aria seemed upset. Something along those lines, Paris didn't know. The dude had a weird sort of serious and heavy look he was trying to work with. Paris half heard him out, also splitting his attention so he could work out some kind of plan, though he couldn't come up with anything he figured it was only a matter of time.

Paris kept the now empty gun clenched in one fist, it was a bit lighter and easy to tote now. He began to heft the bag strap onto his shoulder, the uninjured one, a bit careless since he obviously had no capacity to accidentally shoot himself in the face while shifting things around anymore. With the gun unloaded, all that. Aria mentioned something about being held at gunpoint. Unfortunate, kinda, Paris figured that must have been all kinds of scary and unnerving. It had probably been a misunderstanding, though, and Aria had probably just overreacted.

"I am better than them, but only if it comes down to it."

'It' being the unthinkable.

"I'll just use the gun as leverage if I have to. An empty threat... literally, empty," Paris mused. He was now starting to walk away, slowly and casually measuring his breaths so he could conserve energy. Obviously there was nothing left to do around these parts. Aria was over there somewhere off to the side, he'd come or he wouldn't come. The rest of the action was elsewhere.

Paris realized it was just one of those things. Aria didn't believe, didn't trust that there was a plan in motion. Paris had never really understood those kinds of mentalities. Had to be pretty lame to see the world half empty and cold.

"Anyways if you want to come along let's walk."

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