Kimberly was right. It wasn't long at all before something happened. She heard the gunfire, a quick burst, echoing from somewhere in the direction Reiko had gone. The girl had been carrying some kind of machine gun. It wasn't hard at all to draw conclusions. The lack of return fire or secondary shots told Kimberly that someone had probably just died. It was quite likely that someone wasn't Reiko. She didn't know if she should feel bad about not intervening. Now wasn't the time to ponder the ethics of her situation, though. Now that the violence had started, there would be no shoving the genie back into the bottle. There were at least two people out there who would likely shoot Kimberly on the spot. There was probably Reiko, who would merely do her the courtesy of shooting her last.
Time for a plan, for a hunch, for something, anything. Time to figure out how to do this, how to come through this last hurdle with her body, mind, and morality intact. It was going to be tough, but she'd been in tough situations before. This wasn't holding another friend as they died. It wasn't screaming and bleeding in the sand. It wasn't being talked down to and treated like a helpless burden. It was just spending a little more time avoiding death. She'd gotten pretty good at that so far.
But of course, something just had to fuck it all up.
Kimberly was up against the wall of the alley, hiding in the shadows, keeping an eye out in front and back. She still nearly missed it. A flash of movement down at the end of the alley got her attention, though. Someone had passed nearby, and they seemed to be headed in roughly the same direction Reiko had gone.
Part of her wanted to be relieved. That was that, then. This person would go shoot Reiko, and Kimberly wouldn't have to worry about any eventual confrontation. Besides, there was no doubt the other girl had it coming. She had almost certainly kicked off the murder this time. She'd been killing since the first day. There had been breaks, but Kimberly wasn't about to assume any reason for them besides pragmatism. Reiko had probably just figured out that being a high profile threat wasn't a good way to stay alive. Kimberly's little hunt for Kris, much as she hated to admit she was at all like any of her classmates, had almost definitely not been an isolated incident. Payback seemed to be pretty damn universal common ground.
So now Reiko was probably about reap what she had sown. Maybe she'd even take the others out while she was at it. Maybe Kimberly wouldn't have to make any tough calls. Maybe she could just sit back and go home and try to pretend none of this had ever happened.
No.
There was no hiding from the past, and dodging responsibility would just mean survival wasn't worth it. She'd killed Aislyn and Kris. She'd hurt people. She'd done a lot of awful shit and a lot of better things. She'd never sat idle. Now wasn't the time to start.
Sarah had saved her life, and Sarah cared about Reiko. Kimberly still owed her one. Even if she couldn't see the other girl's appeal, even if she found Reiko at best refreshingly forthright yet moderately appalling, she could still do this for Sarah. She was moving before she could talk herself out of it, slipping from her hiding place, holding her fake gun in her trembling right arm. Down the alley, around the corner, and there he was. A boy. Not wiry enough to be Ilario. Ivan, then, the other one who might not be playing, the one who had lost someone. He was being very cautious, being so very sneaky. He was holding a gun. Kimberly's heart was hammering. This could well be the final few minutes of her life. There was still time to back out.
No.
Once, Kimberly had seen a western starring Clint Eastwood, one of those famous ones that everyone knew. She couldn't really remember the name right now, but one bit stuck damn well in her mind. This thug was walking along the street, when there came a whistle. He turned, and then Clint Eastwood shot him. It was a pretty badass thing to do, giving your opponent warning. Nice, dramatic, honorable. She hoped Ivan would appreciate the effort. She hoped he'd be confused enough not to shoot right away. She hoped he'd realize that he was stuck in a standoff because she was holding him at gunpoint.
She hoped he wouldn't call her bluff.
She pursed her lips and blew, but no noise came. Her lips were dry, chapped. She ran her tongue over them. It took a couple goes. She was a bit dehydrated. Nothing critical, just an itchy throat and a prickly tongue. In a few minutes, it probably wouldn't matter. She was probably about to make the biggest mistake of her life, for the sake of a girl who didn't come close to deserving it.
"Where the FUCK do you get off with this pretend badass act? It DOESN'T. FUCKING. WORK. And I hope to fucking GOD that you realize that by now."
Words from the past, coming back to haunt her now, to give her last second doubts, to make her wonder whether she was throwing her life away, whether she was giving up for something silly just because it was easier than actually trying. Words she had heard while lying in the dirt, after being kicked for daring to stand up for herself.
Thanks for nothing, Jeremy. Guess I'm pretending one more time. Just one more time.
Her hand was completely steady, the fake gun pointed straight at the boy who looked like he might be about to turn to check behind him. There was a good distance between them, plenty of room so Ivan could have his personal space, so she could get a head start if he wasn't feeling reasonable.
Last chance to turn back.
She gave a loud, two note whistle.
"Hey, Ivan," she called. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not polite to sneak around?"
Everybody Loses
-
Grand Moff Hissa
- Posts: 2754
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
And hadn't he said? Hadn't he said, though, hadn't he known that they would start the slaughter themselves? Ilario permitted himself a brief glow of pride before burying it somewhere far away; pride goeth before a fall and he couldn't fall. Not now. There was just a little longer to wait and he would still have to act, he knew but for now the murderers were destroying each other in front of him.
Ericka lay on the ground like a rag doll or a puppet, strings cut. Dead? Ilario couldn't be sure but he couldn't think she would be anything else, not after the quick snap of bullets. A familiar sound now. Funny how he'd ever found it too loud and too much. It was almost friendly. He swept the area quickly with narrowed eyes, found no one, advanced. He was six feet out from the body when his vision fuzzed and when he blinked hard he saw Rosa still in the tight shirt and miniskirt she'd worn out clubbing and hadn't quite taken off before she'd passed out face-down on the bed. Rolling her over, tugging off her heels and sliding her earrings out while she breathed gin and vodka at him, laughed, didn't laugh, rolling her over to tug off pretty flats and unclasp her necklace breathing rum and wine coolers, awake, not awake, a dozen times overlaid and everywhere the softness of her skin and his father's words ringing in his ears blood spattered on the ground around the body. Ericka's body. Ericka lying there, dead or...not dead, he didn't know, but his heart was beating a quickstep inside of his body and he changed direction to lope slowly after Reiko.
His pulse calmed. His fingers touched the gun. Reassured themselves of its weight. Ericka was...inconsequential, now. Reiko was not. She had killed in front of him, cold-blooded and evil. She would be the one he would follow. The others could wait; he still had work to do and he could not, would not fall yet.
His lips twitched in what could have been a smile. The parallels didn't escape him. Ericka, Reiko, Kimberly. Rosa, Frankie, Rhory. Three girls he had failed to protect. Three girls he would bring down in order to be forgiven. And then Ivan. Ivan who would die for Ilario's sins, who would bring him forward into the light and absolution.
One down.
His fingers touched the gun.
Three to go.
Ericka lay on the ground like a rag doll or a puppet, strings cut. Dead? Ilario couldn't be sure but he couldn't think she would be anything else, not after the quick snap of bullets. A familiar sound now. Funny how he'd ever found it too loud and too much. It was almost friendly. He swept the area quickly with narrowed eyes, found no one, advanced. He was six feet out from the body when his vision fuzzed and when he blinked hard he saw Rosa still in the tight shirt and miniskirt she'd worn out clubbing and hadn't quite taken off before she'd passed out face-down on the bed. Rolling her over, tugging off her heels and sliding her earrings out while she breathed gin and vodka at him, laughed, didn't laugh, rolling her over to tug off pretty flats and unclasp her necklace breathing rum and wine coolers, awake, not awake, a dozen times overlaid and everywhere the softness of her skin and his father's words ringing in his ears blood spattered on the ground around the body. Ericka's body. Ericka lying there, dead or...not dead, he didn't know, but his heart was beating a quickstep inside of his body and he changed direction to lope slowly after Reiko.
His pulse calmed. His fingers touched the gun. Reassured themselves of its weight. Ericka was...inconsequential, now. Reiko was not. She had killed in front of him, cold-blooded and evil. She would be the one he would follow. The others could wait; he still had work to do and he could not, would not fall yet.
His lips twitched in what could have been a smile. The parallels didn't escape him. Ericka, Reiko, Kimberly. Rosa, Frankie, Rhory. Three girls he had failed to protect. Three girls he would bring down in order to be forgiven. And then Ivan. Ivan who would die for Ilario's sins, who would bring him forward into the light and absolution.
One down.
His fingers touched the gun.
Three to go.
Ericka felt the bullets slam into her back, her knees buckling under the force of their impact before she even registered the sound they made. Like a discarded ragdoll, she collapsed to the ground, her gun skittering away from her.
One well-placed shot to a vital internal structure soon dropped her blood pressure and volume to a point where consciousness was no longer possible. The last thing she heard was the sound of approaching footfalls.
G063 ERICKA BRADLEY: DECEASED
One well-placed shot to a vital internal structure soon dropped her blood pressure and volume to a point where consciousness was no longer possible. The last thing she heard was the sound of approaching footfalls.
G063 ERICKA BRADLEY: DECEASED
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
As Reiko left the body, Ilario fell into step behind her without giving the crumpled shape a second glance. She didn't appear to be going anywhere special. Away from Ivan and Kimberly being the main priority at the moment. A whistle behind them was Kimberly, Ilario thought, but he could deal with Kimberly later. She still made his stomach twist uncomfortably with her two kills, kills which she was technically guilty for but one had been Kris and he didn't think he could fault her for that. So she would wait. Perhaps Ivan would kill her or perhaps they would both kill each other, and then he wouldn't have to ever think on it. Until then, he had other things to consider.
Reiko, who'd killed in front of him. Reiko who had never been the strange shade of grey Kimberly occupied but was now a higher priority then ever, Reiko who had her back to him and maybe didn't hear his footsteps or maybe didn't care. Either way, he counted it as a blessing. Or a miracle. Another confirmation that his path was the righteous one. He dropped back a pace or two as she turned, apparently heading for a small alleyway between two houses. It was funny, how the gun which had seemed so light in his hands when he'd first begun to put it to use was now so heavy. He would have thought it to be the other way around, as bullets were used and his body adjusted to the constant weight of it. But perhaps he was just tired. There would be time to rest later, and his mind was still sharp.
Up ahead, Reiko paused. Her back was still to him and he could see a splash of what could have been mud and could have been dried blood up high on her shoulder. No cross of light between spread antlers for this one (and see how well that had turned out...) but Ilario knew a sign when he saw it, or at least an opportunity. He spared a momentary hopeprayer that his body would obey him in these final times and in one smooth motion, dropped to his knee, flicked off the safety, and fired twice.
Reiko, who'd killed in front of him. Reiko who had never been the strange shade of grey Kimberly occupied but was now a higher priority then ever, Reiko who had her back to him and maybe didn't hear his footsteps or maybe didn't care. Either way, he counted it as a blessing. Or a miracle. Another confirmation that his path was the righteous one. He dropped back a pace or two as she turned, apparently heading for a small alleyway between two houses. It was funny, how the gun which had seemed so light in his hands when he'd first begun to put it to use was now so heavy. He would have thought it to be the other way around, as bullets were used and his body adjusted to the constant weight of it. But perhaps he was just tired. There would be time to rest later, and his mind was still sharp.
Up ahead, Reiko paused. Her back was still to him and he could see a splash of what could have been mud and could have been dried blood up high on her shoulder. No cross of light between spread antlers for this one (and see how well that had turned out...) but Ilario knew a sign when he saw it, or at least an opportunity. He spared a momentary hopeprayer that his body would obey him in these final times and in one smooth motion, dropped to his knee, flicked off the safety, and fired twice.
Reiko tried to keep her footfalls soft and measured, but she couldn't help but hurry a bit as she walked away from Ericka. As if quickly putting distance between herself and the location might somehow lessen what she had just done. Sarah would understand that all of this, everything that had she had done, had been for them.
All that stood between them was a few more shootings, a handful of shots, and they could be together. She wouldn't even have to shoot them all herself. If she took care of Ivan or Ilario, then Kimberly could handle whoever was left. And after that....
After that, Reiko would do what was necessary to be with Sarah again. A semblance of a plan in place, she hesitated and took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
Someone punched her in the back. It was hard enough to knock the wind out of her lungs and send her falling. As she started to topple, her hands coming up to break her fall, all she could think of was how did I not see them?
A second punch slammed into her lower jaw. Bright stars exploded in front of her eyes as she hit the dirt, her lower jaw numb and her cheek uncomfortably and oddly hot. Half-curled around herself in the dirt she struggled for her gun, but couldn't seem to make her fingers work properly. There were tears running down her cheeks that she was only dimly aware of. Or was that cheek? She could feel hot liquid coursing down her face and dripping steadily into the dirt. That couldn't be right. Could it?
And then the pain hit. Pain so bad it wasn't even really pain, just something white-hot and incomprehensible. Her face was on fire, her jaw radiating agony into every surrounding nerve from the ragged hole she was suddenly all too aware of. The bullet -- because it must have been a bullet -- had exited through her cheek. It burned where the air touched it, and she knew without seeing that the side of her face had been ripped open. Destroyed. She sucked in air to scream and coughed instead, a wracking, retching cough that bent her head almost the earth below and tasted like blood. Although to be fair, a hysterically rational part of her pointed out, everything tasted like blood now.
Instinctively, she raised a trembling hand to her face and pressed against the wound. Screaming at the flood of pain the action caused, Reiko jerked her palm away as she thrashed and writhed on the ground. It was almost more than she could bear.
She called for her mother, then Sarah, desperately wishing that they could come help her. As the memory of Sarah's smiling face tripped across her mind, a horrifying thought crept in its wake. Sarah...my face...there's a hole in my face. What will Sarah think of me with this gaping hole in my face?
Would Sarah ever be able to look at her the same? She was disfigured now, deformed. When people looked at her, they wouldn't see a survivor. All the would see would be the scars and lines. She would be an object of pity. And what would Sarah think?
With enough time, everything that had happened to them could be put behind them. They would be able to move on and build a new life together. But now? With a hideous hole in her face, how would Sarah be able to look at her and not remember everything? How would she be able to look at herself in the mirror?
The unmistakable sound of a footfall caught her attention. Spurred to action, Reiko planted her hands on the ground and pushed. A hard cough wracked her as she tried to get up, sending her prone again. Something ground in her chest as she hacked, spittle flying from her mouth in a fine spray. Struggling to catch her breath, Reiko managed to turn her head towards the sound.
As she watched Ilario approach her, she wondered if this was what deja vu felt like. This was eerily like what had occurred with Ericka only moments before. Rolling her eyes to the side, she could see where her gun had landed when she fell. Stretching, her fingertips brushed the stock but she was unable to find purchase on the smooth metal. The reach for the gun set off another round of violent coughs.
All that stood between them was a few more shootings, a handful of shots, and they could be together. She wouldn't even have to shoot them all herself. If she took care of Ivan or Ilario, then Kimberly could handle whoever was left. And after that....
After that, Reiko would do what was necessary to be with Sarah again. A semblance of a plan in place, she hesitated and took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
Someone punched her in the back. It was hard enough to knock the wind out of her lungs and send her falling. As she started to topple, her hands coming up to break her fall, all she could think of was how did I not see them?
A second punch slammed into her lower jaw. Bright stars exploded in front of her eyes as she hit the dirt, her lower jaw numb and her cheek uncomfortably and oddly hot. Half-curled around herself in the dirt she struggled for her gun, but couldn't seem to make her fingers work properly. There were tears running down her cheeks that she was only dimly aware of. Or was that cheek? She could feel hot liquid coursing down her face and dripping steadily into the dirt. That couldn't be right. Could it?
And then the pain hit. Pain so bad it wasn't even really pain, just something white-hot and incomprehensible. Her face was on fire, her jaw radiating agony into every surrounding nerve from the ragged hole she was suddenly all too aware of. The bullet -- because it must have been a bullet -- had exited through her cheek. It burned where the air touched it, and she knew without seeing that the side of her face had been ripped open. Destroyed. She sucked in air to scream and coughed instead, a wracking, retching cough that bent her head almost the earth below and tasted like blood. Although to be fair, a hysterically rational part of her pointed out, everything tasted like blood now.
Instinctively, she raised a trembling hand to her face and pressed against the wound. Screaming at the flood of pain the action caused, Reiko jerked her palm away as she thrashed and writhed on the ground. It was almost more than she could bear.
She called for her mother, then Sarah, desperately wishing that they could come help her. As the memory of Sarah's smiling face tripped across her mind, a horrifying thought crept in its wake. Sarah...my face...there's a hole in my face. What will Sarah think of me with this gaping hole in my face?
Would Sarah ever be able to look at her the same? She was disfigured now, deformed. When people looked at her, they wouldn't see a survivor. All the would see would be the scars and lines. She would be an object of pity. And what would Sarah think?
With enough time, everything that had happened to them could be put behind them. They would be able to move on and build a new life together. But now? With a hideous hole in her face, how would Sarah be able to look at her and not remember everything? How would she be able to look at herself in the mirror?
The unmistakable sound of a footfall caught her attention. Spurred to action, Reiko planted her hands on the ground and pushed. A hard cough wracked her as she tried to get up, sending her prone again. Something ground in her chest as she hacked, spittle flying from her mouth in a fine spray. Struggling to catch her breath, Reiko managed to turn her head towards the sound.
As she watched Ilario approach her, she wondered if this was what deja vu felt like. This was eerily like what had occurred with Ericka only moments before. Rolling her eyes to the side, she could see where her gun had landed when she fell. Stretching, her fingertips brushed the stock but she was unable to find purchase on the smooth metal. The reach for the gun set off another round of violent coughs.
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
The gun kicked in Ilario's hands, the smell of cordite filled the air, and Reiko fell. A series of events so quick and so simple that in Ilario's head they unspooled almost like a children's book, a series of statements and easy pictures. The recoil of the gun landing on old bruises. A sharp smell that went perfectly with the sound of the shots. A girl in front of him in a crumpled heap on the ground, so small and so fragile she looked almost like a doll. He knew he'd hit her at least once and thought both bullets might have found their targets. There was certainly blood that he could see.
It was strange. He could feel the place inside of him where remorse should have lived, nestled close to guilt and anxiety, but they seemed to be missing. Or closed off, at least, locked away somewhere he couldn't quite reach them. Instead he was calm. It was...good, he thought. Surprisingly good. It allowed him to do his job after all. And there was no pleasure in it. There had never been pleasure in it, that would be wrong, but there was...satisfaction, maybe. A job well done. A good deed.
And then Reiko jerked, and screamed, and the scream went on all hoarse and bubbling and catching in great huge coughs that sounded as though she was drowning on the inside. The scream wormed its way into his ears and he winced, shrunk back for a moment, every nerve screaming at him to run away and remove himself from the sight. But he couldn't. He was transfixed by the sight of her broken body and destroyed face. He had done that. He couldn't run from his own fingers on the trigger.
So he wouldn't.
He took a breath instead, deep and full of gunsmoke and blood, smooth in his lungs where Reiko's was ragged and painful. He had to see this through to the end, he knew. He couldn't leave her there, scared and in pain and dying slowly. He couldn't leave her alone. Not at the end. For all she had done, no one deserved that.
His footsteps were soft as he approached, but she heard anyway. He watched her reach for her gun and fail, unable to force her fingers into action. He still kicked it away as he circled around to face her properly. Time and time again, he'd been taught not to be careless, and here on this island more than anything else. He wouldn't let it all end with a bullet from a dying girl. He knelt and leaned back on his heels unmindful of the blood. His clothing had been ruined for days now and anyway, he thought, it was his blood as well. He'd been the one to shed it.
He reached out, fingers just grazing her undamaged cheek. She jerked away and her mouth moved, something which could have been words lost and garbled as she spat blood instead of sound. That was okay. He settled with a hand on her shoulder. It tacky with drying crimson splatters but she couldn't squirm away from him.
He met her eyes. They were wide and impossible to read, tears making them larger and brighter than he'd ever seen, even with her glasses. She blinked rapidly. Shook under his touch.
"I'm sorry," he told her, and was surprised to find that it was the truth. He hadn't always been sorry. Had he? He couldn't be certain. The world blended now, and he had begun to think that his memory was not always true to life. So much of what had happened was just a blur of exhaustion and pain and sharp too-clear images of guns and faces he'd never see again. But here, now, he was sorry. "I really am. But you have to understand, it was for the best. You know what you did." Absently, he brushed a hand down her cheek again, ignoring her flinch. "I was chosen for this. And you made your own choices." He stroked sticky clumps of hair with one hand, his other creeping down towards the gun. Not many bullets left, now, but still enough. God had provided. He brought it up gently, removing his hand from her face and settling his fingers along the trigger.
"But it's okay. I'll make it easier." He leveled it easily at her head. Her eyes widened, mouth gaping. She struggled to speak and the noises that emerged were like his sisters talking into their pillows because they didn't want to face him, words thick and impossible to understand. Bright red mixed with froth coursed from her lips, and he shook his head, wanting desperately to touch her one last time and offer her that little bit of comfort and forgiveness before the end.
But his hands were occupied. And forgiveness was not up to him. "I'm sorry," he said again. "This is how it has to be."
Her eyes were still wide and mouth still working in words he'd never understand when he pulled the trigger.
It was strange. He could feel the place inside of him where remorse should have lived, nestled close to guilt and anxiety, but they seemed to be missing. Or closed off, at least, locked away somewhere he couldn't quite reach them. Instead he was calm. It was...good, he thought. Surprisingly good. It allowed him to do his job after all. And there was no pleasure in it. There had never been pleasure in it, that would be wrong, but there was...satisfaction, maybe. A job well done. A good deed.
And then Reiko jerked, and screamed, and the scream went on all hoarse and bubbling and catching in great huge coughs that sounded as though she was drowning on the inside. The scream wormed its way into his ears and he winced, shrunk back for a moment, every nerve screaming at him to run away and remove himself from the sight. But he couldn't. He was transfixed by the sight of her broken body and destroyed face. He had done that. He couldn't run from his own fingers on the trigger.
So he wouldn't.
He took a breath instead, deep and full of gunsmoke and blood, smooth in his lungs where Reiko's was ragged and painful. He had to see this through to the end, he knew. He couldn't leave her there, scared and in pain and dying slowly. He couldn't leave her alone. Not at the end. For all she had done, no one deserved that.
His footsteps were soft as he approached, but she heard anyway. He watched her reach for her gun and fail, unable to force her fingers into action. He still kicked it away as he circled around to face her properly. Time and time again, he'd been taught not to be careless, and here on this island more than anything else. He wouldn't let it all end with a bullet from a dying girl. He knelt and leaned back on his heels unmindful of the blood. His clothing had been ruined for days now and anyway, he thought, it was his blood as well. He'd been the one to shed it.
He reached out, fingers just grazing her undamaged cheek. She jerked away and her mouth moved, something which could have been words lost and garbled as she spat blood instead of sound. That was okay. He settled with a hand on her shoulder. It tacky with drying crimson splatters but she couldn't squirm away from him.
He met her eyes. They were wide and impossible to read, tears making them larger and brighter than he'd ever seen, even with her glasses. She blinked rapidly. Shook under his touch.
"I'm sorry," he told her, and was surprised to find that it was the truth. He hadn't always been sorry. Had he? He couldn't be certain. The world blended now, and he had begun to think that his memory was not always true to life. So much of what had happened was just a blur of exhaustion and pain and sharp too-clear images of guns and faces he'd never see again. But here, now, he was sorry. "I really am. But you have to understand, it was for the best. You know what you did." Absently, he brushed a hand down her cheek again, ignoring her flinch. "I was chosen for this. And you made your own choices." He stroked sticky clumps of hair with one hand, his other creeping down towards the gun. Not many bullets left, now, but still enough. God had provided. He brought it up gently, removing his hand from her face and settling his fingers along the trigger.
"But it's okay. I'll make it easier." He leveled it easily at her head. Her eyes widened, mouth gaping. She struggled to speak and the noises that emerged were like his sisters talking into their pillows because they didn't want to face him, words thick and impossible to understand. Bright red mixed with froth coursed from her lips, and he shook his head, wanting desperately to touch her one last time and offer her that little bit of comfort and forgiveness before the end.
But his hands were occupied. And forgiveness was not up to him. "I'm sorry," he said again. "This is how it has to be."
Her eyes were still wide and mouth still working in words he'd never understand when he pulled the trigger.
Reiko jerked when Ilario put his hand on her face. Given everything that had happened, she had not expected him to be so gentle with her. If their places were reversed, she was not sure that she would have shown him the same.
Each touch of his hand was a special kind of torture. Despite what he was saying, despite all his talk of being sorry and making this easier, all he was doing was prolonging the inevitable. It was cruel, dragging this out under the pretext of civility and mercy. All of the finalists knew that the point of this game was to display nature, red in tooth and claw. What kind of sick game was he playing?
Ilario leveled the gun at her, forcing her breath to come in gasps. It couldn't end like this. She had to go home. There were people waiting for her. Sarah was waiting for her. After everything, after Reika, after all the death and destruction, only to get this close to salvation. It couldn't end like this.
"Sarah, I'm sorry. I love you. Remember that I love you." Reiko refused to break eye contact with Ilario. She refused to make this any easier on him. She hoped he knew what he was doing. How many people's lives he was destroying by doing this. When he started again with how sorry he was, she tried to gather together enough fluid to spit at him.
Damn him and his apologies.
Distantly, she heard the crack of a gunshot.
Damn him to hell.
G013 REIKO ISHIDA: DECEASED
Each touch of his hand was a special kind of torture. Despite what he was saying, despite all his talk of being sorry and making this easier, all he was doing was prolonging the inevitable. It was cruel, dragging this out under the pretext of civility and mercy. All of the finalists knew that the point of this game was to display nature, red in tooth and claw. What kind of sick game was he playing?
Ilario leveled the gun at her, forcing her breath to come in gasps. It couldn't end like this. She had to go home. There were people waiting for her. Sarah was waiting for her. After everything, after Reika, after all the death and destruction, only to get this close to salvation. It couldn't end like this.
"Sarah, I'm sorry. I love you. Remember that I love you." Reiko refused to break eye contact with Ilario. She refused to make this any easier on him. She hoped he knew what he was doing. How many people's lives he was destroying by doing this. When he started again with how sorry he was, she tried to gather together enough fluid to spit at him.
Damn him and his apologies.
Distantly, she heard the crack of a gunshot.
Damn him to hell.
G013 REIKO ISHIDA: DECEASED
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 2256
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
He had to admit he had been taken by surprise for a moment. In his overly cautious approach towards the building from which the noises had come, Ivan had put too much of his focus ahead. In doing so, he had let somebody approach him from off to the side. The whistle, which came first, had only startled him. The words that followed from the girl's mouth, they taunted him.
While his arms held the shotgun exactly where it was before he had been confronted, Ivan slowly turned his head towards the girl that had approached him and saw Kimberly Nguyen. Good girl, sensible girl; somehow, he wasn't all that surprised that she had made it this far. Then again, anybody who had made it this far had thrown away some part of themselves in order to remain amongst the living. Supposing that theory was correct, what had Kimberly sacrificed to count herself part of the luck few?
She held a gun in her hands. Just what kind of gun it was, Ivan could never be sure. He didn't do guns. He had never even held a gun before he was forced to point it at somebody and pull the trigger. He thought back to when that was, who the first person he ever shot was. Keith... he had beaten Keith to death. That meant Imraan was the first, and Aaron was the only other person. Both of them had driven Ivan to the brink until he had no other choice, both times to protect himself and...
Only the second time he protected nobody.
He pushed it out of his head, but Kimberly's taunts returned to him. That almost amused Ivan actually; he could remember his mother saying many things to him. A lot of the time she spoke, it was on the court moreso than off. She was never really known for saying a lot of things to him or anybody else if it wasn't necessary... like mother like son, he supposed. Whatever the case, though, he was pretty sure his mother had never lectured him on sneaking up behind others. That sort of shit was Louis's bag anyway, not his. Actually, that brought him to his next point - where the fuck did she get off lecturing other people on sneaking around when she had just snuck up on him? Was that irony intentional? Ivan didn't care to find out.
For an indeterminate amount of time, maybe three seconds or maybe ten, the two of them had been looking at each other, each of them holding a gun. Ivan's was pointed where he intended to walk, but Kimberly's gun was pointed directly at him. She had been nice and clever in her words, sure, but she hadn't followed them up with anything. What was she waiting for? Ivan realized she had the perfect chance to shoot him and yet she hadn't taken it. If this was one of those 'Mexican standoff' things where people point guns at each other and stare for a long time like in the movies, then Ivan had to say he didn't buy into that.
He even remembered asking Louis at one point, 'why don't they just shoot each other' when he was suckered into watching some action flick with him on the couch. To his memory, his little brother could only reply by shoving popcorn into his mouth and returning some unintelligible answer thanks to the chunks of popped corn spraying about. If even Louis couldn't come up with some half-baked answer to such a stupid concept, then Ivan wasn't going to waste any more time on it. Kimberly wanted to point her gun at him? Well, that was just fine to him. His was bigger.
He smirked, maybe from his actions or maybe from the memories, and turned the shotgun to face her. As quick as it had appeared, the smirk wiped itself from his face and he pulled the trigger.
While his arms held the shotgun exactly where it was before he had been confronted, Ivan slowly turned his head towards the girl that had approached him and saw Kimberly Nguyen. Good girl, sensible girl; somehow, he wasn't all that surprised that she had made it this far. Then again, anybody who had made it this far had thrown away some part of themselves in order to remain amongst the living. Supposing that theory was correct, what had Kimberly sacrificed to count herself part of the luck few?
She held a gun in her hands. Just what kind of gun it was, Ivan could never be sure. He didn't do guns. He had never even held a gun before he was forced to point it at somebody and pull the trigger. He thought back to when that was, who the first person he ever shot was. Keith... he had beaten Keith to death. That meant Imraan was the first, and Aaron was the only other person. Both of them had driven Ivan to the brink until he had no other choice, both times to protect himself and...
Only the second time he protected nobody.
He pushed it out of his head, but Kimberly's taunts returned to him. That almost amused Ivan actually; he could remember his mother saying many things to him. A lot of the time she spoke, it was on the court moreso than off. She was never really known for saying a lot of things to him or anybody else if it wasn't necessary... like mother like son, he supposed. Whatever the case, though, he was pretty sure his mother had never lectured him on sneaking up behind others. That sort of shit was Louis's bag anyway, not his. Actually, that brought him to his next point - where the fuck did she get off lecturing other people on sneaking around when she had just snuck up on him? Was that irony intentional? Ivan didn't care to find out.
For an indeterminate amount of time, maybe three seconds or maybe ten, the two of them had been looking at each other, each of them holding a gun. Ivan's was pointed where he intended to walk, but Kimberly's gun was pointed directly at him. She had been nice and clever in her words, sure, but she hadn't followed them up with anything. What was she waiting for? Ivan realized she had the perfect chance to shoot him and yet she hadn't taken it. If this was one of those 'Mexican standoff' things where people point guns at each other and stare for a long time like in the movies, then Ivan had to say he didn't buy into that.
He even remembered asking Louis at one point, 'why don't they just shoot each other' when he was suckered into watching some action flick with him on the couch. To his memory, his little brother could only reply by shoving popcorn into his mouth and returning some unintelligible answer thanks to the chunks of popped corn spraying about. If even Louis couldn't come up with some half-baked answer to such a stupid concept, then Ivan wasn't going to waste any more time on it. Kimberly wanted to point her gun at him? Well, that was just fine to him. His was bigger.
He smirked, maybe from his actions or maybe from the memories, and turned the shotgun to face her. As quick as it had appeared, the smirk wiped itself from his face and he pulled the trigger.
V8 Characters:
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
-
Grand Moff Hissa
- Posts: 2754
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
For a time, the moment lasted. It stretched, and Kimberly thought that maybe it would stick and things would all be fine. Maybe Ivan would just back down in some manner. Maybe he would lower his rifle and offer to wander off and fuck someone else up instead. Maybe she could strike a truce with each of the others, somehow, and not have to worry about anything until right at the end. Maybe there would be a happy ending after all.
It was nothing but a dream, of course. This late in the game, it seemed everyone was playing for keeps. She didn't know if she'd been expecting Ivan to be an exception. She didn't know if she'd held some sort of unconscious prejudice, some odd suspicion that anyone who could care deeply enough about someone else to merit taunting on the announcements wouldn't be tough enough to be willing to escalate a situation. Perhaps some last little drop of optimism had escaped being wrung out of her in her time on the island.
Before Ivan fired, though, Kimberly knew. She saw it in his eyes a split second before he even started to move. Kimberly had been on the wrong end of guns many times in her stay on the island, but she had been fired upon only twice. The second time, with Brook, she'd been too busy running to really appreciate the moment. With Kris, on the other hand, Kimberly had seen and felt it all unfold. She'd known then, too, that things had gotten serious.
Back on the beach, she'd still been pretending, and Kris had already had her gun at the ready. Here, neither of those factors were present. Kimberly wasn't all that strong or fast or tough in any physical way, but she had damn fine reflexes. The finger of her good hand, the one supporting the gun, instinctively tightened on the trigger with absolutely no result, even as she was spinning on her heel and running. In the end, it was probably the shitty traction on her boots that saved her life, as she slid and stumbled and lurched out of control and heard the crack of gunfire behind her. She'd moved in time, had dropped her profile low enough and moved unpredictably enough, that she was not caught in the spread of shot.
Of course, she wasn't completely without troubles. The sudden movement had wrenched her bad shoulder again, and it was hurting like a bitch. Things hadn't felt this nasty in days. She was off balance, scrambling for purchase with her feet, flailing her good arm and trying not to fall, panicking and hoping that her life wasn't about to end in a spray of blood and bullets.
She made it back around the corner of the building. The entire process, from the time she had realized that things were going to go bad to the present moment, had taken less than two seconds. Ivan would probably be after her. He would want her dead. Everyone wanted her dead now. It was just more naïvety to think otherwise. She knew way, way too much for that now. She was scared, terrified. She fucking hated this.
She didn't slow down. For once, Kimberly was at a total fucking loss as to how to turn this situation around and regain control of things. She had a shitty fake gun and a couple Molotovs and a lighter and only one good hand to juggle them all. She almost regretted not trying to light Ivan up, but the thought of him screaming, of flesh burning, of him not having a chance to even fight back or maybe of him emerging disfigured and livid from the flames like some monster in a bad movie, that was all too much, too awful. She didn't want that. She didn't want any of this.
All she wanted was to get away, to breathe and calm down and pull her composure back together. Maybe that was why she kept clinging to the house's wall, making her way towards the door. Maybe it was just one of the last vestigial pieces of her social conditioning. Houses were base when you played tag. Houses were warm havens in those cold Minnesota winters. Houses were cookies and blankets and safety.
She reached the door, sure she could still hear Ivan behind her.
If it was locked, she knew she was fucked.
It was nothing but a dream, of course. This late in the game, it seemed everyone was playing for keeps. She didn't know if she'd been expecting Ivan to be an exception. She didn't know if she'd held some sort of unconscious prejudice, some odd suspicion that anyone who could care deeply enough about someone else to merit taunting on the announcements wouldn't be tough enough to be willing to escalate a situation. Perhaps some last little drop of optimism had escaped being wrung out of her in her time on the island.
Before Ivan fired, though, Kimberly knew. She saw it in his eyes a split second before he even started to move. Kimberly had been on the wrong end of guns many times in her stay on the island, but she had been fired upon only twice. The second time, with Brook, she'd been too busy running to really appreciate the moment. With Kris, on the other hand, Kimberly had seen and felt it all unfold. She'd known then, too, that things had gotten serious.
Back on the beach, she'd still been pretending, and Kris had already had her gun at the ready. Here, neither of those factors were present. Kimberly wasn't all that strong or fast or tough in any physical way, but she had damn fine reflexes. The finger of her good hand, the one supporting the gun, instinctively tightened on the trigger with absolutely no result, even as she was spinning on her heel and running. In the end, it was probably the shitty traction on her boots that saved her life, as she slid and stumbled and lurched out of control and heard the crack of gunfire behind her. She'd moved in time, had dropped her profile low enough and moved unpredictably enough, that she was not caught in the spread of shot.
Of course, she wasn't completely without troubles. The sudden movement had wrenched her bad shoulder again, and it was hurting like a bitch. Things hadn't felt this nasty in days. She was off balance, scrambling for purchase with her feet, flailing her good arm and trying not to fall, panicking and hoping that her life wasn't about to end in a spray of blood and bullets.
She made it back around the corner of the building. The entire process, from the time she had realized that things were going to go bad to the present moment, had taken less than two seconds. Ivan would probably be after her. He would want her dead. Everyone wanted her dead now. It was just more naïvety to think otherwise. She knew way, way too much for that now. She was scared, terrified. She fucking hated this.
She didn't slow down. For once, Kimberly was at a total fucking loss as to how to turn this situation around and regain control of things. She had a shitty fake gun and a couple Molotovs and a lighter and only one good hand to juggle them all. She almost regretted not trying to light Ivan up, but the thought of him screaming, of flesh burning, of him not having a chance to even fight back or maybe of him emerging disfigured and livid from the flames like some monster in a bad movie, that was all too much, too awful. She didn't want that. She didn't want any of this.
All she wanted was to get away, to breathe and calm down and pull her composure back together. Maybe that was why she kept clinging to the house's wall, making her way towards the door. Maybe it was just one of the last vestigial pieces of her social conditioning. Houses were base when you played tag. Houses were warm havens in those cold Minnesota winters. Houses were cookies and blankets and safety.
She reached the door, sure she could still hear Ivan behind her.
If it was locked, she knew she was fucked.
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 2256
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Thanks in no small part to sheer dumb luck, Ivan had missed the shot. For some reason, his finger couldn't bear to hold the trigger in place, letting the next shot fire off and decimate the girl who was now fleeing. She had every opportunity to fire back at him, and she hadn't. For what purpose her entire little stand-off was suppose to serve, he didn't know and now he'd probably never have the opportunity to find out. It was possible had made a mistake, that he might have just shattered a potential...
No. He couldn't afford to see anybody else here as an ally, not now. Not anymore. The gun probably wasn't even loaded, and she was just using it to try and stick him up for one of his weapons. Maybe she even intended to kill him and was just trying to be dramatic about it, and the gun jammed. There were many explanations for why he did not die just then, and none of them were out of the kindness of Kimberly's heart. It wasn't out of malice on his own part that he was attacking her, but there was nothing else they could do. The price of freedom, and of life, was blood.
He took long and fast strides, as much as his legs would allow, around the corner of the building where he last saw Kimberly. He followed wide just in case she had positioned herself around the corner, but when he saw that she didn't, he hastened his steps. She was right there, fumbling with the door and trying to let herself in. He, on the other hand, was the silent pursuer who approached with the shotgun raised once more.
Had he something to say, he would say it. Somehow, he didn't think there was much conversation to be shared between the two of them. There was no telling just how many of them were left at this point besides himself and Kimberly, but Ivan was willing to bet that the other three couldn't possibly be dead just yet. If he was going to take care of this, he needed to be fast.
Yet once again, he did not fire right away. Something about this wasn't right. He had killed three people, but none of those situations had been quite like this. Now Kimberly was trying to run from him, clearly afraid. He felt like the bad guy, the aggressor. Well, he couldn't be anything else; 'good guy' was a term that no longer applied, and it hadn't for quite some time. Not when the last good people were now dead. Ivan struggled with the dead weight in his hand to pull the trigger again and managed, but the hesitation was sure to cost him.
No. He couldn't afford to see anybody else here as an ally, not now. Not anymore. The gun probably wasn't even loaded, and she was just using it to try and stick him up for one of his weapons. Maybe she even intended to kill him and was just trying to be dramatic about it, and the gun jammed. There were many explanations for why he did not die just then, and none of them were out of the kindness of Kimberly's heart. It wasn't out of malice on his own part that he was attacking her, but there was nothing else they could do. The price of freedom, and of life, was blood.
He took long and fast strides, as much as his legs would allow, around the corner of the building where he last saw Kimberly. He followed wide just in case she had positioned herself around the corner, but when he saw that she didn't, he hastened his steps. She was right there, fumbling with the door and trying to let herself in. He, on the other hand, was the silent pursuer who approached with the shotgun raised once more.
Had he something to say, he would say it. Somehow, he didn't think there was much conversation to be shared between the two of them. There was no telling just how many of them were left at this point besides himself and Kimberly, but Ivan was willing to bet that the other three couldn't possibly be dead just yet. If he was going to take care of this, he needed to be fast.
Yet once again, he did not fire right away. Something about this wasn't right. He had killed three people, but none of those situations had been quite like this. Now Kimberly was trying to run from him, clearly afraid. He felt like the bad guy, the aggressor. Well, he couldn't be anything else; 'good guy' was a term that no longer applied, and it hadn't for quite some time. Not when the last good people were now dead. Ivan struggled with the dead weight in his hand to pull the trigger again and managed, but the hesitation was sure to cost him.
V8 Characters:
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
-
Grand Moff Hissa
- Posts: 2754
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
Kimberly was panting, panicking, trying to manage the fake gun and the door handle (and thank fuck it was one of those handles where you pushed down to open the door. A knob would've killed her) with just her good hand. Ivan was coming. He was behind her, closing in for the kill, and she was trapped, forced to hope the door was unlocked if she wanted even a chance. How had her life spiraled so far out of hand? What had gone wrong?
Those questions could wait. Luck was with her. She got her grip right and shoved, stumbling inside and immediately ducking to the right. She swung the door back, thinking to close it and put some space between herself and Ivan, but a spray of shot tore through it, sending splinters of wood in all directions. Kimberly shrieked and hated herself for it. She shouldn't be scared, shouldn't be reduced to this. She was no victim, no defenseless invalid. She was here by her own choice, and she would fucking deal with the consequences of her actions. She had not yet run into trouble she couldn't work her way out of. She just needed a little more space and time.
She kept moving. The foyer branched left and right. She'd gone right at the start, and changing directions now would mean crossing in front of the open door again, giving Ivan a clear shot at her. No. No way. Fuck Ivan. If he wanted to make trouble for her, if he wanted so badly to kill her, that was his problem. Her concern was making it as hard for him as possible. That was something she could still do, even as she tried to get a start on the longer-term goal of staying alive. Kimberly didn't want to kill the boy who was chasing her, but that did not mean she wasn't prepared to do all she could to make his life hellish in retaliation for his acts. He was making her mad again. She didn't really blame him for his actions, but this whole thing was pissing her off again. Some of the fire that had lurked around the concept of Kris was being rekindled and repurposed.
There were a few little problems, though. The direction she'd taken led into a hallway. It was fairly straight, with doors on the left and right, all closed, maybe leading to rooms. Any of those rooms could be a dead end. The house was fairly spacious, wood-paneled and carpeted and nice. It cold have been homey at some point. Now, Kimberly wondered if she had backed herself into a trap. At the end of the hallway was the foot of a staircase, leading up to the second floor. It, too, most likely led to a dead end, but at least it was one a few dozen feet beyond those promised by the doors. At this point, even extra seconds of life were worth fighting for.
She ran. Ivan was still following, she was sure, but she reached the staircase quickly and it ran perpendicular to the hall, so a wall shielded her from further gunfire. That would last seconds. The staircase did not swerve again. It was a straight shot to the second level. If she didn't hurry, she'd be pinned in, unable to maneuver at all. That meant death. Even with all the concerns on her mind, Kimberly dimly noticed that the staircase was very narrow, probably poorly designed and unsafe even in better times. She didn't slow down. Better to die after tripping than to die due to being too cautious.
It was when she was halfway up the stairs that Kimberly realized Ivan would be forced to follow the same path in pursuing her. He'd be stuck, too. She didn't have a gun. She didn't need one. Never had yet, probably never would. The fake fell from her hand as she reached into her too-small hip pocket, searching for the little plastic lighter from the first aid kit. She found it, pulled it free three steps from the top. Kimberly had never liked lighters. No fucking class. Now, she'd take what she could. It had been a stupid choice to throw her matches away, but she could cope.
The Molotov cocktail was still there, still nestled in her sweater's handwarmer. It had maybe leaked a little bit, had maybe been jolted and jostled quite a lot during the game, but she was pretty sure it'd still burn nicely enough. Having only one hand made setting things up a real bitch, especially with a boy with a shotgun behind her. It was gonna be close. She hoped she wouldn't have to set herself on fire to get it done, but, hey, sometimes sacrifices had to be made. She had a way to back Ivan off. That was enough for her in the moment.
One flick of the lighter's wheel: nothing.
A second flick: sparks, a flame. She was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. It was darker in here, much darker without the stars, except that now there was a flame in her hand. Was that the barrel of Ivan's gun she saw at the corner at the foot of the stairs? Was that his hand? She touched the lighter's flame to the fuse of the Molotov, then dropped the lighter and clawed the incendiary free. The rag in the top was burning really fucking fast. No time to play around. No time to decide. Ivan was rounding the corner. She didn't want to kill him. She wanted him to leave her the fuck alone. She wanted him to back off. He hadn't been too reckless so far, hadn't been abnormally ferocious. She was willing to bet he wasn't all crazy.
Certainly, she doubted he was crazy enough to run through a fire just to get another chance at killing her. She doubted he was crazy enough to gamble that he could outpace a bomb.
Kimberly dropped the Molotov, gave it a little kick to get it rolling, watched it bounce down the steps, spilling gasoline which ignited instantly, tracing a line of flame along the carpet which was now catching too. She ducked back, around yet another corner, not waiting to see the further results of her actions. At this point, she just didn't care.
Those questions could wait. Luck was with her. She got her grip right and shoved, stumbling inside and immediately ducking to the right. She swung the door back, thinking to close it and put some space between herself and Ivan, but a spray of shot tore through it, sending splinters of wood in all directions. Kimberly shrieked and hated herself for it. She shouldn't be scared, shouldn't be reduced to this. She was no victim, no defenseless invalid. She was here by her own choice, and she would fucking deal with the consequences of her actions. She had not yet run into trouble she couldn't work her way out of. She just needed a little more space and time.
She kept moving. The foyer branched left and right. She'd gone right at the start, and changing directions now would mean crossing in front of the open door again, giving Ivan a clear shot at her. No. No way. Fuck Ivan. If he wanted to make trouble for her, if he wanted so badly to kill her, that was his problem. Her concern was making it as hard for him as possible. That was something she could still do, even as she tried to get a start on the longer-term goal of staying alive. Kimberly didn't want to kill the boy who was chasing her, but that did not mean she wasn't prepared to do all she could to make his life hellish in retaliation for his acts. He was making her mad again. She didn't really blame him for his actions, but this whole thing was pissing her off again. Some of the fire that had lurked around the concept of Kris was being rekindled and repurposed.
There were a few little problems, though. The direction she'd taken led into a hallway. It was fairly straight, with doors on the left and right, all closed, maybe leading to rooms. Any of those rooms could be a dead end. The house was fairly spacious, wood-paneled and carpeted and nice. It cold have been homey at some point. Now, Kimberly wondered if she had backed herself into a trap. At the end of the hallway was the foot of a staircase, leading up to the second floor. It, too, most likely led to a dead end, but at least it was one a few dozen feet beyond those promised by the doors. At this point, even extra seconds of life were worth fighting for.
She ran. Ivan was still following, she was sure, but she reached the staircase quickly and it ran perpendicular to the hall, so a wall shielded her from further gunfire. That would last seconds. The staircase did not swerve again. It was a straight shot to the second level. If she didn't hurry, she'd be pinned in, unable to maneuver at all. That meant death. Even with all the concerns on her mind, Kimberly dimly noticed that the staircase was very narrow, probably poorly designed and unsafe even in better times. She didn't slow down. Better to die after tripping than to die due to being too cautious.
It was when she was halfway up the stairs that Kimberly realized Ivan would be forced to follow the same path in pursuing her. He'd be stuck, too. She didn't have a gun. She didn't need one. Never had yet, probably never would. The fake fell from her hand as she reached into her too-small hip pocket, searching for the little plastic lighter from the first aid kit. She found it, pulled it free three steps from the top. Kimberly had never liked lighters. No fucking class. Now, she'd take what she could. It had been a stupid choice to throw her matches away, but she could cope.
The Molotov cocktail was still there, still nestled in her sweater's handwarmer. It had maybe leaked a little bit, had maybe been jolted and jostled quite a lot during the game, but she was pretty sure it'd still burn nicely enough. Having only one hand made setting things up a real bitch, especially with a boy with a shotgun behind her. It was gonna be close. She hoped she wouldn't have to set herself on fire to get it done, but, hey, sometimes sacrifices had to be made. She had a way to back Ivan off. That was enough for her in the moment.
One flick of the lighter's wheel: nothing.
A second flick: sparks, a flame. She was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. It was darker in here, much darker without the stars, except that now there was a flame in her hand. Was that the barrel of Ivan's gun she saw at the corner at the foot of the stairs? Was that his hand? She touched the lighter's flame to the fuse of the Molotov, then dropped the lighter and clawed the incendiary free. The rag in the top was burning really fucking fast. No time to play around. No time to decide. Ivan was rounding the corner. She didn't want to kill him. She wanted him to leave her the fuck alone. She wanted him to back off. He hadn't been too reckless so far, hadn't been abnormally ferocious. She was willing to bet he wasn't all crazy.
Certainly, she doubted he was crazy enough to run through a fire just to get another chance at killing her. She doubted he was crazy enough to gamble that he could outpace a bomb.
Kimberly dropped the Molotov, gave it a little kick to get it rolling, watched it bounce down the steps, spilling gasoline which ignited instantly, tracing a line of flame along the carpet which was now catching too. She ducked back, around yet another corner, not waiting to see the further results of her actions. At this point, she just didn't care.
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
Ilario remained crouched next to the body for long moments after he pulled the trigger. What had once been Reiko Ishida and was now just some earthly shell lay sprawled at an odd angle, face crumpled and disfigured. Bone, blood, and brain formed a halo around dark hair and spread out in a silent wave as he watched. It was reminiscent of Rhory in some ways. But messier. The shot had destroyed a large portion of her upper face, and with the lower face already mangled she barely resembled a human being anymore. Just some strange arrangement of parts all locked together with a soul. In God's own image, he knew, but it all seemed so...messy.
His reverie was interrupted by gunshots, loud and quick. They were almost directly beside him -- or sounded like it -- and he cursed himself for being so lost in his own thoughts he'd forgotten that there were still people out there. He scrambled for the AK-47, leaving Reiko's gun behind with her body. He wouldn't loot the dead. Not here, not now. Not after everything. Maybe wherever she was now, it would bring her some comfort. His own comfort was the semiautomatic at his side and the knowledge that there were only two left.
Almost home.
He moved slowly and carefully out from between the alleyway. Ahead of him he could see an open door and the silhouette of someone inside -- a man, he thought, Ivan -- and there was something wrong with the light. There was something strange going on in front of Ivan. Something strange going on with the stairs, the walls, a smell that was oddly familiar and noises like...
Burning.
The house was burning. Perspective clicked into place and he saw the whole picture, the stairs and walls aflame with Ivan standing in front, gun in hand, framed in red and orange and leaping sparks like the entrance to hell itself. Was Kimberly in there? Was she burning? It didn't matter. It couldn't matter. It was perfect.
Two steps forwards, almost running, and the gun came up.
His reverie was interrupted by gunshots, loud and quick. They were almost directly beside him -- or sounded like it -- and he cursed himself for being so lost in his own thoughts he'd forgotten that there were still people out there. He scrambled for the AK-47, leaving Reiko's gun behind with her body. He wouldn't loot the dead. Not here, not now. Not after everything. Maybe wherever she was now, it would bring her some comfort. His own comfort was the semiautomatic at his side and the knowledge that there were only two left.
Almost home.
He moved slowly and carefully out from between the alleyway. Ahead of him he could see an open door and the silhouette of someone inside -- a man, he thought, Ivan -- and there was something wrong with the light. There was something strange going on in front of Ivan. Something strange going on with the stairs, the walls, a smell that was oddly familiar and noises like...
Burning.
The house was burning. Perspective clicked into place and he saw the whole picture, the stairs and walls aflame with Ivan standing in front, gun in hand, framed in red and orange and leaping sparks like the entrance to hell itself. Was Kimberly in there? Was she burning? It didn't matter. It couldn't matter. It was perfect.
Two steps forwards, almost running, and the gun came up.
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 2256
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Kimberly had gotten away. Despite his relentless pursuit and the shots he took, his target remained unharmed. It was a clever move, finding a choke point and trailing fire along it. The girl wasn't exactly expected to be carrying a molotov cocktail, but it seemed she had found a way to use the tool defensively. She couldn't possibly be followed through the flames, lest anybody want to have their clothes and skin scorched, possibly being burnt alive.
Ivan fought the soreness building up in his body in order to turn away from the inferno, and that's when he was met with the rapid approach of another guy. Ilario... that was the only other male left aside from Ivan himself. There was no time to muse over the fact that he finally decided to join the party, because guns were being raised. Ivan raised his shotgun, the discretion in pointing at another human being far lost in his mind. As the intense heat of the flames warmed his back and the flickering light cast a shadow over his face, he pulled the trigger.
No... Ilario's draw was too fast. Ivan lurched to the right in a panic, causing his own shot to launch harmlessly into the wall just a few feet to the right. He couldn't let himself panic, not this close to the end. Ivan tried, though in vain, to quell the very human emotions trying to swell out of him and force him to act in a primal fashion. His head was the only thing that kept him alive so far and if he lost it, he was dead.
Shots had already been fired, it was probably a little late to try talking. Not like talking was going to do anybody any good in terms of stopping the fighting, as only one of them could survive to see the end of the day. Only one of them had a future, as broken and paved with blood as that road might be. Still, it would help calm Ivan down, and if Ilario was willing to oblige...
"Hey..." Ivan's panting caused his voice to be raspy. "... where the hell are the other two!?" The Pancor jackhammer remained at the ready, though not pointed at Ily... yet. All it would take was a joint effort, a small twitch of two wrists to bring the shotgun in line with the boy, and Ivan could liquify his guts.
Just keep talking... let the nerves settle. Then end this.
Ivan fought the soreness building up in his body in order to turn away from the inferno, and that's when he was met with the rapid approach of another guy. Ilario... that was the only other male left aside from Ivan himself. There was no time to muse over the fact that he finally decided to join the party, because guns were being raised. Ivan raised his shotgun, the discretion in pointing at another human being far lost in his mind. As the intense heat of the flames warmed his back and the flickering light cast a shadow over his face, he pulled the trigger.
No... Ilario's draw was too fast. Ivan lurched to the right in a panic, causing his own shot to launch harmlessly into the wall just a few feet to the right. He couldn't let himself panic, not this close to the end. Ivan tried, though in vain, to quell the very human emotions trying to swell out of him and force him to act in a primal fashion. His head was the only thing that kept him alive so far and if he lost it, he was dead.
Shots had already been fired, it was probably a little late to try talking. Not like talking was going to do anybody any good in terms of stopping the fighting, as only one of them could survive to see the end of the day. Only one of them had a future, as broken and paved with blood as that road might be. Still, it would help calm Ivan down, and if Ilario was willing to oblige...
"Hey..." Ivan's panting caused his voice to be raspy. "... where the hell are the other two!?" The Pancor jackhammer remained at the ready, though not pointed at Ily... yet. All it would take was a joint effort, a small twitch of two wrists to bring the shotgun in line with the boy, and Ivan could liquify his guts.
Just keep talking... let the nerves settle. Then end this.
V8 Characters:
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
As the shot slammed into the wall next to him Ilario flung himself sideways, feet catching clumsily and forcing him to let his own gun dip away from its perfect line on the other boy. He was balanced again within moments and bringing the semiautomatic to bear, but the damage had been done. He'd lost the element of surprise and he'd lost any advantage he might once have had. He should be dead, by all rights, but Ivan hadn't fired a second time. And his gun wasn't quite up yet. It wouldn't take long to bring it into line, just seconds, he thought, maybe less...but enough time? Hard to know. Too hard to gauge. His slender fingers kept trying to shake and give way with the effort of controlling the weapon. He might be able to pull the trigger first but then again it might be Ivan, and then it would be Ilario whose all-too-human shell would be scattered on the ground.
His mouth was partially open as he breathed. He was panting like an animal; what little stamina he'd once had long since eaten away by the island. But the other boy was talking and that was...good, he thought. It had to be good. Talking meant that his hand wasn't tightening on the trigger and it gave him a moment to get his breath back. He could still make this work. He still had the advantage.
His tongue flicked out to moisten dry lips that tasted like blood. His own? Reiko's? Rhory's? He wasn't sure anymore. He met Ivan's eyes, read nothing he could use, and looked away. "Dead." His own voice sounded strange to his ears. Hoarse and uncertain, cultured syllables clipped and fragmented. "Reiko shot Ericka. I shot Reiko." Funny how the names came back to him now, first names in his mouth like he was just mentioning people he'd talked to that day in school. "You shot Imraan. And," struggling for the name, reaching through the sludge his memory had turned to, "Keith." No last name. Didn't matter. And Aaron, he'd shot Aaron Hughes, but Ilario had heard Aaron's name more than once on the announcements and he wasn't sure if that counted.
But Aaron's death didn't matter. Keith...Keith who didn't have a last name or a face, just some murky memory of brown eyes and a hat, hadn't done anything to anyone. Neither had Imraan. Imraan had been a good person. He hadn't deserved to have his world end here in the filth and blood of the game.
Hadn't deserved to have his world ended by the boy in front of him.
Ilario watched his own hands with something like vague curiosity as they brought the gun back into line with Ivan. "I'm sorry," he said, and the words were heavy and strange and he wasn't sure he meant them, anymore, but as his fingers curled around the trigger he said them anyway.
His mouth was partially open as he breathed. He was panting like an animal; what little stamina he'd once had long since eaten away by the island. But the other boy was talking and that was...good, he thought. It had to be good. Talking meant that his hand wasn't tightening on the trigger and it gave him a moment to get his breath back. He could still make this work. He still had the advantage.
His tongue flicked out to moisten dry lips that tasted like blood. His own? Reiko's? Rhory's? He wasn't sure anymore. He met Ivan's eyes, read nothing he could use, and looked away. "Dead." His own voice sounded strange to his ears. Hoarse and uncertain, cultured syllables clipped and fragmented. "Reiko shot Ericka. I shot Reiko." Funny how the names came back to him now, first names in his mouth like he was just mentioning people he'd talked to that day in school. "You shot Imraan. And," struggling for the name, reaching through the sludge his memory had turned to, "Keith." No last name. Didn't matter. And Aaron, he'd shot Aaron Hughes, but Ilario had heard Aaron's name more than once on the announcements and he wasn't sure if that counted.
But Aaron's death didn't matter. Keith...Keith who didn't have a last name or a face, just some murky memory of brown eyes and a hat, hadn't done anything to anyone. Neither had Imraan. Imraan had been a good person. He hadn't deserved to have his world end here in the filth and blood of the game.
Hadn't deserved to have his world ended by the boy in front of him.
Ilario watched his own hands with something like vague curiosity as they brought the gun back into line with Ivan. "I'm sorry," he said, and the words were heavy and strange and he wasn't sure he meant them, anymore, but as his fingers curled around the trigger he said them anyway.
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 2256
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Breathing had been slowed to a regular pace, the spasming of muscles being subdued as much as humanly possible when being haunted by the most primal of fears. Ilario's words confirmed the answer to at least one of his questions. Both Reiko and Ericka were dead, meaning it was now down to three people, three kids. He wanted to feel wrong for how he was thinking about things now, what with the other two now being dead. He was supposed to feel sadness, grief and the usual feeling of loss when somebody's peers die. They weren't suppose to be obstacles to living. That's how Ivan wanted to feel, but the grim reality had been necessitated by the circumstances. For the time being, that's all the two girls were. To feel yet another shred of his humanity slough off like discarded skin... this was something that terrified Ivan more than the gun in Ilario's hands, and something that could be just as fatal.
Ivan's focus had been intensified to where he could feel each of his facial muscles tighten in anticipation of Ily's movement, and maybe a little bit of anger mixed in. The raising of the gun and positioning of the trigger finger was smooth, telegraphed and deliberate. It was clear to him that they were both fighting back the most atavistic of instincts, the very principles of which screamed it was more important to flee, quaking in fear the entire way as they preserved their own life over the taking of another. They were also fighting everything that living in society for almost two decades had tought them: do not point your weapons at another human being, do not pull the trigger, do not kill. It was something the both of them had already broken, though Ivan could only speak for himself as to why.
The words came; a hollow apology left Ilario's lips, and Ivan was all too certain about what was coming next. He wanted to think and to plan ahead, to pre-empt all of Ilario's movements, but the thoughts could not come out quick enough. With the two choices of firing back or ducking for cover presenting themselves in a doorway, neither of them wishing to let the other one through, Ivan froze up and, with that, committed a mistake that could have very well been fatal.
"If you do that again, you will only lose the match! And should you keep doing it, you will get in the habit of doing it, over and over again. You will never win, you will never be a champion!"
Ivan flinched at the words of his mother, who stared right back at him from the other side of the tennis court with her eyes that could have held anything from anger to disappointment to mere determination, maybe even hope... Ivan was never very good at interpreting any of it. But that last hit was far too fast for him to be expected to hit it back, at least at his level. "I'm doing everything I can," he tried to defend himself weakly. He felt as if his voice was not carrying properly across the court thanks to how winded he was getting this late in practice. "I tried to pre-empt the hit, figure out where it's going so I can be there for-"
"Idiot! You are thinking too much!" Mischa Kuznetsova had switched over to speaking russian, and Ivan knew to immediately shut his mouth and keep it that way. "You don't think about where it's going. You feel where it's going next. You are drawn to it. You do not stop and think, you ACT. ACT!"
Ivan pulled all of his weight to the right before it was too late. Releasing the shotgun with his left arm to leave it entirely in the custody of his right, he used his dominant hand to grip the edge of a small table. Throwing himself behind it, he swung up with his hand to overturn the table and give himself the cover he so desperately needed. It wouldn't stop the bullet, but it would make Ily lose the visual... at least, he hoped it would. He tried, and failed, not to jump in shock as the bullet fired against the wood, splintering through it about a foot to Ivan's left. Without thinking much more on the situation, Ivan hoisted the shotgun over the top of the table and directed it where he expected Ilario might be. It probably wasn't going to hit him then and there, it was just supposed to give him the cover he so desperately needed.
Ivan felt the weight of the replacement clip in his pocket against his leg as the final assurance he was doing the right thing, and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun in his hands, operating as the automatic weapon that it was, went nuts with each miniature explosion. Ivan directed it the best he could for the few seconds it took for all of his remaining shots to expire, then he hurriedly set about to reload the weapon. It was not until he finished that he even attempted to look over the top of the overturned table. He didn't have to be able to see in order to know that the flames in the house had drawn closer thanks to the burning fluid on wood, but it shouldn't have become a problem for him just yet. The biggest problem was still Ilario, and Ivan was ready for him, should he have survived.
Ivan's focus had been intensified to where he could feel each of his facial muscles tighten in anticipation of Ily's movement, and maybe a little bit of anger mixed in. The raising of the gun and positioning of the trigger finger was smooth, telegraphed and deliberate. It was clear to him that they were both fighting back the most atavistic of instincts, the very principles of which screamed it was more important to flee, quaking in fear the entire way as they preserved their own life over the taking of another. They were also fighting everything that living in society for almost two decades had tought them: do not point your weapons at another human being, do not pull the trigger, do not kill. It was something the both of them had already broken, though Ivan could only speak for himself as to why.
The words came; a hollow apology left Ilario's lips, and Ivan was all too certain about what was coming next. He wanted to think and to plan ahead, to pre-empt all of Ilario's movements, but the thoughts could not come out quick enough. With the two choices of firing back or ducking for cover presenting themselves in a doorway, neither of them wishing to let the other one through, Ivan froze up and, with that, committed a mistake that could have very well been fatal.
"If you do that again, you will only lose the match! And should you keep doing it, you will get in the habit of doing it, over and over again. You will never win, you will never be a champion!"
Ivan flinched at the words of his mother, who stared right back at him from the other side of the tennis court with her eyes that could have held anything from anger to disappointment to mere determination, maybe even hope... Ivan was never very good at interpreting any of it. But that last hit was far too fast for him to be expected to hit it back, at least at his level. "I'm doing everything I can," he tried to defend himself weakly. He felt as if his voice was not carrying properly across the court thanks to how winded he was getting this late in practice. "I tried to pre-empt the hit, figure out where it's going so I can be there for-"
"Idiot! You are thinking too much!" Mischa Kuznetsova had switched over to speaking russian, and Ivan knew to immediately shut his mouth and keep it that way. "You don't think about where it's going. You feel where it's going next. You are drawn to it. You do not stop and think, you ACT. ACT!"
Ivan pulled all of his weight to the right before it was too late. Releasing the shotgun with his left arm to leave it entirely in the custody of his right, he used his dominant hand to grip the edge of a small table. Throwing himself behind it, he swung up with his hand to overturn the table and give himself the cover he so desperately needed. It wouldn't stop the bullet, but it would make Ily lose the visual... at least, he hoped it would. He tried, and failed, not to jump in shock as the bullet fired against the wood, splintering through it about a foot to Ivan's left. Without thinking much more on the situation, Ivan hoisted the shotgun over the top of the table and directed it where he expected Ilario might be. It probably wasn't going to hit him then and there, it was just supposed to give him the cover he so desperately needed.
Ivan felt the weight of the replacement clip in his pocket against his leg as the final assurance he was doing the right thing, and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun in his hands, operating as the automatic weapon that it was, went nuts with each miniature explosion. Ivan directed it the best he could for the few seconds it took for all of his remaining shots to expire, then he hurriedly set about to reload the weapon. It was not until he finished that he even attempted to look over the top of the overturned table. He didn't have to be able to see in order to know that the flames in the house had drawn closer thanks to the burning fluid on wood, but it shouldn't have become a problem for him just yet. The biggest problem was still Ilario, and Ivan was ready for him, should he have survived.
V8 Characters:
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in