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are you upset?
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(GMing approved by Kami)

Gracie’s eyebrow twitched, irritation virtually leaking from her pores. Honestly? A smoke grenade? What the frig could she possibly do with a smoke grenade? ‘Oh hey, back off or I’ll give you a really nasty case of emphysema!’

“Look, Kitty,” Gracie spat, her tone not failing to mime Kitty’s, “I don’t freaking care about yours, okay? Just gimme Elvira’s and I’ll be outta your hair and we can all enjoy what’s left of our lives, yeah?” She nodded toward Anna, lowering her gun slightly as a show of good faith. The last thing she needed was Kitty breathing down her neck with those stupid things. And seriously? Who names their kid ‘Kitty’? Like, what the hell were you smoking when you decided that was an acceptable name? Besides, she looked more like a ‘Doggy’.

The atmosphere surrounding them intensified with every breath, every locking of eyes sent chills down Gracie’s spine. Her legs began to buckle under the weight of the world, which balanced precariously on her shoulders. She hadn’t expected a confrontation and, though she normally had no problem with it in the real world, she wasn’t ready for it. She had seen Survival of the Fittest more than once before and if the rapid beating of her heart was any hint, the game did things to people. For all she knew, she could’ve walked right into her death.

“Hey! Nancy!”

A sinister mixture of irritation and fear bubbled in the pit of her stomach. Her heart sank into her chest as a viable freakin’ ninja called out from behind her. Without a moment’s hesitation, despite the pleading of her now-trembling body, Gracie whipped around to face the new threat


Searing pain that sent Gracie barreling to the unforgiving ground, one hand pressed tightly against her left eye and the other clenching the gun by its mid-section for dear life. A guttural moan forced its way out of her mouth as she lay writhing on the ground. In all her years, every confrontational, petty, bitchy year, never had Gracie been hit. Not once.

But, now was as good a time as any, right?

What little survival instinct she had accumulated kicked into overdrive and, before she even had a dry her glossing eyes, had leapt to all fours—full circle from her own taunting of retard baby.


Her shouldered daypack flopped around awkwardly, the butt of her rifle clapped against the ground with each movement. She could feel the bruise already beginning to form on her cheekbone, the rhythmic throbbing doing nothing to help. Her bare knees smacked against the cold stone as she clamored to get as far away from her attacker as she could, though in reality she was just racing to a slower death—Kitty who looked on in amusement. Her ego as bruised as her face, Gracie tried to avoid eye contact, instead averting her tear-blurred vision toward Anna, who figured that now of all times was a perfect chance to run away. Toward Gracie, as luck would have it.

Hope. An escape.

In her hurry to get away, Anna involuntarily became Gracie’s own escape. What little joy could possibly be had in the midst of being attacked erupted within her, silently thanking whatever being was living in the clouds. E.T, Santa, God, she didn’t friggin’ care, they’d provided and she was more than grateful.

In the blink of eye, Gracie grabbed at Anna’s ankles and watched with glee as she fell faster than Rosa Fiametta’s pants.

Several kicks managed to strike against her shoulder, but she could ignore the pain, there was no way she was gonna let the Nerd Herd win and lose this opportunity. With all her might and more than a little help from the adrenaline coursing through her, Gracie managed to drag herself up to Anna, grabbing a hand full of her gross-ass hair. Which, frankly, felt like hay, but whatever. She could deal. Gracie sat up, her fingers still tightly intertwined with Anna’s hair. Who said playing dirty didn’t get you anywhere? And it wasn’t like anyone here would play by the rules, so why should she?

Catching her breath, which had managed to fully deplete during the less-than-stellar struggle, Gracie eye’d up the two people flanking her on either side. The guy who had punched her, uh hi future wife-beater, was another familiar face. Kyle somethingorother, some Karate-kid wannabe douchebag. He was a joke, probably the type of asshole who ended up on COPS because of a domestic disturbance—figured he’d pick on a girl.

“Y-you wanna come try and hit me now, loser?!” Gracie yelled, her voice wavering for a millisecond as she shook Anna’s head.

She just wanted that damn bag, for Christ’s sake. All this for a freakin’ bag. Terrific.

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