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shotgunkid
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not in a position to bargain anymore
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((Wade Cartwright continued from Thursday's Child.))

That panicked rush hadn't lasted long at all, of course. It never did. Whether it was because he ran out of stamina or ran out of island or had burned through his supply of utter all-consuming PANIC was anyone's guess, really. Whatever it had been, he ended up on the cliffs between the asylum and the large bay that defined the island's geography, thinking. A sort of anger had grown out of his frustration the night before.

And that was all down to thought. He didn't and wasn't thinking through his actions properly. Emotions kept getting the better of him, seizing the controls and shutting down any sort of rational decisionmaking. Perhaps that was just his real nature. Or it could've been a consequence of the particularly extreme life-or-death situation he was now going through, but it was frustrating nonetheless.

He wasn't trying to methodically think things through and formulate plans of action and then actually follow through with them, no. All his addled mind was allowing was to stumble around half-cocked and running off whenever things looked sketchy. This allowed him to coast through normal life, but here it would just get him killed in short order. That much was certain.

So he needed a plan. Think. Think. Think.

The bridge wasn't very far. If he made it to the other side, he could quickly slip into one of the buildings there and be relatively unnoticed by anyone who wasn't already inside. On the other hand, something about all the long stretches of the island that were exposed made him nervous. He was already utterly helpless against any would-be sniper with good aim or any melee-armed player out there with eagle eyes, no need to accentuate that. The sharp elevation changes across the island were intensely unnerving too. One wrong move on those slopes, one slip on the bridge's edge, and he'd go careening helplessly to his death. Shiver. Not a happy thought. Plus, the port death zone essentially blocked anyone trying to move through the slopes. Or so it seemed, anyway.

That left the area behind the bell tower and the crematorium grounds. Though there were a few marked features beyond the tower, none of them really caught Wade's eye. As much as he appreciated natural beauty, human works and buildings always called his attention first. Because, on some level, people would be there. Interacting with people should've been a top priority of his from the start, as risky as it was at this point. Teaming up with someone was probably a decent bet. People weren't that traitorous at this early phase and he might even meet up with a person he knew. Just talking to them would probably help stave off insanity, too.

And even as some part of him felt that going to the crematorium was a retrogression, a retreat-- as he'd already been on this side of the asylum-- he understood it was his only other real bet to find others now that everywhere else had been ruled out. It was only a short walk from the side of the asylum, as well.

He neared, and saw the chapel's doors had been sealed tightly with rope. No matter, the gardens around it were sure to have someone loitering around. and then a faint commotion was enough to confirm their presence. But when he entered the alley between the two, deathstink attacked his nostrils once again, and he braved the current of fear that the smell brought. By the second, it was becoming more and more familiar to him, which was... disconcerting, to say the least. But whoever had killed this person probably hadn't lingered here.

Against his instinct, he turned the corner and saw a glimpse of a half-naked young woman lying in the grass with what was undoubtedly a gaping bullet wound in her neck. No name came to mind, which meant only one thing -- she must've died earlier today. Fear, but then anger. The fuck who shot her must have looted her, too. For what purpose? The terrorists had allowed them to keep their original bags, although stripped of apparently everything beside food and clothing. Dark thoughts of perverts and nutcases invaded his mind.

He tried his level best to dispel the emotion. No. Stay cool, collected, thinking. Peer again. There were people standing nearby, seemed distraught somehow. Probably about the corpse, so they weren't the killers then, that was good. He could speak to them, he could do it, just picture the words he wanted clearly in mind and say them. He moved from behind the corner and toward them, in spite of the part of him screaming to leave. A glint of pride in his thoughts? No, the name of one of those he saw. One he faintly recognized, at least.

"Irene--?" He couldn't remember her surname, and it was too late to anyways.
2015: V6 Incident
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They Stumbled Into Faith and Thought · Crematorium Gardens