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Grim Wolf
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The Very Best
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[Alex Tarquin ENTER: from Woof Woof, I'm a Dog. Kill your Friends.]


It was good to be alone, wasn't it? Alone meant safe, in some ways. Jeremy might have pointed that gun on his behalf, but that didn't mean he couldn't point it at Alex if he changed his mind. There could only be one winner, whatever code of honor Alex pretended he might cling to. And it was all pretend, of course. All of it. He felt himself unraveling, and all his pretensions fading to black.

Now it was just Alex. The accidental murderer pretending intent, because accident was idiocy and intent was glory.

He'd sent Jeremy away. He'd let Hazel go. Those had been his choices. Just like cutting off Crowe's finger, and just like shoving a shelf atop Rea's still-warm body. All his decisions. His loneliness was a choice. He'd sent his friend away.

He hummed to himself, as he wandered the halls of the Asylum, as he froze and moved cagily and cattily, mastering the stage, always leaving cans in his wake. Recovering some as he moved, leaving others. Mastering the layout of this place, blocking and marking, so that when time came to perform

(to kill, to kill, don't pretend otherwise)

he would be ready. In control.


Also: grungy and ugly.

This was a problem: Alex had not showered in days, and there was really no hope of a shower in the near future. He smelled, and he was going to keep smelling. That thick, spicy, strangely soupy scent that always came with accumulated BO. But he handle smelling. Smelly was just something he'd have to accept here.

The real problem was appearance. This broadcast was going to be aired, as every other broadcast has been aired. He was going to be seen. His clothes were grungy, but that was alright--a little bit of Mad Max post-apocalypse grunge would probably help sell him as a warrior badass. But he still had to look good. He still...

What did it matter? He was going to die. No one would believe him.

Jeremy believed me. Hazel, Michael, Jordan. Lily?

He hummed, as he stalked the halls of the Asylum, tracing them as best he can, sketching out his mental map of his stage. He hummed, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. Staying alive, staying aware. Staying himself. Whichever self he was trying to be, these days.

Flooded water on his feet. A creepy room, with slimy tubs. Perfect setting for a horror movie. It set the skin on his neck crawling, thinking of a half-dozen found-footage movies. This was a room of horrors. A room for monsters.

And that was what he wanted to be, right? A proper horror monster. A Hannibal Lecter, contained within the asylum but not imprisoned by it.

Tired. So tired. So alone.
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V6 Players

Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

Lizzie Luz: "I don't want to go."

Alex Tarquin: "No more masks."

V5 Players

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