"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Violent-Medic
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“Look, I’m all about not repeating the hatchet thing, but one of us is gonna get way more than hurt if this game goes how those assholes want it to go.” Clarice half-shrugged, remembering a tiny bit too late that her shoulder was injured. “Fuck, why did I do that? Anyway, y’know, damned if you do, damned if you don’t. I’d rather be damned while not being an asshole.”

Conrad finished wrapping her up. The bandages didn’t feel… right… to Clarice. She’d had her share of injuries before. She’d broken her arm when she was a kid. She wasn’t sure if that had been better or worse than this, since it’d been a long time ago and time tended to take the sting off. But she had the feeling that the bandaging, or something, had been done wrong. Like there was something she’d forgot.

But whatever. Conrad was a smart guy, but he wasn’t a doctor. She couldn’t expect him to whip out the best health care. She’d make do.

“I thought ibuprofen’s for puking. I saw it in a game Scout was playing once.” Clarice paused, then added, “No, wait. That’s ipecac. Okay, fine, whatever. Thanks for, uh… you know, doing the bandaging and stuff.” She tried to smile at Conrad. It failed, looking a little more rigor mortis like than she’d meant.

Though it turned more genuine at the relief of seeing a friend appear in the doorway. Harold was on the wrestling team with her, and he was loads into political activism and stuff. Cared about shit. Wasn’t an asshole, and never had been. Would never, ever suggest playing or that they should hide in a hole and wait for everyone to die.

Her grin became strained again for a moment as Harold raised the sword he was holding (Nancy had always been fine back at school, too) but he lowered it again quickly. Her grin returned to as normal as it could be, given the pain in her shoulder.

“Oh god, am I glad to see you. Things have just been the worst.”

Clarice glanced at her shoulder (and it was a relief that now for the most part she couldn’t see the gaping, open wound) and grimaced at Harold.

“Nancy’s what happened. She’s got a hatchet, and I tried to get her to stick around and form an alliance and I grabbed her arm and she hit me.” Clarice wrinkled her nose and said, “That’s probably my fault on some level. Be careful if you see her, though.”

The candid words were split up by the occasional harsh breath and the casualness ruined by the weak, strained tone. In an attempt to reassure Harold she was fine, she put on her best Black Knight voice.

“’Tis but a scratch.”

Sure, Monty Python references in grim situations weren’t the most inventive, but she didn’t have the focus to think of anything better.
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By the time you hear the next pop, the funk shall be within you · Solitary Confinement