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| And Yet So Far; Private, sorry | |
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| Topic Started: Oct 2 2011, 01:51 AM (605 Views) | |
| MurderWeasel | Oct 2 2011, 01:51 AM Post #1 |
Bulbous also tapered
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((Karen Ruiz continued from Pieces of What?)) Karen had managed to escape alive. Zach hadn't followed her, hadn't shot her in the back. He wasn't behind her. It had only been a few minutes since the fight. Her heart was still pounding, but she no longer had the immediate danger to carry her through unfeeling. She was acutely aware of everything that was wrong with her, of every ache and sting and burn. She wasn't moving quickly, not at all. Breathing hurt, more than ever, courtesy of the bludgeoning with the paddle she had received. Karen found a short tree, standing alone at the bottom of a small hill, and hurried towards it. It was fairly secluded, hidden from view for the most part. She slumped down at its base, dropped her backpack, and set to work. She had a lot to do if she was serious about surviving. First priority: defense. She opened her pack and retrieved the rifle. It was loaded and ready for action. She had no idea how to use it. Back it went, then. The other pistol would be sufficient. She laid it on the ground, within easy reach, and made sure the clips were in her pockets. The Glock was empty, but she still had one loose bullet remaining. She fished it out, slotted it into the clip, then dropped the gun into her pack, just in case. The pack itself was not in good condition. It had been partially shredded by Zach's blast. She had three remaining full water bottles. The rest, the punctured ones, she dropped on the ground. The pack wasn't too badly damaged to hold the guns securely, but anything smaller than Karen's hand was likely to drop through. That was alright. She didn't have much she still needed. The knife was in her pocket. The swordcane she carried strapped to her pack, through one of the loops. She was distracting herself. There was something else to do, something she was completely terrified of. No more stalling. She wanted to live. That meant dealing with unpleasantness. Karen shrugged her coat off. It was difficult freeing her left arm, since the sleeve was cinched by her collection of bandannas. Still, she managed eventually, then tried to examine her upper arms. No luck. The turtleneck was bloodstained and had holes in it, but it had shifted enough that she couldn't see the damage to her arms. That had to be fixed. She found the knife, made a cut at the shoulder of the shirt, and, working slowly, removed her left sleeve. She repeated the process for her right before actually surveying the damage. She didn't want to know, didn't want to see how badly she had been maimed. It was enough to look at the bluish-yellowish bruise that covered much of her left forearm. She didn't want to know what a more serious incident's results had been. As it turned out, when she finally worked up her courage to check, the damage wasn't as severe as she had feared. The worst was the two lines on her left shoulder, from Zach's first shot. They were lines of blood and torn flesh, each about two inches long, skimming from shoulder to upper back. They were still bleeding a little bit. The pellets hadn't embedded themselves in her, though. That was the case for most of the damage from Zach's second hit, too; with a wall, a backpack, and a lot of distance between her and his gun, most of the shot had failed to penetrate both her coat and her shirt, leaving her simply with swollen, bleeding welts. In two places on her right upper arm, however, it was worse. She could see the dull grey of metal in the two shallow holes. That was bad. She was sure it was. She had to deal with that, with all the bleeding. Luckily, her collection of equipment included plenty of first aid supplies. She got some tweezers, and managed, over half a minute or so, to dig the pieces of metal out of her arm. It stung like nothing she had ever felt, and the bleeding increased a little, and she wondered whether she had made a mistake. The thought of something being stuck in her arm was sickening, though. She was relieved to have it out. Besides, it could have caused an infection or something. The peace of mind was worth the extra pain. Aside from the bleeding and the welts and the wounds, she also was bruised badly across her back and shoulders. Her entire body felt like a bruise now. This became unpleasant as she cleaned her wounds with an antiseptic wipe. The bleeding wasn't so bad. She was pretty sure it wasn't enough to be life threatening. After she had wiped her wounds, she applied sterile dressings, then bandaged them, or simply covered the welts with band aids. Due the location of her injuries, she was only able to use one arm most of the time, and so her results were a bit sloppy. Everything seemed secure enough, though. She would be fine. Moving her arms too much made the bandages crinkle and pain shoot through her whole body, but she could survive that. Before long, pain would be a distant memory. Karen realized she couldn't see clearly, realized her eyes had teared up and her nose had started running. She wiped both with a spare length of bandage. She also ate three ibuprofen tablets, hoping it would do something to keep the pain down, and drank one of her bottles of water, to stay hydrated. That was that, then. She could move again, could find her final victim, could push the pain and the fear and the frustration down for a few more hours. She pulled her coat back on, redistributed her belongings between its pockets, and tied the white bandanna onto her sleeve. Ten. She had ten bandannas, now, counting the one she had started with. She had, she noticed, every color of the rainbow represented, except perhaps indigo or violet. She wasn't quite sure what the difference was between them. Her purple bandanna had two shades, but she doubted they were the correct ones. Something to look up once she was away from this, then. She stood, slowly and unsteadily, then paused and emptied her makeshift alarm system out of her backpack, as well as all the food and spare clothing she had. She wouldn't be here long enough to need any of that. When she left her spot, her pack contained only her rifle, her Glock, her water, her first aid kit, and Kathy's journal, with the swordcane wedged in place along the pack's side, stuck through a loop. She held the other pistol—a Jericho .941, according to the writing on the side—and had the knife and spare clips in her pocket. She was ready, as ready as she could be. One more murder, and then she was done. She stepped away from the tree, from the pile of things she had left behind, and started walking. Three seconds later, she froze in her tracks. |
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Current characters: The Program V2: M08: Alexander Bonham - Steel Folding Chair - The Pine Stands - ALIVE - "Oh, you little bitch." *cue Yakety Sax* F20: Robin Pounds - Stress Ball - Mountain Track - ALIVE - "I'm not doing so great." SOTF-TV: PRP3: Karen Ruiz - Glock 17 (0/17 +1 bullet), WASP Knife, Swordcane - Somewhere over Florida - ELIMINATED - "I don't find pointless death funny." Past characters: If you want an honest assessment of your character's storyline, feel free to PM me and I'll whip one up as soon as I am able. | |
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| T-Fox | Oct 7 2011, 12:39 PM Post #2 |
Veteran
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It had been hell, tracking the little go getter across the island. ((Jhamel Thompson continued from It's Easier to Leave than to be Left Behind.)) He'd spent far too long mourning. Not enough time focusing on what he now knew he needed to do. He couldn't protect; he could avenge. And by the time this staunch realization had hit him, it had been far too long. Karen was long gone. And Jhamel had no way of knowing where she was. Man... Can't even fuck a bitch up right. She was gone, and hurrying at this point wasn't going to bring her back this way, let him find a trail. He gingerly went through Brenda's things. A little bit of food, a little bit of water. Each carefully, almost reverently slid into the main pouch of his pack. How do you respect the dead if you can't bury them? How do you say your goodbyes? You can't. So you don't. He pulled five loose bullets from the front pouch of the day pack where they had been stashed, and removed the magazine from his pistol. *Click* *Click* *Click* *Click* *Click* Yet another, louder click as the magazine struck home, the last bullet pressing against the one in the chamber. Back into the waistband of his now tattered, bloody and ruined shorts. Somehow though, as he stood, he felt as though he had forgotten something. Something was amiss. Well of course something was amiss. He was alone. But... Something more. He knelt to the body. In a flurry of red, Brenda's bandanna was in his hand, stained with her blood. Staining with his tears. He opened his mouth to say something. Nothing he could ever create would be fancy enough, good enough. So he just left. --- It had been hours, at the very least. The sun began it's slow decent, uncaring as to the fate of a handful of teenagers somewhere in the South Pacific. The trail had gone cold long ago, when Karen had stopped running, stopped digging into the soft dirt on which she tread. At first her footprints were obvious. They slowly became less and less so as the fear wore from his target, before disappearing altogether into the grass. So in a straight line he walked. And walked, and walked. At some point the gun had reached his hands. He took the opportunity to remove the safety. No one is safe. No reason for that. There had been some faint gunshots off in the distance, a sound which stopped him dead, his blood running cold. First his eyes craned, then his neck. Finally, he found himself turning on his heel, and stalking in the direction of the firefight. The shots were echoing just a little, but they couldn't be that far away. Admittedly he had no ideas on the physics of sound, but the thought that this would be the lead he needed to find that bitch warmed him up just a little inside. But that gripping, chilling fear was still there, and with every single step it grew more and more. This girl's killed eight people. She's dangerous. You fuck up you die. Closer and closer. Fighting through the fear. Telling himself it was for Brenda, Jeanie, April, Eloise. That this is what they would have wanted. That this is why you don't have a right to be afraid. He reached the scene. She wasn't there. There was, however, a body and a trail of blood. Blood leading away. Consistent, not a wash off. A trail he could follow. Whoever had won this altercation had been injured. The beast was bleeding. Time for the vultures to swoop in. He was walking. He was jogging. Gun was pointed at the ground he was running. Eyes flitting to the bloodstained grass, following. Following. "...Jackpot." There, at the base of a tree, just hidden out of view, was an arm coated in bandannas. All teams represented, all deaths marking one soul. Karen Ruiz. Just at the sight of her, at the mere thought of her name, the paralyzing anger was replaced with heat, a fiery passion, the same as the one that had consumed him before, the same one that had given him such drive, smelted his core, his person, changed and warped it under its melting heat. Who... Who was she to take them away? No one. And it was time to prove it. Prove it to himself, prove it to her, prove it to everyone watching. He wanted no fame or glory. He wanted to show everyone at home that the big bad killer was weak. That she was nothing, just like her actions. Just like her morals. Her face was buried in a first aid kit, a sight that was almost funny. If, you know, the lives of so many hadn't been spent. But she'd been wounded indeed, the blood drip had been her. However, this meant he could easily slide around the clearing, and watch. And wait. Standing directly in front of her, just waiting for her to notice. The gun hung limply in his hands. Item after item fell from her pack, and she slowly began to walk, zipping the tattered bag. He could see the steel of her guns through the fist sized chunks missing. Good. Less for him to worry about. She'd frozen. She'd noticed him. It was showtime. That freak Odile would be proud. "Remember me, Karen? Or have you slaughtered too many motherfuckers to remember the face of your good. friend. Jhamel." A grin crept across his face. He wasn't sure if she was shocked or she was actually afraid, but the reaction was fantastic. He was having an effect on her, at least somewhat. That meant that he had some power, probably more than was obvious. "You know... You know you're personally responsible for Brenda dying. I watched you do it in front of my eyes. But let me tell you a little story about back on day one. So long ago, wasn't it? Well you were just a budding young monster back then. Remember Anthony?" His finger slid from the side of the gun, right hand still wrapped around the trigger, pointed at her feet. The pointer finger aimed accusingly at her chest. "Do you? You know, the first person you killed had the worst impact. So many people at our school cared about him. And you just ended his life. Did you think about the ripples this would cause? What would happen to everyone else who heard what you'd did?" His hand was shaking. He fought to keep it steady. "You. You gave into the game. You are exactly what the producers wanted. You are this god damned game, and every fucking little thing it stands for. And guess what Karen. If you're the game, if you are a motherfucking representative send straight from hollywood, guess what! You're responsible for every fucking death. Every. Single. One. How about that? How many people have died from that gun you've got in your pretty little hands. Nine? Dare I say it, Ten? Hah, wouldn't that be funny." He brought the gun to bear. "If I capped yo' fucking ass right after you "earned" yo' freedom. Wouldn't that be funny bitch?" His hand gripped tigher around the wooden stock, sweat pouring from his palm. The contraction of his wrist making the gun tip off to the left. "Wouldn't it?!" Edited by T-Fox, Oct 7 2011, 12:40 PM.
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Second Chances: B??: Chadd Crossen (Audi R8) - Colehurst Secondary School - (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I've got my girl and my ride. What else does a guy need? B??: Rekka Saionji (Sushi Knife) - Colehurst Secondary School (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I don't think I'll ever get used to this place... The sea is where I belong." Old RPs Spoiler: click to toggle | |
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| MurderWeasel | Oct 8 2011, 09:19 PM Post #3 |
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Bulbous also tapered
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There was a boy. He had a gun, and it was up and ready, unlike the pistol Karen held at her side. He was talking, asking if she knew who he was. Karen had no idea who he was. Someone from Detroit, that was certain. He'd been able to identify her. She had probably killed one of his friends. That seemed to be the unifying theme now. It was all about revenge for these people. She couldn't understand it. It seemed a complete waste to spend one's last days spreading pain in the name of someone who couldn't—and maybe even wouldn't—appreciate it. There it was: Brenda. Okay, that meant this was the guy, the one she'd heard coming. He asked if she remembered Anthony. Karen did not remember Anthony. He must have been one of the first two, though, because she hadn't killed any boys for a while after that. This boy, the one in front of her, he was ranting and getting angry. He was asking her if she'd thought about what she'd done, if she'd realized what she was starting, if she'd cared. Of course, he didn't want answers. He didn't want to know. That was why he kept talking. That was why he continued his rant, and it was why Karen quietly stood. He had lowered his gun to point at her feet. That was a step in the right direction. Karen didn't want to fight right now. She didn't want to fight in general. She wanted to find someone sleeping, shoot them in the head, and be done with all of this. He was becoming ever more irate, explaining how she was responsible for every death, for every atrocity, like she'd personally stood there with her gun to Zach's head and told him to torture people, like she'd forced Vincent to start murdering but choose to stop short of ten. It was a laughable assertion, but she didn't say anything. This was going somewhere. Nobody ever spoke without wanting something. What she had to do was figure out what Jhamel wanted, and then deal with him based on that. He clearly didn't just want her dead, because she was still breathing. Nobody else on the island seemed to just want people dead. They always had to speak first, to provoke, to justify. Zach could have shot her on the beach, but he hadn't. Vincent could have searched her out, but he'd challenged her from a distance. No one else, it seemed, could talk themselves into doing what they wanted done. They needed some external justification. That meant Karen needed to avoid providing it for Jhamel. He was speculating on her kill count, and then he was pointing the gun at her. This seemed like a bad time to answer his question about the death she had caused, to just say, "Nine," so she didn't. Then he was asking her another question, a rhetorical question, wouldn't it be funny if he killed her right after she got her tenth? "No," Karen said. "It would be a pointless death. I don't find pointless death funny." That was, in all probability, the wrong thing to say. Karen was fully aware of the fact that she wasn't in much of a position to pronounce moral judgments upon anyone. She'd given up on herself right at the start, had resolved to do exactly what it took to survive, no less. No more. It wasn't about the joy of killing, or the rush of adrenaline and excitement. There was no joy, no excitement. There was adrenaline, but of the sort that came with stomach-churning fear. There was terror. There was the desire to keep existing. There was the knowledge that, from a mathematical standpoint, two survivors was in some way better than one. There was regret, always regret, that this was what was necessary. There was not a shred of apology or penitence. She didn't understand Jhamel, not at all. She didn't understand how he could feel that her death would mean anything, how he could blame her for the actions of the producers. Someone would have started killing. There would have been murders, monstrous ones, in all likelihood, no matter what Karen did or did not do. All she had done was step up and choose to try to survive. She had done awful things in the name of that aim, had murdered innocents, had betrayed friends. For all that, they were no more dead than they would have ended up had Karen never been on the island. Maybe one of them would have survived, would have won. Probably not. Even if they had, to do so would have been to kill, to murder, to do exactly what Jhamel sought to hold her accountable for. There were no words for this situation. There was no way out of their spiral of hypocrisy. Jhamel looked nervous. Karen couldn't say what was going to happen, but if it was going to come to a fight, she was going to be ready, and she wasn't going to let Jhamel kill her. First priority was survival. If she could get her tenth here, all the better. If not, well, there were other people out there. |
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Current characters: The Program V2: M08: Alexander Bonham - Steel Folding Chair - The Pine Stands - ALIVE - "Oh, you little bitch." *cue Yakety Sax* F20: Robin Pounds - Stress Ball - Mountain Track - ALIVE - "I'm not doing so great." SOTF-TV: PRP3: Karen Ruiz - Glock 17 (0/17 +1 bullet), WASP Knife, Swordcane - Somewhere over Florida - ELIMINATED - "I don't find pointless death funny." Past characters: If you want an honest assessment of your character's storyline, feel free to PM me and I'll whip one up as soon as I am able. | |
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| T-Fox | Oct 9 2011, 03:51 AM Post #4 |
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Veteran
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"You don't find pointless death funny?" He just stood, squared off with the girl, not even in a mexican stand off. Neither had a gun at the ready. Neither appeared prepared to kill. But her response to his vent was surprising, for a number of reasons. First, the fact that she spoke, the fact that she responded. He'd always applied what was pretty much a faceless mask to Karen. She was a killer, killers didn't have personalities or thoughts. He'd never thought as to what she would sound like, how she would think. He'd always just thought of her as a danger, as an obsticle. And second, he just couldn't process what she had said. She didn't find pointless death funny? How couldn't she? She'd killed nearly a dozen people. How could you not enjoy killing if you killed that many? "How?" His gun had been forgotten. How could this girl in front of him justify herself like that? How could she rebut in kind? "Why?" Questions that had no definition, no answers, no way to respond. "Why did you then? If you don't find pointless death funny, why did you perform pointless killing? Answer me huh? Why? Why did you fuckin' kill them all then? Why did you do it?" This time, he truly wanted a response. He felt his entire body near convulsing, his eyes squinting as the sun finally was just noticed on the horizon behind her. Everything slowly came into color, into focus as that blind rage subsided, replaced with a disgust. She wasn't only a murderer, she was a hypocrite. She murdered Anthony, his friend, within six hours of waking up. Who gives up on themselves that fast? No one. If she did it, she had to have enjoyed it. There was no other explanation. Karen was not a good person, and she didn't deserve to live. She deserved to feel the pain that every single one of her victims felt. Every single person affected by the deaths of every single one of her victims. The families, the friends, those still alive and those no longer with them. By god, he hoped his mother was proud of him for this. She hadn't gone through his mind in nearly a day. But now, now... She deserved all of that pain and more. But before he did, he needed to know. He needed everyone watching to know. She needed to show her true colors. If she continued her lie, she it would be found. It would be understood. If she finally showed her true colors, she wouldn't be welcomed back into society. Everyone would know her for the scum she was. He was finally doing something right. "Answer the damn question girl!" |
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Second Chances: B??: Chadd Crossen (Audi R8) - Colehurst Secondary School - (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I've got my girl and my ride. What else does a guy need? B??: Rekka Saionji (Sushi Knife) - Colehurst Secondary School (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I don't think I'll ever get used to this place... The sea is where I belong." Old RPs Spoiler: click to toggle | |
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| MurderWeasel | Oct 9 2011, 04:44 AM Post #5 |
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Bulbous also tapered
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Karen was silent for a time. He wanted to know. His rage, his temper, it was subsiding. Maybe there was hope that this would end alright. He wasn't about to blow her away, not anymore. There was a chance, of course, that she was going to say the wrong thing and incite the wrong feelings again. For the moment, though, she was doing pretty well. He was willing to listen. He wouldn't understand, of course. No one alive on the island would understand. Perhaps some of the people Karen had killed had understood. Perhaps, by the time this was nearly wrapped up, others would have come to see things her way. At the moment, though, the kill counts that had been listed told her nobody else felt how she did. She took a moment to figure out which of his questions to answer, which to leave to implication. Karen saw no reason to waste time trying to elucidate or justify. Quick, simple, frank. Let him make of it what he would. "I don't want to die, and I care more about myself than anyone else." And there it was, phrased with all the grace and maturity of a toddler throwing a tantrum over being forced to share a toy, though stated calmly and flatly enough. Of course, there was more to it, words like "scared" and "victim" and phrases like "pointless for only one to live" and "why not me?", but all of that was suggested succinctly enough in her answer. All the killing, all the death, had never been an end, merely the most expedient means towards the goal of survival. Had Karen come across a chance at escape that had better odds of working than her plan, she would have leaped upon it in a heartbeat. Had the ten kill rule not existed, she would have vanished after her second—no, third, she had needed more in the way of weaponry and supplies—kill, would have vanished and waited and done her best to kill only the other final contender. Had the game included any time clause, any way to wait things out without violence, Karen would never have fired her gun outside of self defense. The simple fact was, though, that the only way out, the only way to live, was through killing. Karen had taken the steps necessary to ensure that she would not be perceived as an easy target. She had murdered people after that, though she had been loathe to admit it at the time, because she knew that she was not the toughest, best, most able contender. Mass murder was the easiest option for survival, and the repercussions—emotional, moral, social, physical—were all things Karen was pretty sure she could live with. In a way, it was no different than cheating on a math test or telling a lie to avoid a conflict. Karen did not care for any of these things. She did her best to avoid them. When they were the best option, though, she was willing to embrace them. Karen figured being a good person wasn't worth much if you weren't around to enjoy it. Of course, she realized that Jhamel might disagree rather violently. That would be unfortunate. She wasn't about to let all the work she'd done, all the awful things, be for nothing. She wasn't about to die. |
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Current characters: The Program V2: M08: Alexander Bonham - Steel Folding Chair - The Pine Stands - ALIVE - "Oh, you little bitch." *cue Yakety Sax* F20: Robin Pounds - Stress Ball - Mountain Track - ALIVE - "I'm not doing so great." SOTF-TV: PRP3: Karen Ruiz - Glock 17 (0/17 +1 bullet), WASP Knife, Swordcane - Somewhere over Florida - ELIMINATED - "I don't find pointless death funny." Past characters: If you want an honest assessment of your character's storyline, feel free to PM me and I'll whip one up as soon as I am able. | |
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| T-Fox | Oct 14 2011, 04:42 PM Post #6 |
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Veteran
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"How in the name of God are you gonna live with yourself though?" He was pissed, sure, but he needed to exercise some self control. Maybe if he could make her see the light of just what she'd done, maybe he wouldn't do something he was going to regret. But boy, boy oh boy was he close. "You care about yourself more than anyone else, but what if you do get that tenth kill, and you're the one to survive? Will it have been worth it to live with the guilt of having a higher kill count that a good chunk of serial killers? People who have been fuckin' put to death by the state for the shit they've done?" About a week ago he would have laughed if someone had told him he'd be staring down a murderer and telling her how morally fucked she was. He'd laugh in the person's face, and tell them he was gonna be a blood, and that "killin' ain't nothing big". It was funny how the tables could turn so fast. When something is taken away, how quickly you can change. He looked back up at Karen. How quickly things could change when the chips were down. That wasn't an excuse though. If anything, this damned game had been good for him, it had shown him the light. It showed him how much it fucking hurt to have someone taken away from you, and those thugs out on the street were someone's kid, someone's friend, someone cared about those motherfuckers. The gun was still pointed at her feet, twisted sideways in his hand, ready to jump up at a moment's notice. There was no way he was gonna die to this bitch. "And do you really think that people ain't gonna be pissed at you for what you're doin'? Fuck, if I were Brenda's mom, I'd probably be jumpin through the damn TV to throttle yo' ass?" He stood for a second, thinking over his next question for just a split second too short. "What the fuck you think yo' momma thinks of the shit you've been doin'?" |
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Second Chances: B??: Chadd Crossen (Audi R8) - Colehurst Secondary School - (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I've got my girl and my ride. What else does a guy need? B??: Rekka Saionji (Sushi Knife) - Colehurst Secondary School (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I don't think I'll ever get used to this place... The sea is where I belong." Old RPs Spoiler: click to toggle | |
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| MurderWeasel | Oct 14 2011, 09:31 PM Post #7 |
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Bulbous also tapered
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Questions, always more questions. Karen didn't get it. Did Jhamel think he was going to guilt trip her into stopping now? Did he hold some hope of redeeming her? Was it necessary for him to understand her for some reason? She didn't really care. It was the same set of questions she had asked herself repeatedly, the same concerns she'd had for much of her time on the island. Now, as before, nothing he was saying was really relevant. How was she going to live with herself? It wouldn't be so bad. Life went on. Karen had done bad things before, from time to time. She'd hurt feelings, lied for convenience, been irresponsible. Sometimes she felt bad about things she'd done years ago, trivial things like making fun of a girl in middle school. Murdering people, it was magnitudes worse, but the basic principle was the same. She'd probably lose some sleep over what she'd done to her classmates. She'd probably think back and wonder how else things could have gone. In the end, though, there was no other choice besides death, and Karen was afraid of dying. Continued existence outweighed some sleepless nights here and there. It was all worth it. She hadn't really thought of herself in relation to normal serial killers. The situations were totally incomparable. Serial killers murdered because they got off on death. They killed for fun, or out of mental illness. They enjoyed it. That was sick, twisted, and wrong. Karen hadn't enjoyed a moment of her time here, and she wasn't killing people because she wanted to. Survival meant murdering. It was that simple. More people would die no matter what. The only difference between her shooting someone and Vincent shooting someone was that she got to live if she did it, while Vincent would still need to go through more people. It seemed fairly reasonable to Karen to consider it morally better for her to kill someone than to allow someone else to do the same. After all, she'd done enough that she would actually benefit from another murder now. It was the opposite of a senseless death. This did not seem like a good argument to make to Jhamel, so she remained silent. He circled around to the other issues, seeking, perhaps, to prey upon her fears. He noted that people would be mad at her. Sure they would. A lot of people probably wanted her dead. There was absolutely nothing she could do to change that. She had nine kills. Surviving now meant killing again. Now or later, it didn't really matter. Jhamel seemed confused on that point. It was almost as if he was hoping she'd make some token movement towards rehabilitating her image. If she did something good, would that erase all the murders she'd committed in his mind? Could she get a blank check from him just by killing someone particularly awful for her tenth? That made no sense. Redemption made no sense. She'd murdered nine people. Nothing would change that. Dying wouldn't make her a better person. She wouldn't care if her death moved those still living to sympathize with her. It wouldn't do her any good. Turning around and fighting for good or something of the sort wouldn't make her a good person. It would make her someone too steeped in self indulgence to own up to what she'd done. That was the sort of person who could torture someone to death with a smile. That was terrifying to Karen. She would take her chances with vengeful relatives and wannabe vigilantes. It was part of surviving. So was being hated. She could live with that. And then he brought her family into it, and it became evident that this just wasn't going to stop. He was actually looking for answers. Maybe he thought these ideas were strange and revolutionary to her. Karen felt vaguely offended that he thought she would kill nine people on a whim, without considering that there might be unfortunate effects upon her future. "She probably hates me," Karen said. "She's probably ashamed. I imagine my family has had to move by now, somewhere nobody knows them. That will be a burden. It's too bad. I'd still like to live." |
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Current characters: The Program V2: M08: Alexander Bonham - Steel Folding Chair - The Pine Stands - ALIVE - "Oh, you little bitch." *cue Yakety Sax* F20: Robin Pounds - Stress Ball - Mountain Track - ALIVE - "I'm not doing so great." SOTF-TV: PRP3: Karen Ruiz - Glock 17 (0/17 +1 bullet), WASP Knife, Swordcane - Somewhere over Florida - ELIMINATED - "I don't find pointless death funny." Past characters: If you want an honest assessment of your character's storyline, feel free to PM me and I'll whip one up as soon as I am able. | |
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| Namira | Oct 20 2011, 10:05 PM Post #8 |
Jared F'n Clayton
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A voice echoes from Karen's collar. "Hey there Karen. It's Jared. Nice job. You made it. That kid you shot died a few minutes ago. 'Less I can't count, then that makes ten. Your ticket out of here is on its way already. Sit tight and we'll come pick you up. Oh... and Jhamel? If Karen doesn't walk off this island, you aren't gonna make it ten steps from her body. If I were you, I'd consider my next move damn carefully. That's it for now. Jared out." |
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| T-Fox | Oct 21 2011, 12:07 PM Post #9 |
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Veteran
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((GMing approved by KillerVole)) He knew somewhere that these thoughts had probably run through her mind, long before she started playing this game. He knew that she probably knew what waited for her back in Detroit, and he knew that she most likely had come to terms with it. He shook his head as she answered his last question. She'd given him what he needed. There was literally not a single group she cared for, no remorse she felt. She was cold, she felt no regrets for what she had done. She had lost her humani- No, she had never had it to begin with. Anthony had been killed what, two hours after the starting whistle? There was no way in hell that was enough time to process what she was about to do if she was a normal person with morals and a conscience. She was a sociopath, she had to be. What other person could do what she just did, stand in the face of a survivor, and just defend herself as though her actions had been right? Jhamel understood the logic. She didn't want to die, so she killed. But normal people have regrets. Normal people think upon what they did, and cry out in anguish wishing that they could take it all back. Karen seemed to care about the lives she had ended about as much as she cared about lying to a friend about where she was the night before. She treated it as though 'Sure I did something wrong, but it's no big deal. What are you getting up in arms over? He took a deep breath. "You ain't walkin' off this island bitch. I'mma make sure of that." "Oh... and Jhamel? If Karen doesn't walk off this island, you aren't gonna make it ten steps from her body. If I were you, I'd consider my next move damn carefully. That's it for now. Jared out." He could damn near hear the wind whistle between the two of them as they just stared each other down, loaded gun pointed directly at Karen's forehead, the boy trying to process what had just happened. He'd just been shut down by one of the mentors. If he killed her now, he died too. Would it be worth it? Would martyring himself really make his friends rest in peace? Sure, revenge would have been had and all that, but... They probably cared about him as much as he did them. And they were probably watching him right now, just wishing he didn't throw his life away. The lock clicked back into place, and the gun dropped to the ground with a silent thump. "Don't walk off this island, huh? 'aight." He took a step closer, his hands falling to his sides. "Then I just won't break her motheruckin' legs!" With close to no warning, Jhamel leaped across the remaining few feet, balling his hand into a fist and letting it fly directly at her hand holding the gun. Jhamel had never been one to do well in a fist fight, but he didn't particularly care at this point. The amount of anger and adrenaline surging through his body made the fear and pattern recognition go numb. He wasn't confident he could do this, nor was he confident he couldn't do this. He was just going to beat the hell out of her, make her suffer some pain for every single person she'd killed. A quick knee to the stomach while she was still off balance, followed by his hand wrapping around her wrist. He was obviously the bigger of the two, which was an advantage he rarely tended to have; a luxury not to be wasted. Her head doubled over into his chest from the impact, and as it did, he pushed forward with all of his weight, the girl's scrawny form putting up nowhere near enough resistance, the pair crashing to the ground. With a quick jab, he wrenched her arm down onto the ground with all of his strength, bashing her hand off of a small rock sticking out of the ground, the shrill cry and clattering of steel away giving him a quick cue that the danger of being shot had all but passed. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna kill ya!" He raised a fist, and brought it down on her face, adjusting himself so that he was straddling her and pinning her by her waist. "I'm just gonna make ya think a little!" Another blow, this time from the opposite fist. And again. And again. He didn't take any real pleasure in what he was doing, but there really wasn't any disgust either. All he knew at that moment was sheer, uncontrollable anger. And god damn it, Karen was going to understand if it was the last thing he did. |
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Second Chances: B??: Chadd Crossen (Audi R8) - Colehurst Secondary School - (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I've got my girl and my ride. What else does a guy need? B??: Rekka Saionji (Sushi Knife) - Colehurst Secondary School (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I don't think I'll ever get used to this place... The sea is where I belong." Old RPs Spoiler: click to toggle | |
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| MurderWeasel | Oct 22 2011, 05:57 AM Post #10 |
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Bulbous also tapered
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Jhamel spoke, and Karen tensed, ready for everything to go to pieces, ready for violence, ready for another shootout. Then a voice came from her collar. She hadn't known that could happen. It was important, though. Very important. She could barely believe what it was saying. The name, it was mildly familiar, but she couldn't really tell who it was. The context made it clear enough, anyways. Hadn't they been told they would have mentors? She'd discounted it as pointless trivia. Now, it was quite possibly saving her life. She'd done it. Zach had died from the wounds she'd inflicted on him. He'd been right, then, in his assessment of his situation. In a way, it was a pity. He'd had five kills of his own, maybe more by the time they'd met. He could have pulled it off too, could have made sure there was one less needless death in this game. The thing was, Zach had been a dangerous psychopath, a sadist and a lunatic. In that light, well, Karen wasn't sorry at all. Perhaps this was her parting gift to the island, to all the others she was leaving behind. Whatever happened now, they would have one less torturer to worry about. Karen felt perfectly justified in viewing herself as morally superior. She'd never caused unneeded pain, had never enjoyed what she'd been doing. She'd had a goal, and now she'd accomplished it. Jhamel was under orders to back down. The violence was done. Just like that, a magical spell had been cast, freeing Karen of her fears. Then the clock struck midnight, and her enchanted carriage turned back into a pumpkin. Jhamel's attack took Karen completely by surprise. Once more, she had misjudged someone. She had assumed that he would honor the order of protection, had assumed that, thwarted in his purpose of killing her, he would just release her. She hadn't counted on him wanting to make her hurt enough to work loopholes. She didn't understand it at all, couldn't come close to figuring out the desire to cause pain. Maybe she could have managed with a bit more time. As it was, she was gasping, choking on nothing as he hit her in the gut, right where everyone had hit her, right where it hurt the most. She was falling, trying to scream, managing nothing but a strangled cry as pain flashed through her arm, as her hand hit something and her gun went spinning away. She felt the bandages on her shoulders tear, felt her barely-scabbed-over wounds reopen, felt the sting and burn and blood. Jhamel was still talking. That was what scared her the most. The first blow to the face, she wasn't able to do anything about. She caught it on her cheekbone, turned her face with it so that the damage wasn't too serious. She cut her cheek on her teeth, tasted blood, but that had happened before. A soccer ball had once hit her in the face. This wasn't so different. The real change was that that was only the beginning of it. The punches kept coming. Karen was pinned, trapped, but her arms were free. She brought them up, brought her hands up to cover her face. She was scared, terrified. Jhamel wasn't planning to kill her, but there were so many other horrible things he could do. He could blind her, could disfigure or cripple her. He could do a lot of permanent damage. She just had to hope he wouldn't think of that. Well, not exactly. Karen wasn't entirely helpless. She had a knife in her pocket, a knife Jhamel didn't know about. The problem was, if she pulled it out, if she cut him and fatally wounded him, she would have to kill him instantly. Anything else, and his only reason for sparing her would be gone. Karen had never used a knife for anything more serious than cutting a steak. She doubted she could quickly kill someone totally helpless with a blade, much less someone pinning and beating her. She didn't even want to. The killing was supposed to be done. So she just lay there, trying to guard her face. Her arms absorbed a lot of the impact, but her head was still slammed into the ground, again and again. Her vision was blurred, was occasionally obscured by flashes. She was crying. How long had she been crying? She was sobbing, was covering her face and huddling up as much as she could, was trying to get away from the pain. This was wrong. This was what she'd fought to avoid. She was done being a victim. They were supposed to be afraid of her. They were supposed to run from her. "Stop," she wheezed. "Please, stop." She didn't care. She could be pathetic. She could beg. She didn't want to be hurt. She didn't want her life to be ruined. She'd done it. She'd done everything she was supposed to. It was time for her to go, time for her to be released. She felt blood on her face, probably from the gash on her hand, and she coughed and tried to stop crying, but it just wasn't working. |
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Current characters: The Program V2: M08: Alexander Bonham - Steel Folding Chair - The Pine Stands - ALIVE - "Oh, you little bitch." *cue Yakety Sax* F20: Robin Pounds - Stress Ball - Mountain Track - ALIVE - "I'm not doing so great." SOTF-TV: PRP3: Karen Ruiz - Glock 17 (0/17 +1 bullet), WASP Knife, Swordcane - Somewhere over Florida - ELIMINATED - "I don't find pointless death funny." Past characters: If you want an honest assessment of your character's storyline, feel free to PM me and I'll whip one up as soon as I am able. | |
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| T-Fox | Oct 28 2011, 01:42 PM Post #11 |
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Veteran
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Jhamel couldn't hear Karen's weak cries as he continued to pummel her. White hot rage had made the entire world melt away, the only sound in his ears a faint ringing, all he could see was the bruises he was leaving on her arms. He was doing something right, that's all that he knew. He didn't see Karen's lips moving, didn't see her fear, her pleading. All he saw was the monster that he wanted to see. Another punch. He wasn't going to kill her, but he was going to make sure she felt what she deserved. The pain, the guilt, the anger at herself that her conscience should have been leveling since her first kill. Since she killed Anthony. Another punch. His blows were landing wildly all about her, that last one even landing beside her head in the dirt, his fist sinking a few inches into the soft soil. She wouldn't get away with this. She wouldn't be arrested for her slaughter when she returned back home; hell, she'd be hailed like a damned hero. A few of the kids who made it home from this deserved that. They tried, they tried to do their best to be the best people they could be in the worst situation they could have ever found themselves in. Another punch. He couldn't believe he'd used to like this show. The hail of punches stopped for a single moment as he took a pair of deep breaths, attempting to catch his breath. He looked down at her, cowering below him, her arms still raised over her head, acting as though she had a single right to defend herself from what was coming, the only damn justice anyone could bring on the island. He closed his eyes, and muttered softly, under his breath. The audio from the microphone in his collar would be edited into the final feed, however even the producers couldn't hear him as the cameras looked silently on. "This is for you Brenda." He placed the palm of his hand upon her forehead, gripping tight, dodging her clumsily defensive arms with relative ease. He pulled, lifting her head a fair six inches off of the ground. And with a single, swift motion, with all of his weight and strength, he slammed her head back into the ground. |
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Second Chances: B??: Chadd Crossen (Audi R8) - Colehurst Secondary School - (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I've got my girl and my ride. What else does a guy need? B??: Rekka Saionji (Sushi Knife) - Colehurst Secondary School (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I don't think I'll ever get used to this place... The sea is where I belong." Old RPs Spoiler: click to toggle | |
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| MurderWeasel | Oct 28 2011, 11:08 PM Post #12 |
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Bulbous also tapered
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He wasn't stopping, wasn't calming down, and Karen's fear was starting to mount. She wasn't even sure what she could do. She was trapped, was getting beaten. This was everything she'd always feared. This was what she'd known she'd face. This was how she was sure she'd meet her end. She could tell Jhamel wasn't going to clam down, wasn't going to stop. He was going to try, maybe, just to save his own life. That didn't mean he wouldn't kill her by mistake. The immunity was seeming pretty worthless right now. She should have shot him right away. What she'd learned was that she'd made a mistake when she chose to try to minimize the violence. What she'd learned was that she'd been right before, when she'd shot first. She'd been right the entire time. Karen should have been mad. She should have hated him. She should have felt something besides terror. This wasn't right. She should have been trying to get free. She should have been doing something besides just attempting to minimize the damage. She knew her arms were probably a mass of bruises by this point. She could barely even feel them. Her left arm had already been hurt, way back when she'd fought that boy, after the first person she'd killed. It was hard to recall these things under the circumstances, hard to bring back the feelings, the logic. She just wanted this to end. She just wanted to go home, home where she could never go again. She just wanted to be somewhere else, away from everything her life had become. She just wanted the pain to stop. And, of course, she had a way to make that happen. Karen wasn't sitting back and accepting this beating out of some sense of penitence. She wasn't turning the other cheek to endear herself to the viewers. There was nothing behind her acceptance of Jhamel's abuse besides the pragmatic knowledge that things would get worse if she intervened. There came a point, though, where she couldn't take it anymore, when her arms ached and her tears stung and she was just tired of it all. Jhamel stopped punching her, just for a second. She tried to swat him away, failed utterly. He reached in, grabbed her by the head, and in that moment she realized that this was where it had to end. Quicker than before, quicker than she'd ever been so far, Karen darted her right hand into her pocket, ignoring the sting and burn from the gash, and grabbed the knife. She wasn't quick enough. Jhamel had lifted her, and now he slammed her head into the ground. The softness of the dirt and grass probably saved her life. Certainly, it spared her the damage to her spine and skull that could otherwise have resulted. The loose, almost-damp earth that had yielded so easily under Jhamel's punch earlier now similarly accepted Karen's head. Her skull did not shatter or fracture. Her forehead did not cave in. Nothing in her neck snapped. She didn't know any of this. On impact, there was a flash of light or maybe darkness, and then Karen's hand went limp. |
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Current characters: The Program V2: M08: Alexander Bonham - Steel Folding Chair - The Pine Stands - ALIVE - "Oh, you little bitch." *cue Yakety Sax* F20: Robin Pounds - Stress Ball - Mountain Track - ALIVE - "I'm not doing so great." SOTF-TV: PRP3: Karen Ruiz - Glock 17 (0/17 +1 bullet), WASP Knife, Swordcane - Somewhere over Florida - ELIMINATED - "I don't find pointless death funny." Past characters: If you want an honest assessment of your character's storyline, feel free to PM me and I'll whip one up as soon as I am able. | |
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| Namira | Oct 31 2011, 03:04 AM Post #13 |
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Jared F'n Clayton
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Jared Clayton looked intently into the screen of his phone. It was connected with crystal clear clarity to a live feed of Season 65 of SOTF-TV. At that moment, the cameras were all focused on one thing; the mother of all beat-downs that Jhamel Thompson was giving to Karen Ruiz. "Well then..." Jared glanced away from the screen to the innocuous little device in his other hand - a device very much reminiscent of a remote. A digital readout said starkly 'RD3: THOMPSON, JHAMEL' "I was kinda hoping you wouldn't be this dumb. Can't take the risk you'll stop at a beating. Ciao." He hit the red 'detonate' button at the bottom of the device, then again a moment later. Jared's expression was unreadable. |
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| T-Fox | Nov 6 2011, 11:49 PM Post #14 |
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Veteran
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Jared's expression may have been unreadable. Jhamel's certainly was not on that little screen, right before the button press had gone. The boy was panting, looking upon his handiwork. Karen had stopped moving, stopped struggling, and he was straddling her, atop her. He had done something right for once. She wasn't dead, because if she was dead, then it would mean his death. And how could he do anything else right in his life if he killed himself here? But damn, if he hadn't done something right. If her conscience wouldn't make her feel the regret and the pain she deserved to, then this would. She'd wake up in a few hours, and limp home, and the bruises he'd left would stay for weeks. Her head wouldn't clear for months. She'd most likely end up in the hospital for the injuries he'd inflicted, but looking at her, he knew for a fact that it was nothing fatal. He'd finally done something right with his life. He'd made a fresh start. He'd finally manned up, and he'd finally started down the path he had always wished that he could from the time he was a little kid, promising his mother that he'd save them from Detroit's inner city, save them from poverty and pull his entire family up by his own boot straps. Even if it meant getting his hands dirty. Well, he'd finally gotten his hands dirty. His mother should be proud of him. For the first time in his life, he believed that his mother should be proud. He lowered a hand beside Karen's head, fully intending to push himself from her body, collect his bag, and move on to try and figure out a plan. A way to make it home. A way to continue doing right in the world. In Brenda's memory. In April's memory. In Jeanette's memory. In Eloise's memory. In the memory of every single student that had died, and not just from Detroit Central. In the memory of the winners, and the losers of Survival of the Fittest. His body rose an inch. And then there was an explosion. A rocketing feeling of pain for a single instant as his head began to rise from it's shoulder's, connected by nothing. An instant where he still lived, still understood, still thought, yet didn't by any definition live. And then suddenly, it was all black, and thought suddenly ceased. The body fell upon it's victim, spilling it's blood upon her unconscious form. RD 3: THOMPSON, JHAMEL - DECEASED Edited by T-Fox, Nov 6 2011, 11:49 PM.
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Second Chances: B??: Chadd Crossen (Audi R8) - Colehurst Secondary School - (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I've got my girl and my ride. What else does a guy need? B??: Rekka Saionji (Sushi Knife) - Colehurst Secondary School (Kill Count: 0) - 100% - "I don't think I'll ever get used to this place... The sea is where I belong." Old RPs Spoiler: click to toggle | |
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| MurderWeasel | Nov 7 2011, 01:00 AM Post #15 |
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Bulbous also tapered
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As for Karen, she didn't hear, didn't see, didn't realize what was happening around her. For the next few minutes, she simply lay on the ground, unthinking. ((Karen Ruiz continued in The Sheep Look Up)) |
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Current characters: The Program V2: M08: Alexander Bonham - Steel Folding Chair - The Pine Stands - ALIVE - "Oh, you little bitch." *cue Yakety Sax* F20: Robin Pounds - Stress Ball - Mountain Track - ALIVE - "I'm not doing so great." SOTF-TV: PRP3: Karen Ruiz - Glock 17 (0/17 +1 bullet), WASP Knife, Swordcane - Somewhere over Florida - ELIMINATED - "I don't find pointless death funny." Past characters: If you want an honest assessment of your character's storyline, feel free to PM me and I'll whip one up as soon as I am able. | |
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