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Victim, Victim, Honey You're My Fifth One; Tagging the Illustrious Cae-Dot~
Topic Started: Aug 22 2017, 11:18 AM (359 Views)
Kween in Yella
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Ratchet Consort of Hastur, they/them pronouns pls!
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
((Don't let her see you.))
No more
It hurt. The sensation wasn't unexpected, just the magnitude. KK was used to feeling the exhaustion wash over her after the adrenaline wore off, but in the blur of the lighthouse it was hard to remember she'd even gotten shot. Was it one of her own bullets, or had it been Irene? She hadn't stuck around long enough to see what kind of gun it was hanging out of her bag, and her ears were still ringing from her own shots. One could have slipped out without her realizing it.
They would have killed you you know better
Irene, then. She would remember that, assuming someone else didn't get to her first.
No it's so much easier to forget just forget just forget just forget
For now, though, Irene, Alice, and Eris weren't on her mind. Neither were her now bandaged wounds. What had her attention right now was the figure kneeling in the dirt between the trees. A thin girl with long, braided brown hair and a green blouse with a bag beside her. It looked like she was alone.
I don't see her
Shame.
I don't have to do this
Katarina brought the gun up to her shoulder and stared down its length into her back.
It's not too late
"Hey."
But she's already dead
Her finger tightened around the trigger.
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me_irl
[ *  *  *  * ]
((It hurt.))

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

All the colors reminded her of blood.

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

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

"Hey."

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

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

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

"W..-wh...
-Why...?"
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Kween in Yella
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Ratchet Consort of Hastur, they/them pronouns pls!
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
The gun jumped wide against her shoulder and left her wincing in pain. She hadn't planned for the shock lacing up her arm; beginner's fumbling. Katarina would learn. Better to make mistakes with someone like this who couldn't fight back than in an actual fight.
What if she had shot back
It was a chilling thought. But it was necessary. If she wanted to survive, there wouldn't be any room for sentiment or regret. She played through the pain and stalked forward, trying to get a better angle on her next victim. The cowering girl was giving her plenty of time to approach slow. Pace herself and make sure she did it right this time. There wouldn't be any need for a second shot if she got close enough.
I have to see I have to know
"W..-wh...
-Why...?"

I don't want to die
Stupid question. So very stupid. If you had to ask it, there wasn't any answer that would satisfy you. KK didn't dignify it with a response, and she didn't pull the trigger again. Her shadow loomed over the prone girl and her bag as she leaned in, drawing the barrel of the gun closer and closer to her forehead with a quiet "Shhhhh..."
It's better for you this way
Mercy. That was one way of thinking about it when they asked her why she'd done it. Someone like this didn't belong here. Katarina would send her home quickly and painlessly and after they saw what happened to those that weren't so lucky her loved ones would thank her for it. As long as she stayed paralyzed, there was no way she would miss this time.
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[ *  *  *  * ]
It's over. I don't have to worry anymore.

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

I'm sorry
Rachael just had to accept it
Mom
Dad

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

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

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

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

I don't want to die.

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

A contrived convulsion of rebellion.

Rachael's knuckles one by one cracking as they sunk into Katarina's jaw.
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Kween in Yella
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Ratchet Consort of Hastur, they/them pronouns pls!
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
The cold metal got closer and closer as she shivered below, until the barrel was pressed against the girl's head with nowhere to escape. All she would do is shiver in place without resistance. It almost made Katarina feel bad, but if she wasn't going to put up a fight there was no reason to risk it. But then she whined. She whined and something human in her flinched. Her finger didn't find the trigger again, not before an unexpected fist swung up and caught her in the jaw.
Too close
As she tumbled backwards, one thought cut up above the pain: this wasn't right. Three times she'd faced down wilting flowers too dull to understand what was happening to them, and three they'd surprised her with a well of violence from somewhere deep inside of them. Could anyone fight back? Were they all going to resist what even they seemed to acknowledge as an inevitable conclusion?
Can't let them get close can't let them get close can't let them get close
And if even they could find the instinct to fight, what did it say about her that she kept hesitating?
Don't let them in
Why couldn't she kill them?
DON'T LET THEM IN
She hit the ground with a snarl, still dizzy from the hit, but she wouldn't allow herself anymore stalling. Olive metal swung in a wide arc as she squeezed down tight on the trigger, sending bullets spraying across the forest floor without any aim or intent beyond the fact that Rachael was somewhere in that direction and she was going to die. She could die here, or she could die elsewhere. KK could kill her or something else could. But she would die, because only one of them could go home.
I won't die for you
And it wouldn't be Rachael. Because this time Katarina wouldn't hesitate.
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[ *  *  *  * ]
Rachael bit back a sob, a violent bite that tore a bloody gash in her lower lip. At least two of her fingers felt, looked like they had melted off the bone. Her stomach demanded in churning Morse that she take a second to keel over and puke. She didn't do that, rather, she ran and

someone was shooting at her

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

run have to run
trees

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


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

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

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

So she whipped around the blind spot of the tree trunk the moment there was no sound, none of her enemy's gun yelling at her, and she responded in kind, in curt monosyllables, the gun viciously ricocheting off the meat of her thumb with each moment of time she held down the trigger and she screaming mutely, the empty echo in her own head now the spitting of molten lead of a cold temper fury that wasn't her own.
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Kween in Yella
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Ratchet Consort of Hastur, they/them pronouns pls!
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
She shouldn't have been surprised when Rachael pulled a gun and started firing on her. It was two for two now; why should be surprised that yet another easy target grew teeth? It was all she could do to scramble backwards to a nearby tree and catch her breath. Heart pounding, sweat dripping across her brow, a thousand plans rattling at once. She could wait her out in the trees. Rachael had stopped firing once she'd dropped out of sight. After some waiting she might panic and try to run, and then Katarina could catch her. Who knew how long that would be, though? She could try to scare her out by shooting up her tree, but given how much spine she'd pulled from nowhere that felt like a dead end too. Kat was probably faster than Rachael, though. In a rush, she might be able to hook around and...
I can't die
No.
I can't die not now I don't want to be remembered like this
Breathe.
I have to keep going
It's a marathon, not a sprint.
I have to win
She was getting tunnel vision. Rachael wasn't the real problem here. She'd been a convenient, easy target, and if that wasn't the case anymore then she didn't need to waste anymore energy here. All of her resources were limited and she needed to start spending them more wisely. The problem was how to escape without getting shot. Rachael would die eventually, one way or another, and she liked her own odds better than hers.
Stop saying her name
Katarina was faster. In a rush, she could do more than try to hook around and surprise her. If she broke into a dead run she could catch her bag and haul through the woods. Once she was far enough away she could regroup and get a more accurate sense of her resources. Stupid mistakes, but she could recover. That's what she did.
Yes. Mistakes. Mistakes don't have names or faces or weapons.
With a deep breath in, Katarina tore out from behind her tree and scooped her bag up in a dead run the opposite way she came.
Into the quiet.
((Katarina Konipaski's next target acquired.))
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[ *  *  *  * ]
Rachael's breath violently caught in her throat like the sickle hook of a fisherman through soft flesh, the moment her gun was clicking empty, she ignored the throb in her one good arm already tired of playing executioner and she began to stare wildly about for precious, precious ammunition

what is wrong with me

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

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

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

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

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

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

demonic

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

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



Shells hitting the ground.

Where am I?
Why am I doing this?


Retreat became rout.

((Rachael Langdon continued in shallow breaths))
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[ *  *  *  * ]
((Blaine Eno continued from I'd Rather be at the Aquarium))

Blaine had been smoking in the woods, humming an eerie tune. The original version was cheery, but this one was not. As he heard gunshots, he sneakily investigated to witness the fight. Rachael lost it and Blaine sprinted at her to dropkick her in the face while she was on the ground.

Now, he landed on his back and his head hit against the ground. He rubbed his head as he saw Rachael running away. There was a big distance between them since Blaine lost momentum through flying on the ground. He ran. His head hurt, he felt dizzy, but he was determined.

She shot.

Blaine could feel the waves of the bullets passing by. With his own empty gun in his hand, he continued to chase the rabbit. The green eyes stared at the green figure and followed.

((Blaine Eno continued in shallow breaths))
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