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Shiola
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Please not Rasputin.

Please not Rasputin.

Not Rasputin.

On a small dirt path a short distance from where Chase and Ben had met, a large figure stumbled through the forest. Exhausted, he dragged his feet and a bloodied chainsaw behind him.

((Alex Rasputin continued from Break Up And Break Down))


Alex had sworn he had been in this exact place before - walking down a road, unsure of where to go or what to do, still fearing for his life. Bloodied, and exhausted from the run through the island. This time, the road narrowed into a forest, and he could only keep walking down it because... what else was there to do? As long as he avoided people, he would be fine.

Look how well that turned out when you weren't marked for death.

Just as he had reached the forest, loudspeakers from - who knows where - crackled to life and the uncomfortably familiar voice of the terrorist leader announced the day's deaths. Alex could only imagine the man's plump face beaming at the carnage he had, once again, unleashed. It was only a bit reassuring that Alex wasn't the first person to lose his shit and... do what he did... in the program. This was the fourth "game."

...Eric Lorenz.... Robert Lerger...

Their names... hell, even their faces seemed to just stick in his mind. Like some kind of scar on his soul. He knew exactly what he could say to himself that would be comforting. Alex was a victim just like everyone else. He didn't mean to do what he did.

But he knew, it didn't quite work that way. Anyone on the island with half a mind to survive and a gun would shoot him, maybe even hunt him down if they saw him walking around the island. They'd throw him in with all of the psychos and loner kids that probably spent most of their free time wishing they got the chance to do some of the crazy shit they'd been doing on the island. They were just rabid dogs, let off the leash. Alex wasn't like them, but nobody else would be able to see that.

Even so, could he really say he DIDN'T mean to do any of the stuff he did? Eric Lorenz was hunted down and knocked off the back-side of a cliff; Robert Lerger was gutted with a fucking chainsaw. What was his defense? How do you say you don't deserve to die after THAT? Who in their right mind would believe that?

Especially the way he looked right now. The gash on his face opened up again, and bits of Robert Lerger still clung to his clothing. Mostly blood, but a few chunks of bone and sinew were clinging to his shirt. Both his shirt and pants were completely drenched in blood, and even his duffel bag had a few flecks on it, though they weren't too noticeable. There was still the chainsaw, which was more or less soaked a sickening sanguine. The chainsaw USED to be yellow, but it was now probably permanently stained. There was no way anyone was going to even remotely listen to a single plea he might had looking like this. He looked like - well, he looked like he'd just killed someone with a chainsaw.

Perhaps it was the particularly Russian brand of pragmatism he'd grown up with, or maybe even just a desire to be able to go back home, but as much as he went over the murders in his head, there was no way he could bring them back, or undo the damage he had done. They were the two single greatest mistakes in his life short of going on this fucking trip, and he would regret them until the day he died. Which for all he knew, could be today. So... all he could do was move on. Shed the past he'd created for himself on the island.

Bringing himself to a larger tree, he leaned against it and dropped the chainsaw and his duffel bag. First, he had to get rid of these clothes. He wasn't sure he could clean all of the blood off, but he could try. There was a pair of track pants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie in his bag, he'd left them there when he had gotten rid of most of his things near the fairground. How far off it seemed, that it was only a day ago. Alex hadn't slept the entire time he'd gotten here, and dark circles were starting to show around his eyes. As if he didn't look scary enough.

He started to feel nauseous when he had to peel the shirt off his chest, the bloody fabric brushing past his face. It was sopping with Lerger's blood, and it hit the ground with a discomforting *flop.* The pants followed, and they weren't as bad. The jeans had mostly dried while he was running, but they were still noticeably crimson. The boxers went too, as they too, were bloody. The blood had seeped through his clothing and somewhat "stained" his chest and legs, and it was sticky to the touch. Sticky. His chest was stic-

Without warning, Alex immediately threw up. Mostly water, and the crackers he'd eaten on the island a short while earlier. Something about the blood on his skin... felt disgusting. After dry heaving for almost a minute, Alex wiped his mouth with the bloodless end of his jeans, and got off of the ground.

Not hesitating for a moment (judging from the distance to the coast and some of the noises he'd heard, he probably didn't have many spare moments) he grabbed one of the water bottles from his daypack and opened it up over his head. The lukewarm water turned red as it washed some of the blood out of his hair and off of his chest. By the time he'd gone through the bottle, the blood still wasn't completely gone, but he was as far as he could define, clean. As fast as he could, he put the black track pants on, a green Minnesota Wild T-Shirt, and the nondescript grey hoodie. Alex didn't bother to tie his laces, and just slid his shoes back on. They were still slightly bloody, but they were black runners to begin with and he doubted anyone would notice. Hopefully he didn't look as obviously like who people thought he was, but if anyone recognized him (which they would) he'd be shot, or they'd run away.

Then there was the chainsaw. It still sat on the ground, still bloody. It was his only weapon, and it could still probably help him in a pinch, or at least deter someone from hurting him with anything short of a gun. With the few drops of water still in the bottle, he cleaned off the handle and the operational parts of the saw - the pull cord, the choke, the blade and the gas cap. In case he found any gas, and if he really ran out.

Not wanting to stay around a puddle of bloody clothes and vomit much longer, Alex picked up the now-mostly clean chainsaw and his duffel bag and slung them over his shoulder. He was able to tie the chainsaw to the bag with one of it's straps so he didn't have to carry it, and it was only a bit heavier.

---

A few minutes and a few hundred yards passed, and Alex still hadn't a clue what to do with himself. There were only two dangerzones, and he hadn't ran into anyone in the forest quite yet. Finding some kind of food would be nice, but that would mean he would have to go back into the island's settlements. And that meant people. There wasn't too much wildlife on the island and it wasn't like he was going to be able to catch anything with a chainsaw. Apparently there was a bear on the island, but it wasn't like Alex was going to go out hunting for a bear to kill with his... well, "bare" hands. He wasn't THAT Russian.

Amidst the endless green and brown of the forest, Alex soon found himself baring down on two students he didn't quite recognize. It didn't really occur to him to stop, and he was walking at a brisk enough pace to not notice them until he was very clearly in their view.

With one hand still on his daypack, he could only stare at them blankly.

Well...?

Alex waved, and speaking only quietly enough for them to hear, spoke up.

"...hi?"
Edited by Shiola, Oct 3 2010, 09:46 PM.
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