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Let's Make Life A Living Hell; (Private)
Topic Started: Apr 10 2011, 05:49 PM (2,811 Views)
Little Boy
Regular
[ *  *  * ]
((Brett Torres continues from Drive))

It had taken him nearly five hours to arrange the library to his requirements. Much to his annoyance, several of the shelves had been bolted to the floor, unmovable. He'd had to make changes to his plans to accommodate for it, but it wasn't much of a hassle, safe another hour or two reworking the floor plan.

The library was quiet. Books littered the floor, fallen from the shelves during the restructuring. Brett sat behind the front desk, hefting the Stoner 63 up, balancing the stand and aiming it down the narrow tunnel he'd finished moments prior. On either side of the double doors entering the library were two large shelves, mostly devoid of books. They were massive, a bitch to move, but well worth the effort. On either side their were two more. Then another set, creating a narrow tunnel leading from the door all the way up towards the front desk... Brett grinned.

It was a choke point. A long hallway, no room to maneuver, leading right up to him and the barrel of his gun. A massacre waiting to happen.

Why in the fuck has no one ever thought about doing this before...?

Brett bent down below the front desk. Obscure from sight, he pulled his MP-25 pistol from his pant pocket. He edged back slightly, before raising it up towards the bottom of the front desk.

BANG.

The pistol jumped in his hands, cutting clear through the wooden front desk. Brett flinched back, the sound ringing in his ears, the air in the library now filled with the familiar smell of spent ammunition. He clicked the safety back on, placing the pistol on the ground.

Brett shot upwards, leaning forward against the front desk, gripping the handle of the Stoner 63 and aiming down the hall. His grin increased. It was a perfect plan, a perfectly executed death trap. He carefully released his grip on the weapon, easing himself back down below the desk. This time he leaned forward, looking through the small peephole he'd created in the wooden front desk...

Giving him a perfect view of the doorway. Once more he slid back a step, shooting up and grabbing the Stoner.

"Bang bang bang bang."

The library was silent. Everything had gone according to plan. The front desk was a small semi-circle, behind it and directly to the right and left were two shelves, bolted to the floor and immovable. If he needed to escape, or for whatever reason lure his enemies further into the library, he had an ample escape route.

Fucking perfect... well. Nearly perfect... One last touch.

Brett turned, scrounging through the desk drawers. Finally after a minute of searching, he produced a thick black sharpie marker. Grinning with enthusiasm, Brett headed around the front of the desk. Bending down he began to write in all caps, giggling to himself at his sick joke.

WELCOME TO THE SOMME, written just above the small peephole.

Brett tossed the marker away, admiring his handiwork.

Last thing they'll ever see...

Brett headed over towards the front doors, pulling them fully shut, checking their strength. Almost in an afterthought, he grabbed a small dime novel off one of the shelves, heading back down the man-made tunnel towards the front desk. Going around back, Brett tucked himself down below the desk like Louis had, huddling up near the peephole.

Perfect. Absolutely fucking flawless.

He flicked open the book and began to read, awaiting his first customers.
Edited by Little Boy, Apr 10 2011, 05:49 PM.
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Lord_Shadow
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Eldritch Consumer, Requiem Agent
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
((Michael Maxwell continued from War and More War))

So he didn't really have a plan to start going after his fellow classmates. That was probably going to make it harder to kill them all. But so what? He'd just go from building to building, find someone, and murder the hell out of them. Still, since he was kind of new at the murderous intentions thing, he just figured he'd let fate decide where he should start.

He took out his map, closed his eyes, and waved his finger over it for a while. After he felt enough seconds had passed, he brought his finger down.

In empty air. "Not as easy as I thought. But how else am I supposed to pick randomly?"

He pondered that for a moment. Nothing came to mind. He decided he could start randomly another time. He was feeling that he should start with the Officers' Quarters. Why? Why not? Not like there was a reason either way.

"Oh well. Time to go."



He arrived at the doorway. It was closed. Not surprising. What was surprising was the tunnel he could see on the inside when he opened the door and stepped through. Apparently, someone had too much free time on their hands and decided to turn bookshelves into a herding pen or something.

Whoever was the person who set that up probably ended up dead. After all, not like anyone would actually get to finish that setup. Not with everyone running around murdering each other. Still, he was kind of feeling that he should go back. Not much room to move around in here.

No. That kind of thinking was for wimps. It was for losers.

He moved right on ahead, scythe in hand. If someone was here, they were certainly in for a bad day.

A very bad day indeed.
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There was once a dumb psuedo-news line here. Now there's this pretentious nonsense. YOU1 DID THIS, YOU1 KNOW WHO YOU1 ARE!

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Little Boy
Regular
[ *  *  * ]
Things were looking bad. Brett had all but given up on Catch-22, and 1984 was on the floor next to him, unopened. The book selection was dismal for a library, nothing could hold his interest. Not with The Program chugging on always in the back of his mind. Brett had always had a passion for history, but when it came to books, he was a little more particular. Combat, not characters, death not depth. Chaplain Tappman pissed him off to no end, and Snowden's death failed to tug any heartstrings. What he wouldn't give for a decent novel, light and fun, no deeper meaning. Brett looked over to the copy of 1984 he'd tossed against the bottom of the desk.

Yeah, reading about a fascist dictatorship is going to cheer me up.

He stretched, grabbing the pistol that lay next to him. Brett scrambled up from underneath the desk, scratching his chin, scanning the shelves behind him.

There's gotta be something here that doesn't suck shit...

Walking down the row, Brett looked up and down, scanning for a title of interest. He cast hesitant glances back towards the door, watching to make sure one of his classmates wouldn't get the drop on him.

Wouldn't that suck? All my hard work, and it could just go to waste... Lord of the Flies. Hmm.

He pulled the book of the shelf. Long since abandoned by his school system, he'd never had a chance to read the ratty old paperback in his hand. He turned it over, reading the synopsis. Given what he'd heard about it, written in some fucked up Shakespearean version of English, he doubted he wanted to. Still, it was better then nothing. And it hit a lot closer to home then some of the books he'd pulled from the shelf. Brett wondered idly if the book had been put in the library on purpose, some sort of darkly humorous prank Adams had decided to play on the students of General's Pride.

Bitch couldn't have left a copy of the Kama Sutra, could he? Bastard, he's got all the wank material he needs watching the cameras--

The shrill sound of the speakers made Brett jump. He dropped the book, retreating back to his sanctuary, hidden beneath the desk. He didn't know why, it wasn't like anyone had walked in on him. But it was better safe then sorry.

"Rena Bellaire got plugged by Kami Steele. Well, shot. I've never understood the term plugged, you know? I mean, it's pretty much exactly the opposite. Bandages are more like plugging. Well, whatever the reason for the term, Brett Torres also plugged some people: Durriken Lovel and Priscilla Sawyer.

He closed his eyes. Louis had probably shit his pants, realized he'd spent a good few minutes happily chatting with a double murderer. The news was out now, anyone still alive knew that he was playing to win. That meant no more allies, not that there were many to make this late in the game. How many were still alive? Twenty or so, if rough counting was any indication.

How the fuck did that artsy girl get five people? Mother of fuck... At least I'm under the radar. Luke, her and John. Those three are the big ones, anyone sensible has heard their names well enough to know they're playing for keeps. Luke... That guy was always sorta a prick. Figures.

Brett thought back to Durriken and the other girl, Priscilla. Cold blooded murder, killing because- well, because he could. Brett shifted uncomfortably underneath the desk, thinking of the girl falling down, blood spilling from her chest. Definitely not his best moment. He could imagine his friends back home cheering him on, probably cheering as he'd dived into a firefight.

Fucking idiots. If I had Durriken's gun from the start... No need for that. Right?

He didn't know. Brett pushed the thought to the back of his mind. There was no reason to get bent out of shape. He'd put far more thought into the game then any of his fellow classmates, he'd created a choke point, he'd learned from the mistakes of others. If the man upstairs wasn't impressed, he could go finger himself. As much as he hated to admit it, face to face with psychopathic maniacs, the justification for The Program was pretty flimsy at best. Maybe the left-wing hippies did have a bit of a point...

Oh fuckit Brett ! Get in, kill for 'murica, get out. That's all it comes down too. Keep it simple stupid, and you'll come out alright.

Brett reached down towards the novels scattered around the cubby. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime.

Yeeech. Stay strong Brett. Stay strong.

-----

Several hours had passed since the announcement when he heard the noise. Brett snapped his head up, shaking himself awake. Since the game's beginning, Brett had always figured night would be the worst, and had figured it would be best to sleep whenever available. Hidden away underneath the desk in safety, there was little to do other then sleep and nap. Noises occasionally startled him awake, distant gunshots, noises from elsewhere in the building. But never this close.

Son of a bitch... I got one.

Michael Maxwell stood in the doorway, looking around, examining the shelves on either side of the door. Brett watched, holding his breath. For a second he was sure Michael would see his sign, figure out what exactly the place was... But he didn't. Michael cautiously stepped into the room, a large scythe in hand. Brett inched back, away from the peephole, preparing himself.

Here we go again. Easy now Brett, make sure not to hit your head. He doesn't have a gun, it shouldn't be hard. Just gotta scramble to the trigger, quick and easy like you did before...

His heart was pounding, excitement bubbling up inside him. He'd have to stay on his guard. If his memory served right, Michael had made his first kill earlier in the game. It wouldn't be as easy as Durriken, or Priscilla.

Then again, no one will miss a player, will they? No... No one misses the players. You're a villain up until you win. Then you're a hero...

Brett took a deep breath, slowly letting it out. He could hear Michael's footfalls, slowly approaching the desk. No doubt wondering why exactly a LMG was sitting unattended at the end of a long corridor, his for the taking... Brett grinned.

Michael, Michael, you poor stupid schmuck. Welcome to the Somme buddy.

Brett bounced up to his feet, tossing himself forward onto the desk. He was fast, faster then Michael. Still, the entire action felt slow, his movements delayed and laughable. For a split second, he was sure he wouldn't make it, that Michael would react, jumping clear, running forward and digging his weapon into Brett's skull. For a second he felt fear.

But there was nowhere for Michael to go. Brett found the handle, and with a grin spreading across his face, he opened fire down the narrow hallway.
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Lord_Shadow
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Eldritch Consumer, Requiem Agent
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
Michael could not believe his already unbelievable luck. Which wasn't really that surprising but that sounded better in his head when the thought first came to him anyway.

Some idiot had left a perfectly good light machine gun ripe for the picking. Michael started towards it, and then it dawned on him. The narrow corridor? Check. The apparent absence of people? Check. The free prize which had no justifiable reason to be there in any other situation? Check.

Fate had to be laughing at him. He had just fallen into a trap. Whoever set it up was most definitely still around. That thought was confirmed a second later, as Brett Torres jumped out from his hiding place, gun in hand. Fear gripped Michael for only an instant. That was because somehow that fear didn't paralyze him outright, and gave way to rage. He was going to charge forward and teach that trap-laying bastard a lesson. No one messes with death.

Except, of course, for well placed bullets flying down a narrow corridor too small to move to the right or left. Yep, that would do it.

The first bullet stopped him in his tracks. The others didn't even register. He dropped the scythe. With his other hand, he plunged his fingers into one of the newly created holes in his body and drew out his warm blood. "Huh. Really?" Despite how vastly stupid that sounded as his last words, those words were all he had to say. He crumpled to the ground. He was woozy, had trouble breathing, and was getting very cold.

"This is what dying feels like? No... dying isn't supposed to feel like this. It's not supposed to!" There was no sad orchestral music, no comrades-at-arms to somberly watch and stay with him as he drew his final breaths. He hadn't gone down swinging, hadn't fallen in an epic clash of good versus evil.

He had been shot by a guy from school, without any last words of meaning, and that was that. His death would be for nothing.

Because that's all he was. He was nothing.

If fate were an anthropomorphic personification, it would be laughing it's head off at this pitiful scene.

Michael's last thought was, "This is the worst story ever."

M07: Michael Maxwell - DECEASED

Story Concluded
Edited by Lord_Shadow, Apr 14 2011, 10:23 PM.
Mini Characters

There was once a dumb psuedo-news line here. Now there's this pretentious nonsense. YOU1 DID THIS, YOU1 KNOW WHO YOU1 ARE!

1. Yeah you, you nefarious ne'er-do-well you.
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Little Boy
Regular
[ *  *  * ]
The gun jumped in Brett's hand again and again, the noise deafening him. Despite his best efforts Brett squinted, firing blindly down the hallway, swinging the Stoner back and forth, spraying the area with bullets.

BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.

As soon as the first bullet hit, center mass, Brett knew the boy was done for. Michael staggered back a step, his weapon slipping from his grasp, his hands reaching down to the bloody holes in his chest. The gun went silent and Brett stared for a second, watching as Michael managed to gurgle a few words before dropping to the floor in a heap, never to get up again.

The library had gone deathly silent. Brett had missed with the majority of his bullets, but a good five or six had hit Michael dead center. His third kill of the game. Brett released the gun, his hands shaking ever so slightly. He never took his eyes off the dying boy, his blood sprayed across the ground. Brett awkwardly groped for his pistol, retrieving it and making his way around the desk towards the downed boy.

He'd made a mess of things. The choke point he'd created was in chaos, several books hit by stray rounds littered the floor, and the smell of gunfire was heavy. A single bullet would have done the job. But Brett had never fired an LMG before, never expected such a huge kickback. The boy's chest was dotted with holes, and his shirt was damp with cooling blood. Michael had died quick, before Brett had even reached him.

Brett looked down into the eyes of the boy, still open, an unreadable expression on his dead face.

... Can't believe that actually worked...

Brett squatted down, picking up the bloody Garden Scythe. He had no intention of getting in a close quarters fight, but it was best to remain prepared. Michael's pack lay near him, shredded by a passing bullet, the contents spilled out into the boy's blood pool. Brett reached in, removing Michael's water bottle and remaining food. He had more than enough, what with Durriken and Priscilla's packs added to his own, but letting it go to waste would be stupid. Brett stood up, surveying the scene. Gun at the ready he headed towards the doors, shutting them firmly before looking back down the hall.

Holy fuck.

His eyes went wide, taking in the sight before him. Slowly Brett walked down the hall length, keeping his eyes trained on the empty gun emplacement. As he reached Michael's resting spot he breathed in deep, his hand going to his chest, tracing out the wounds he'd inflicted on Michael.

He wasn't sure exactly how he felt, but it definitely wasn't good.

Brett looked back towards the doors, then towards the gun emplacement.

Leaving him here... Stupid idea. I was lucky enough to get him. This place screams "Trap"... Where do I pu-

And then, the answer became clear. Grabbing Michael by his legs, Brett dragged the corpse the rest of the way down the hall, towards his gun emplacement. With some effort on his part he lifted the other boy up, draping him off the front desk, very clearly dead, next to the Stoner 63. One last time Brett retreated down the hall towards the doors, examining his work.

It wasn't pretty, but it was effective. Instead of a completely abandoned machine gun nest, the "owner" was draped across the front, dead with his weapon ripe for the taking. Much more plausible. And much more deadly.

Brett walked back down the hallway towards his sanctuary, careful to avoid stepping in Michael's blood too much, not wanting to create tracks. The trap still seemed slightly obvious, but with Michael dead it gave it some legitimacy. Careful to avoid knocking the corpse over he crawled back beneath the desk, Michael's supplies added to his own.

God dammit. Why in the fuck couldn't I have just been born in Canada...?

It smelt awful, but he could hack it. The killing of Michael wasn't questioned in his mind. He had his game plan set, and Michael was a killer. Michael's only sin was stumbling into the trap, a truly stupid decision. The whole issue was much more black and white then Durriken and Priscilla.

And this whole experience will help me HOW again..?

For the first time in a long time, Brett questioned his country and couldn't find a legitimate answer.
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Little Boy
Regular
[ *  *  * ]
Brett paced around the small library, pistol in hand. It had been at least three hours since Michael had stumbled upon his little hideaway, three hours since his last kill. The guilt hadn't sunk in, and he doubted it ever would. He was restless. Aside from a few shots, there had been nothing.

Brett hadn't completely anticipated the... smell, and subsequent consequences of placing Michael next to the machine gun nest. It wasn't that the corpse gave him the creeps or anything, but the stink was something else. It was a terrible smell, enough to make him gag, even under the table. He'd moved his supplies out into a corner of the library, and had started taking breaks away from his trap.

He was still playing it safe. He carried his pistol with him at all times, and would often look towards the double doors, expecting an intruder to come rushing through any moment with their guns' blazing. The paranoia was increasing with every passing silent second, and Brett wished something, anything, would interrupt it. Left alone with his thoughts, he was beginning to feel more and more... conflicted about the entire experience.

He thought about his family. About his friends, some of whom were probably lurking around the same compound. He thought about his career, his future. Would the military be out of the question now? A survivor of The Program had never enlisted afterwards. Money was never a problem, and a life of decadence didn't seem too implausible all of the sudden.

But it was different now. In the past, the Marine Corps had been his dream. Now it seemed stale, an almost laughable career choice. He'd already fired a gun. Hell, he'd killed three people. He'd be more experienced then half his instructors and he doubted ragheads in the Middle East would pose much of a challenge. It seemed bland. Boring. The Program would forever be the defining moment in his life, the gold standard he'd compare everything to.

Shooting crazy Jihadists? That's nothing. I killed kids back in 'merica.

Brett sighed, snapping back to reality. He kicked a fallen book across the floor of the library in frustration, if only to break the silence.

Concentrate Brett. The end is in sight. Can't be many more of them left now...
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chitoryu12
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Oh hai Jesus
[ *  * ]
((John Ferrara continued from A Couple Of Cooks In The Kitchen))

John looked like living hell.

His legs and arms were covered with half a dozen deep gashes, dripping blood down his extremities and falling in droplets onto the linoleum. His face had a dozen tiny cuts, almost resembling paper cuts, caused by a spray of plastic shrapnel mere inches from his head. He was bruised and battered all along his torso. His eyes were dark and heavy. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept. He was covered in a month's worth of dirt, grime, and soot.

He didn't pick the building in front of him for any particular reason other than it being the first structure available. All he wanted to do was get out of the open, get into some shadowy corner and sit and rest.

As he walked in, he wasn't surprised by the appearance. A stark hallway in gray and white marred only by light brown doors and droplets of red that he left in his wake. Except for the blood, it reminded him a lot of school.

Picking a spot completely at random next to a set of double-doors, John dug through his duffel bag for his first aid kit. It was a simple affair, a green fabric bag with a white cross on it.

The alcohol stung worse than anything as he dribbled it onto his cuts, but he knew he had no choice. No sense dying of infection when he'd survived so many fights in this short time span. He didn't even know for sure what day he was on; everything was an indistinct blur.

He had no medical training beyond simple cuts and bruises, but he figured he was doing the right thing as he wrapped bandages around the gashes in his limbs. Getting into any fights now would be hell on Earth. Not like it could get any worse...

Limbs covered in white wrappings like a half-done mummy, he began to apply adhesive bandages on his face to wherever hurt the most.
The Program
M10: John Ferrara: Italian soccer star
Weapons: Banjo w/ eagle logo (broken)
Calico Liberty III Handgun (50/50, 50/50)

[M19: Matthew Gourlay: Rich Bitch
Weapons: Calico Liberty III handgun (Taken)

SOTF-TV
BLK01: Bob Lazenby: Hipster
Weapons: Laser Pointer

Virtua-SOTF
M13: Kenneth Danielson
Weapons: Tobacco pipe (discarded in Town Outskirts)

I just slit a man's throat and stole his clothes and I love you all!
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Little Boy
Regular
[ *  *  * ]
Brett paced around the room, his impatience growing. He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore. The emptiness of the office was maddening, but it wasn't like he was lusting for any more students to break in. He had a good plan, but he wasn't stupid. Something could always go wrong. There was a risk with every encounter, and better for the others to pick each other apart. He wanted to go out, take a break at the very least. But that too could lead to all kinds of disasters. Other players sneaking in, others catching him off guard. He'd need to section another chunk of the library off for waste. No change of scenery until the final whistle.

He wandered back over to Michael. His hideout smelled terrible, the a foul diseased smell that assaulted his nostrils. His conscience was still alive and kicking, calling him a bastard over and over again for what he'd done, and for what he'd continued to do.

Need to survive. Worry about everything else later. First is survival.

It was a fitting mantra, something sane and logical. It might not be what people would expect of him, but Brett didn't give a shit. He wasn't a stone cold killer. He'd tried it, but it just wasn't for him. He sat back down in his shelter, content to wait. He didn't need to be a bad ass, and he didn't want to be a psychopath. He'd done his part for America, and he didn't have to answer to anyone anymore.
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chitoryu12
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Oh hai Jesus
[ *  * ]
The wounds were patched. Now for the gun.

For the first time John got the chance to truly examine his weapon and flip through the manual, a multi-page affair detailing a bewildering array of terminology and parts. It even included an exploded view of literally every single part that made up the gun. He could barely imagine that any human on Earth could memorize such a diagram.

He played with the safety lever, flicking it up and down with his thumb. As expected, when rotated back the trigger was stiff and unyielding to pressure. There was no way he'd be able to mistake it for being off.

Judging from the pictures provided, he was given a trio of 50-round magazines. Now he was down to two. Either way, he figured that was more than enough ammo to slaughter the rest of the competition and take home enough to blow up a car or five.

With a bit of difficulty, he found the magazine catches on the top of the "receiver", whatever the hell that meant. He pressed them in and the magazine suddenly popped up into his hand. Smiling, he tossed the empty cylinder aside and grabbed another one off the linoleum. It was much harder to reload than unload the gun; the magazine was awkward to place on top of the weapon and it took several tries and plenty of fumbling before it finally caught.

Heading to the next page, he found the "bolt handle" on the side of the gun. Following the instructions, he pulled it all the way back, feeling the spring compressing and resisting his grip, and released it with a satisfying snap. He was cocked and ready to roll.

With nothing better to do, he began munching on one of his brownies as he read through the different malfunctions the gun could suffer and how to fix them. He didn't want any repeats of the garage incident.

There would be no mistakes with this tool from now on. That's all it was: a tool to his escape.
Edited by chitoryu12, May 23 2011, 11:25 PM.
The Program
M10: John Ferrara: Italian soccer star
Weapons: Banjo w/ eagle logo (broken)
Calico Liberty III Handgun (50/50, 50/50)

[M19: Matthew Gourlay: Rich Bitch
Weapons: Calico Liberty III handgun (Taken)

SOTF-TV
BLK01: Bob Lazenby: Hipster
Weapons: Laser Pointer

Virtua-SOTF
M13: Kenneth Danielson
Weapons: Tobacco pipe (discarded in Town Outskirts)

I just slit a man's throat and stole his clothes and I love you all!
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Little Boy
Regular
[ *  *  * ]
Waiting was killing him. Nothing to do, nothing to think about. Time passed obscenely slow and his thoughts bled and morphed into one another without pause. The game was everything now- all that mattered. It annoyed him and he prayed he wouldn't spend the rest of his life thinking that way.

He wanted something to happen. He didn't want to kill someone else- he didn't have a problem with doing so, but that wasn't what he wanted. He just wanted... Something. Something different. Something that would take the edge off, take his mind off the fucking game. But there was nothing. The library was silent as a tomb, and he shivered at the notion.

He checked the door again- nothing. How many left now? There had probably been some kills since Michael. He wondered what the others thought of him- could they sympathize? The others players could, those who were still sane. It was a selfish mentality, but damn if it wasn't effective.
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chitoryu12
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Oh hai Jesus
[ *  * ]
John took out one of his two MREs; it was warm from sitting in the stifling duffel bag, but still uncooked. Still, he was hungry. He located the plastic spoon and began to shovel the unappetizing chunks of sauce-coated chicken into his mouth. If he wasn't so damn famished, he would have tossed the chicken over the compound walls.

He thought about the past few............days, he could guess. Still couldn't think about how long it had been. Pretty sure he never slept during that time.

He was a killer. Not just a murderer, he was damn near a spree killer. Going around shooting people for no reason, one after the other. Just walking the dusty earth, putting bullets in brains. All of it captured on camera. There was no doubt now that his parents had seen everything he had done. Heard every threat, watched as he spilled innocent blood. Ran from a burning building, gun clutched in his fist.

He stared at the linoleum. A sickening realization flooded over him: he had killed to live, and now the one thing he lived for would abandon him. Shun him like they would shun a common killer.

John was strangely calm as he realized this. He had faced the extremes of human emotion in all forms in this short time span. He felt............broken. Dull. Numb.
Edited by chitoryu12, Jun 7 2011, 04:13 AM.
The Program
M10: John Ferrara: Italian soccer star
Weapons: Banjo w/ eagle logo (broken)
Calico Liberty III Handgun (50/50, 50/50)

[M19: Matthew Gourlay: Rich Bitch
Weapons: Calico Liberty III handgun (Taken)

SOTF-TV
BLK01: Bob Lazenby: Hipster
Weapons: Laser Pointer

Virtua-SOTF
M13: Kenneth Danielson
Weapons: Tobacco pipe (discarded in Town Outskirts)

I just slit a man's throat and stole his clothes and I love you all!
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Casey the Undead
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Don't tell me to smile
[ *  *  *  * ]
((Megan Jacobson, continued from I Don't Wanna Grow Up))

She was lost. Again. Awesome.

Megan rolled her eyes at the pretty much useless map in her hands and shoved it back into her bag. She looked around, before deciding on a direction. Forward.

Fuck North and South and shit. That was all useless information anyways. There's only forward and backward to Megan Jacobson. And occasionally diagonal if she's feeling risky and adventurous.

She put Helmut Von Slappenstien on, taking comfort in the fact that she knew Brendon was stupid and that her helmet looked fucking amazing and sexy on her. Besides, who knew when she'd need to headbutt a motherfucker again? It'd happened once, and really, stranger things had happened in the Program so far.

Somehow, she found herself back at the Officer's Quarters. There was a pit rising in her stomach. The Officer's Quarters where she and Brendon had laughed so hard, where she'd made her pinky swear about never leaving him, where Abby had died one of the worst deaths imaginable.

This is what Megan was fighting for. Because shit like this didn't deserve to happen to good people.

Megan forced her eyes upward, not wanting to remember where Abby's body was, or see what was left of it. She had to focus.

God why the fuck did she even come back he-

Wait what was that.

Megan stopped, looking around. She'd heard something. From inside, she'd fucking heard something. She paused, swallowing nervously. Talk. Say something. You never know who it is.

"Hey...is there anybody there?"

She tightened her grip on the hatchet- her hatchet, she guessed. Damn. That meant it had to have a name too, right? I henceforth dub thee Winston Choppington. You and your brother, Sir Helmut Von Slappenstien, will serve me well in my upcoming adventures. Huzzah to you Sir Choppington, Huzzah!

Ah, yes. Now everything was right in the world.
Bring Out Your Dead


Getting a Second Chance


Live free. Die young.
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chitoryu12
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Oh hai Jesus
[ *  * ]
There was a girl.

She was asking a question.

She was wearing a football helmet and holding a hatchet.

John sighed. It did not seem to be his day.

"Yes. I'm sitting right here. Right up against the door in the hallway you're going to walk into right now. Wheeeeeee."

He coughed and wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. "Who are you?" he asked. "Did I kill one of your friends, too? It seems to be all I'm doing so far. Killing people's friends, ruining lives, all that wonderful stuff that we're expected to do."

The Program
M10: John Ferrara: Italian soccer star
Weapons: Banjo w/ eagle logo (broken)
Calico Liberty III Handgun (50/50, 50/50)

[M19: Matthew Gourlay: Rich Bitch
Weapons: Calico Liberty III handgun (Taken)

SOTF-TV
BLK01: Bob Lazenby: Hipster
Weapons: Laser Pointer

Virtua-SOTF
M13: Kenneth Danielson
Weapons: Tobacco pipe (discarded in Town Outskirts)

I just slit a man's throat and stole his clothes and I love you all!
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Casey the Undead
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Don't tell me to smile
[ *  *  *  * ]
((Post order's a little shot, but I know that Cody needs to get his death done, so I'm posting to get things rolling again.))

Megan stared straight at the boy in front of her.

She couldn't figure out if she was lucky or unlucky, at this point. She'd been searching for the killers, searching for answers, and had pretty much run into everyone she'd been looking for. Bryant twice, and Luke, and now John Fucking Ferrara, less than four feet away from her. So it was lucky, she guessed, that she kept finding these people.

It was unlucky that all of these people happened to be murders.

The stupidity of Megan's "plan" hadn't been lost on her, but seeing John Ferrara made her realize something truly awful.

Of course Luke didn't kill her. She was his friend. And she got the drop on Bryant, so maybe it was an honor thing, or respect or something. Maddie Harris didn't kill her because Megan had been hiding, John didn't kill her the first time because Wendy had lit the fire.

Megan was alive because no one had gotten the opportunity to kill her and acted upon it. But now? Now John Ferrara was in control.

He couldn't know that. He couldn't know that she was scared.

"You know, Ferrara, I'm a bit offended that you don't recognize me. I mean, I know that my friends weren't your virgin kills, but the second and third time are just as good, aren't they? And, I mean, we pretty much lit your fucking ass on fire. Isn't that shit you remember?"

Megan smirked, weakly, trying to keep up the impression. A few minutes. A few seconds. She needed to buy time. She needed to make him think that she knew what she was doing. She needed control.

She was saved by the announcements.

Megan tried to keep her cool. Jen was dead. She could deal with that. She hadn't liked Jen much anyway, right?

Jen was killed by Maddie Harris. If I'd let Brendon kill her...if I'd let Brendon kill Maddie then Jen would still be here. But I didn't. I let Maddie live.

Megan tried not to think about Kami, tired to force her mind elsewhere.

Tyler.

Megan hadn't had the chance to talk to him, but he'd gone out in a good way, she guessed. A good death. The one she wanted.

But she still had a few miles to go before then.

"Well, John, looks like you managed to go kill-free for a little bit. I'm proud. Almost. Well, okay, not really. The way I see it, you have a few options. I could rip your face open with Winston Choppington here, or you can start talking. I want to know something, John."

Megan tightened her grip on Winston, trying to stop her hands from shaking wildly. She'd let Maddie Harris live, and had gotten Jen killed. If Megan let John Ferrara live, who knew who he'd kill next. But she couldn't kill him. She just couldn't.

"Why did you do it?"

She took a shaky breath.

John probably still had his gun. A hatchet versus a gun was a very shitty combination.

Megan was fucked. She couldn't get mad enough to rush this kid, even if he did pull a gun out. She couldn't kill him. She didn't have it in her.

She needed help.

She needed Brendon.

She took another breath. Oh God, please. Please don't let me die yet. I still have something I need to do. I need to find Brendon. Please, please, please.
Bring Out Your Dead


Getting a Second Chance


Live free. Die young.
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chitoryu12
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Oh hai Jesus
[ *  * ]
John just listened. Listened to Megan's threats, listened to the announcement. Throughout it all he simply stood calmly, stoically.

"Why did you do it?'

John felt like a man facing the firing squad, calm in the face of death. Staring down the barrel of half a dozen guns all ready to pull the trigger and send him into whatever came next. He was a boy who no longer had reason to fear death, as he had seen so much; anger, passion, fear, murder, sorrow. It was an information overload on an unprecedented scale, one that did not leave him the same person he had used to be. All the anger was gone, replaced with a cold determination.

John looked Megan straight in the eye. He raised his gun, feeling the weight of a dozen souls in it.

"I'm sorry."

He smiled at the bitter taste of warm steel.

BLA-












































M10 - JOHN FERRARA: DECEASED
Edited by chitoryu12, Jun 13 2011, 09:34 PM.
The Program
M10: John Ferrara: Italian soccer star
Weapons: Banjo w/ eagle logo (broken)
Calico Liberty III Handgun (50/50, 50/50)

[M19: Matthew Gourlay: Rich Bitch
Weapons: Calico Liberty III handgun (Taken)

SOTF-TV
BLK01: Bob Lazenby: Hipster
Weapons: Laser Pointer

Virtua-SOTF
M13: Kenneth Danielson
Weapons: Tobacco pipe (discarded in Town Outskirts)

I just slit a man's throat and stole his clothes and I love you all!
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