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God was telling you "not yet".
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((Leila Langford continued from The Only Way Is up))

A day. A whole fucking day she'd spent with these guys, and now they'd managed to lose themselves in the darkest, wettest place she'd ever stepped foot in. Oh yes, she'd heard the announcement alright - people had died, others were losing their heads already, but did Leila Langford care?

At least Hilary's still okay.

That's what she'd been telling herself every time they stopped for a break, or whenever she found a moment to herself, away from Jason's stupid jokes. As self-centered as she was, as much as she wanted to win, she couldn't help thinking about that girl, all alone out there with the psychos and the murderers around. What was Hilary going to do if she got cornered by a guy who thought he could use these last moments to score himself a screw? Did she even get a good weapon? What if she got something horrible, like a squeaky mallet or a push-up bra? She hated thinking about it, but she knew that out of everyone she considered her "friend", that naive little bimbo would wind up getting slaughtered first.

She stepped on a rock.

"Agh, fuck! Fuck! Fuck! My fucking. Foot!"

Oh yeah, and she still hadn't found any shoes. Great idea guys, take a scantily dressed girl deep down into the bowels of the island where she can indulge herself in some quality tear-your-fucking-feet-to-shreds time. Fucking aces.

Jesus, she could barely even see down here. Plus every time she wanted to use her torch she got shouted at for "wasting batteries", which seemed a little bit retarded considering their surroundings. Well screw them, she needed to see how bad her feet had gotten. After all, she'd been walking around for two whole days now without anything to cushion her soles - and her stilettos were way out of the question in this place. Lingering somewhat behind the others, she came to a sudden stop to take off the bag from her back. Her free hand felt around her shoulders; the straps from the daypack had dug right into her bare skin, chafing it and making her red raw.

What was the tally now?

Right, she had fucked-up feet, her make-up was ruined, she was freezing cold, and - not that she'd tell anyone - she was pretty sure all the white bread she'd eaten had made her constipated. Fucking. Aces. A quiet groan escaped her as she rolled her neck around, massaging her rough skin with the palm of her hand in a vain attempt to smooth out the surface of her flesh. Looking up ahead, she watched as Jason found something stuck to the rocky wall. Shrugging, she turned her attention back to her things. Being careful not to stand on any more sharp objects, she crouched down and unzipped her bag, then pulled out the torch the terrorists had oh-so kindly supplied her with. Flicking it on, she winced as the light penetrated her eyes. Stupid bitch, she cursed silently, then hobbled over to the wall.

One hand on the damp surface of the tunnel, she warily lifted her leg in order to see how much damage she'd put her poor feet through. Shit. There was a lot of blood. Some dry, some fresh, but there was a lot of it. It must've accumulated over the course of their journey, but she didn't realize just how fucked she actually was. She was pretty sure she had something sticking out of her toe too - a thorn, maybe, but it didn't hurt as much as the other wounds. A glance back up at the group, who were now beginning to sit down. They must've been waiting for her, she reckoned. Best not hold them up then, it wouldn't be the best plan to get herself abandoned while she had a game to win.

Torch in hand, she grunted as the daypack slipped back into it's painful position, then limped over to the others as quickly as she could without crying out every time her foot gained another cut.

She couldn't wait to get out of this fucking cave.
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Carpe Noctum · The Tunnels