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MK Kilmarnock
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Hate, hate, HATE!!!
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No sooner than Brook had picked up the shabby yet ominous weapon from his daypack, a voice had called out to him. Before that, he wasn't sure if the silence was the most unwelcome part about the atmosphere. Its shattering held jarring results that might've been comparable to the unsettling feeling wrenching his guts to pieces, if all that slow tear on his mind and will had been condensed into a pane of glass that had now shattered.

The next second and a half felt nearly all the muscles in one particular boy's body lock up, practically tied up in knots. What was that? What was that, what was that, what was that, what was that!!!!? His head was the first part of his body to regain movement, at which point it jerked around to look in the direction of the offending voice. The rest of his body was quick to follow, his hand having already slipped into position on the small firearm. It was somebody coming to get him, had to be, for the words themselves no longer held any meaning. Any voice was a sign of somebody else near, and anybody else near was out to kill him. They had to be.

His arm was shaking, sweat was pouring out of his palms like faucets, and the gun now might as well have weighed as much as the heaviest dumbell in the gym. Even so, the gun was poised to shoot, his hand clenched on the grip so tight that his knuckles were white.


Brook gulped, reaching with his left hand to wipe some hair out of his face; when he woke up, his hair tie had been missing. That voice... he was now trying to take it apart, analyze it as his eyes darted back and forth, trying to see who had called to him. It was somebody he knew.

Of course it is. It's one of your friends. You wanted to find them, they found you. Put the gun down.

One eye was clenched shut. He was far too scared to shut them both, but too confused to keep them both open. If he slipped up here, he was dead, his blood spilled out onto the ground and spattered on the logs. He couldn't have... have that. Who... who was there?

You couldn't listen to any of the words, you were so scared, but you know them... things are going to be alright, just stay calm. You can't kill anybody, they can't you. You're just kids.

And kids don't kill each other.

All of this had happened in the space of just a few seconds. As short as it was, Brook's wild internal rambling, waving of a gun, and frantic searching of something he couldn't possibly find in such a state had taken more than enough time for somebody to put a bullet in his brain or bury a hatchet into his skull. Yet he was still in once piece. His heart was not ready to let up, however. His heartbeat was as heavy and grueling as his breathing, and his arm remained rigid, the finger on the trigger. His eyes made a final slow sweep, settling on a sole unfelled tree, and a shape just barely visible behind it. Connected to the shape was a face and, while only a fraction of it was visible, it was enough to still jostle Brook, yank him from the current of hostility.

"J... Jason... it's you!"

His brain retrospectively heard the words as they replayed once more. He should've recognized that Aussie accent instantly, from all the ribbing he had done on it. It was the only thing that remained from a more peaceful world of balance, now thrust into chaos. "Oh god, I can't.... I can't believe..." Brook lowered the gun one inch, somewhat apologetically. Two inches. His entire arm went limp and fell to his side, with only his slightly curled fingers keeping the light firearm from dropping. He continued to stare in disbelief at a sign of solace, one that he thought he couldn't possibly receive, until he was unable to any longer. Falling to his knees, Brook tucked his head under his arm and began to cry once more.

"Ho-holy sh... shit, dude..." Brook choked and sniffed, shaking his head.
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Flowerhead · The Felled Forest: North