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The General SOTF Discussion Thread
How about give the winner the opportunity to write Danya's re-hash of a death in the next announcement?

The General SOTF Discussion Thread
I imagine "Francis smiled." would not be quotable material, yeah.

The General SOTF Discussion Thread
Why not?

It's the character's thought process that's unique to them. You'd quote a thought or a reaction or a poignant piece of the post, then credit the character as normal.

The General SOTF Discussion Thread
Ain't nothing wrong with quoting narrative.

The General SOTF Discussion Thread
Aug 29 2013, 07:44 AM
So how many kills is Max Sawyer allowed to rack up before the Maxwell Lombardi jokes start
Already being made!

The General SOTF Discussion Thread
^ I can't agree harder.

Also, it's nice to see multiple victim killers, too! I'm looking most forward to more range on that particular spectrum in the coming weeks.

Character up for grabs
Hello, Fairy!

I'm also super interested in writing Harry and getting to know him better. I feel like he and I would get along pretty well.

The General SOTF Discussion Thread
So when's SotF: Mars going to happen?

When the shovel came down after the impact of rifle butt on shoulder, Hansel twisted away, the shovel whistling past his head, sending one side of his hat fluttering with the force of it. The angle was awkward enough now so that when Stephanie swung again, he was able to jump nimbly back, shouldering the rifle again as his back hit a countertop, sending sheets and pillows scattering. He sighted Stephanie as he backed towards the exit, eyes narrowed, adrenaline piped through his system.

"I did," he snapped back, "and if you hadn't had run in, I wouldn't have had to. She ain't the first person I've shot, she ain't gonna be the last. You follow me, you'll be next on the queue."

Without a backwards glance, Hansel broke into a run, putting to use his long legs, sudden adrenaline, and cardio built from years of hard labour.

No thoughts. No remorse. No questions.

Just running.

((Hansel Williams, A man deserves a second chance, but keep an eye on him.))

Not unlike Hansel’s first taste of gunfire, this happened in moments.

There were two of them; one yelling and charging towards Hansel, another swaying to reach and kick upwards at his rifle. He managed to step backwards and avoid the thrusting kick of swaddled feet, his mind going a mile a minute, fog from sleep deprivation exiting and cold, hard calculations filling the space it vacated. Where he was once sluggish, unsure, he was now crisp and clear.

He felt the air move past his lips in sharp inhalation, the taste of it slightly sour with the stench of his own sweat, her bravado. He heard the echoes of Stephanie’s cry as she moved in for the interception, the swish of the blankets as Mallory’s feet fell back towards the ground. He smelled fabric softener, mould, and tension.

Resetting the rifle on his shoulder, he fired into the still falling legs of Mallory. Felt the jolt on his shoulder, heard the echoing boom that left a ringing sensation in his ears, cloudiness in his mind, smelled heat and smoke and gunpowder.

Without hesitation, he was swirling around - the other girl was close, too close - and swung the rifle butt upwards, aiming to catch the newcomer on the chin with all the force he could muster.

The noise of the door opening behind Hansel barely registered with the sudden revelation of who exactly this was. In a flash, even with his sleep starved brain, he had the rifle aimed at one of the blanketed legs of Mallory, the safety free and trigger unguarded. In Hansel's mind, Mallory was even more a threat now than she had been on day one. Who knew what she had heard from other people? Who knew what she had changed, twisted to become?

He jabbed the barrel of the gun at one of the lower parts of her body - thigh? Calf? - and snarled.

"Give me a damn good reason why I shouldn't shoot you before you pull one on me."

((Hansel Williams, Ain’t No Reprievement Gonna Be Found Otherwise))

Sleep was hard in coming, even without the throbbing headache. Anytime Hansel stopped moving, anytime he slowed down long enough to seriously consider the possibility, he would hear things moving in the night, rustling and shaking and quaking. In his mind's eye, he saw disturbing images - Mara's silky caresses, Tyler's contorted face, Ray with a throwing knife this time - and deadly accuracy.

His enemies were everywhere on the island, waiting in the shadows. They coalesced and festered in the darkness, waiting with weaponry and bad intentions for him to make a move, take a step, drop his guard. Vigilance was the only way out, now.

His father’s voice murmured to him in the back of his mind like a caress, aiming to soothe and calm. His father’s voice murmured words he’d heard before, words that had been shouted from a parapet, announced to a room filled with believers.

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.

And just as loud, just as invasive, another voice joined in.

You could be wrong.

The brief feeling of comfort was immediately shattered, replaced with unease and distraction as Hansel picked his way through the bottom floor of the mall, hollowed brown eyes and deep bags giving him a raccoon-like appearance. He paused often to check over his shoulder, his hands gripping the gun between clenched fists, jaw aching from the constant clenching and grinding of teeth.

When he arrived at the Linens and Things, he arrived with purpose; to shut out the noises, lock the doors, close himself inside and finally - finally - rest. He spotted a wadding of pillows and blankets on the store floor, and didn’t think twice.

With heavy, hard footfalls, he approached them, his gun pointed at the center of them.

Ain't No Reprievement Gonna Be Found Otherwise
((Exiting stage right!))

Letting out a quiet cough, Hansel lurched to his feet, feeling lightheaded and woozy as the lack of sleep continued to take it’s toll. There was the oddest pulsing sensation that emanated from his skull and throbbed down his neck, seeming to rest behind his breastbone as he bent forwards, clumsy fingers gripping the FAMAS that seemed oh-so-familiar to his hands by now.

“Also coulda shot you,” he mumbled, more to himself than either of them, his hands keeping the muzzle down and away from her, “and I d-didn’t. Figured you t-to be more ‘preciative of words than bullets.”

Waving it off, he turned, walking away from both of them, not registering the very immediate threat of Bianca and her roman candle. The only thoughts in his head were away and sleep, and he wasn’t about to let a little burning hot explosion stop him from his objective.



With heavy footsteps and a slight stagger, Hansel left.

((Hansel Williams, Fluffytown))

Sugar and Spice Critiques
The quickest way to get people to respond to a thread is post a critique!

Naft's... things
Here's a gem.

So, my production studio (meaning the one I work for) was hired to do a PSA on workplace Diversity for a client. Because we're cheap bastards, we didn't actually want to hire more than one actor.

So we wound up just using a bunch of randoms from throughout the office.

This is the result.

Loco has time on his hands
Brandon Baxter's dead and gone, so if you could give him a gander, I'd be obliged. :)

Ain't No Reprievement Gonna Be Found Otherwise
The first indication that a missile was flying towards Hansel was Bianca diving out of the way. The second was that the words hey asshole were echoing about his eardrums, taking him a long second to process and confirm.

The third indication was impact as a beer bottle smashed into his left cheekbone, sending his head snapping backwards, his eyes immediately watering.

He felt like he was suddenly on a capsizing boat as nausea gripped him, sending him teetering to the right, the gun clattering to the paved ground a sound that seemed ages, eons away. The back of his head, still tender from the snowglobe smashing into it, throbbed mightily in tune with the sudden ache on his face.

Hansel had not had a good day.

With a whoosh of air, he went with the first option that seemed appealing to him and sat down, hard. His sleep-starved brain sluggishly tried to tell him what a bad idea it was to just take a seat in the middle of a place where someone had just hit him with something and he'd lost track of the girl he'd just pointed a gun at, but his tired legs, nauseous stomach, and watering eyes trumped everything else.

Hansel raised both hands in the air, displaying the neatly bandaged left arm, his foot reaching over to rest atop the FAMAS.

"I wasn't g-gonna shoot her," he hollered, his voice at normal pitch, now, lacking the menacing southern drawl, "I j-huh-ust wanted to make sure she weren't g-gonna pull a fah-hast one."

V5 Third Rolls
Baxter's dead and shit.

Power, Reprised
((Brandon Baxter, No Whammies))

On his belly, fingers bloody and bruised and face grim with determination, Baxter crawled. He paid no heed to the morning light - the fact that this was his third day on the island a dim prospect in the back of his mind - and instead focused on each agonizing arm pull forwards, each dig-in with his left foot, each foot of progress.

He had tried hopping on his left foot, but that had resulted in painful instances of losing balance, the jolt of trying to catch it on his right foot never failing to catch him off guard and send him sprawling to his stomach. It was easier to remain there, dragging himself forwards for fear of being found, defenseless and vulnerable.

So he moved like he was possessed, fighting back exhaustion and

The sound of the morning announcements cut through his determined progress forwards, and he flopped to his back to pant, dragging his bag towards himself to grab a bottle of water. After chugging a few mouthfuls, he leaned forwards to a sitting position, trying to calm his breathing, listening to the announcements.

”Our danger zones for today are Lighthouse, The Homestead, and The Western Beach.”

At first, all he could do was breathe. The breathing evolved into panic that lasted a full five seconds, causing him to tremble, the water bottle in his hand sloshing back and forth dramatically. He couldn’t get out of here in time - not before the collar was blown, and not with his right foot useless.

He sat on the ground, waiting for the anger, the fear, the tears and the frustration. He waited for the dread, the bemoaning of his oncoming death.

None of it came. He remained still, staring into space, and felt not a goddamn thing about it.

With a halfhearted effort, he tossed the water bottle towards the wheat field, his hands tugging the bag closer to rummage into it, knowing exactly what he was going to do. He only found three of his grenades, but that didn’t matter much now. One probably fell, or was dislodged or something.

He tossed his bag away, cradling the three grenades in his right hand, pressed against his stomach. He thought about speaking a few last words to his parents or something, but nothing stood out as worth saying. What could have been? He was going to die soon.

I just want you guys to know that I’ve had a rough few days.

Shine on, you crazy bastards.

I coulda been a contender, pops.

All his humour, all his rage, the two things that had defined him throughout his young adult life had abandoned him. In their place was a sureness, a certainty of what was to come. He’d played hard, worked hard at the game, and had come up short.

And he was fucked if he was going to let someone push a button and end it.

So, he looked towards the treeline, grinned at the treetops in case a camera was pointed his way, and pulled all three pins on the grenades, dropping them in a loose circle around his body.

Brandon Baxter leaned backwards, his back touching the earth as he stared up at a clear blue sky. He didn’t count to five. He didn’t shake with uncertainty and fear for the future. He merely lay back, put both hands behind his head, and gazed at a puffy white cloud that resembled a cowboy hat.

There, he lay, content and sure.

And as the three grenades detonated, reducing him to raining fluids and chunks of flesh and bone, Brandon died.

On his own terms.


No Whammies
As Miranda went down, a sudden, violent, and exploding pain erupted in the back of Baxter’s right foot as her spear was sent flying home, making him roar out in pain and anger as he staggered forwards. He couldn’t do anything but try to get rid of the sudden stabbing pain as he took an attempted step away from the spear, lodging it further into the flesh of his calf, causing him to seize up and twist.

As he fell earthward, he felt something give, something that made his entire right leg twitch as he clawed at it, letting out another scream of pain.

Miranda was shuffling away as he grabbed at his pant leg, tugging it up, eyes widening in horror as he took in his right foot. It was a bloody mess; his boot had been severed by the thrust of the girl’s spear, his calf and ankle soaked in blood. Worse, his right foot lay at an awkwardly flat angle, and it didn’t respond to the commands he sent it.

Jutting out from the heel of his boot was a bit of flesh, the shredded and torn remainder of his achilles tendon.

Roaring again, Baxter flopped to his stomach, grabbing at Miranda with his left hand as she scrambled away. His face was bright red, dirt smearing over the furious, contorted, agonized expression on his face as he tried to pull himself after her, tried to close the gap between them.

As she made haste to leave him where he lay, he began to scream in earnest; hands slamming into the ground, shoulders twisting, neck craning.

“Millers! Don’t leave me like this, you fucking cunt! You can’t leave me here! Millers! MILLERS!”

But she was gone, off and running, leaving him here in a prison of nauseating pain and sudden, inescapable dread.

Brandon Baxter was alone.

With one last moan, he slid into blackness.

((Brandon Baxter, Power, Reprised))