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Break Up And Break Down; Start of (the end of) G010
Topic Started: Aug 8 2010, 10:47 AM (9,852 Views)
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Nancy 'Gracie' Wainright, Female student no. 081 Start

Gracie Call-Me-Nancy-And-I’ll-Piss-In-Your-Coffee Wainwright was an independent woman. Why, you might ask, was Gracie an independent woman? Gracie had been buying her own clothes since she was twelve and even before that, Gracie was buying her own lunch at school. Now, you might ask, why exactly did that make Gracie an independent woman? Because Gracie was resourceful. Those clothes had price tags, y’know. She, even at the tender age of twelve, knew full that money made the world go round. And in order to be high up in the world, what did you need? MONEY. So, how was Gracie resourceful? She found ways to get MONEY. Whether it was raiding her Aunt’s piggy-bank of a couch or showing a little skin to a few creeps on the internet, Gracie’s primary concern was MONEY.

But, you might say, why does this matter? Gracie IS on an island where MONEY has no value. Whatsoever. Now, you’d have to really know Gracie to realize what we’re getting at here. Gracie is greedy. Plain and simple. She’ll take as much of something as she can get and then go back for seconds. So even now, after being drugged, forced to watch the brutal deaths of her chaperones, and then being dropped onto an island without so much as a kiss goodbye, Gracie’s greed had managed to prevail in the end.

You know what sucked? Waking up on a deserted island where you expected to kill your closest friends, or enemies as it’d be in her case, with only a daypack full of gross as carb-y shit. You know what sucked worse? Waking up on a stupid island and seeing that your absolute FAVORITE pair of Raybans were laying a few feet away and BUSTED on a fudging rock. You know what made all, well most of it, of it better? Seeing a big ass stinkin’ rifle sticking out of your daypack once you’re done cradling your broken Raybans in your hands and sobbing.

And that’s how Gracie ended up hiding under some underbrush on a hill overlooking the fair like some kind of really fashionable tigress, watching dumbass Anna Chase crawl around on the ground like a retarded baby. Gracie wasn’t terribly sure what the fudge she was doing crawling around on the ground, figuring it was probably some creepy ass voodoo gothic ritual or some shit. She didn’t really care much either, honestly. All she wanted was that delicious looking daypack, which had been silently taunting retard-baby for awhile now. Oh GOD, what she wouldn’t give for Facebook, she could see it now.

Status: Robbing freakin’ Wednesday Addams, biiitcheeeees!!!

Exhilarated by the very thought, Gracie leapt up from the underbrush and quickly wiped the dirt off her shorts before making her way down the hill. Her stomach ad accumulated a few butterflies and she inwardly squealed, she was making freaking history. She had seen a few episodes of SOTF before, though it didn’t come near being as good as America’s Next Top Model, but whatever. It was cool in its own way, despite it being, y’know, REAL. But yeah, in all the episodes she had seen, never did she witness a fudgin’ SHAKE DOWN, she was so dang smart. And hey, at least she knew she wouldn’t die of starvation or for the next few days.

As Gracie walked nonchalantly through the gates of the fair, she could hear retard-baby’s stupid ass voice—talking to the dark demon servants of Satan or some shit, probably. It wasn’t until she heard another girl’s (even stupider)voice did she realize that her plan might be a little trickier than she thought. Edging up against one of the game booths, Gracie peaked her head around it to survey retard-baby’s area.

Are you kidding? Seriously? In the time it had taken her to make her way down to the fair, another less-whorey-but-still-whorey-enough Marge-Simpson-Wannabe-Bitch had joined the party. With a heavy sigh, Gracie swallowed the sudden lump forming in her throat and exposed herself to the girls, gun raised dangerously in her arms. Who freakin' says that TV didn’t teach you anything? All those hunting shows didn’t go to waste, nuh uh.

“Hands up, packs out, bitches,”

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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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Seriously? ‘We’re all friends here’? Uh, she wasn’t sure what school freakin’ Pussy Galore over there went to, but it sure as shit wasn’t Bayview. Was there ever a time Gracie sat at her lunch table? No. Was there ever a time when she was invited to chill with Rainbow Brite and the friggin’ Color Kids? Again, no. And yet, Kitty was standing there preaching a bunch of bullshit about being friends. If she really wanted to ‘be friends’, she should have made an effort back in school. Too late, now. Too freaking late.

The world was eating her whole—devouring her as she shrank into her clothing, feasting on her anxiety. She felt so incredibly small, so helpless and like such a screw-up. The gravity of the situation they had been tossed into was finally beginning to dawn on her, the glint of the blade in Kyle’s hand and the shaking of Anna’s body serving as a wake-up call. This wasn’t a game. She was screwing around with other people’s lives, making their families watch and pray that she wouldn’t kill them. If anyone made her parents or her siblings freak out like that, she wouldn’t hesitate to punch them in the face. And hey, look at that. She was that person. She just wanted the freaking bag, Jesus. Did it really have to escalate to a full on domestic disturbance? Like, honestly? If that cockroach hadn’t decided to play friggin’ He-Man it’d have ended fine. Anna and Kitty could have skipped off into the sunset and she’d be another bag richer, but no. Let’s smack Gracie around a little bit, because she’s clearly dangerous.

The throbbing of her still-forming bruise synced sinfully with the racing of her heart, but at least she still had a heart that could beat. Her eyes trained on the knife in Kyle’s hand. It could have ended sooo badly. The very thought that he could’ve shanked her like a pig scared her more than she was comfortable admitting, and more so than that it pissed her off. And then to say that she didn’t matter? Uh, hate to break it to you, Ralph Macchio, but that was so far from the truth. She had a family who cared about her, they all had freaking families who were sitting on their couches and being forced to watch their kids lose their shit. Sure, she was more than likely globally embarrassing them as that little fat curvy girl who took Creepy Susie hostage, but there was one thing she didn’t do that Kyle did. One thing that separated them. One thing that made her matter. He stepped his narrow little ass into crazy-ville the minute he decided to harm someone. For Christ’s sake, her gun wasn’t even loaded. So SCREW him and the white freaking horse he rode in on. Bitch.

From her unfaltering gaze on Kyle, Gracie could make out a curious looking lump in her peripheral vision, lying some feet away from Kyle. Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest
as she made out the words stenciled on the side; G010 CHASE, ANNA. Seriously? First of all; how the hell did she miss that when she came in? She blamed it on the adrenaline, but Jesus. Please to be paying more attention next time, thanks. Second of all; Uh, thank freakin’ GOD. She could drag retard baby’s sorry ass out of the stupid freakin’ devil-fair and get the hell away with what’s left of her life and a be a bag richer. Third of all; why the hell was that Beetle-Juice wannabe hoe Girl Ten? Like, how was that fair? Eighty-One sucked and ten just so happened to be her lucky number. Whatever.

Gracie slowly got to her feet, dragging Anna up by the hair as she did so. Her rifle awkwardly smacked against the ground a few times as she struggled to get up, though her grip on its midsection and Anna’s hair didn’t falter. Trepidation threatened to swallow her whole as she glanced at Kyle, then Kitty, and back again.

“Okay, so,” Gracie started, taking a heavy breath so as to calm her racing heart, “I’m just gonna leave, okay? I’m not gonna hurt anyone, so don’t hurt me. Don’t, like, throw shit at my head or stab me or anything and we’ll all be cool. Just be chill, right?” She offered, her voice shaking, though not as much as her body. Things would be fine. Everything would be fine. She had Anna and they wouldn’t dare try and cut her up or smoke her out or anything.


She cautiously made toward Anna’s daypack, the dipshit duo on either side of her. She wasn’t gonna a freakin’ retard again and turn her back to anyone, screw that. Their eyes burned holes into her, watching her like nasty little vultures. Waiting for her to mess up. Joke was on them though. Gracie made sure to keep the eye contact as she bent over to grab the dayback, her fingers lingered over it for a split second before swooping it up and straightening her body. Guilt tickled at her heart, but it’d have to get a freakin’ raincheck. Anna had people to help her—she had people who’d risk their lives for her. Gracie didn’t. The only person Gracie had was Gracie.


Pulling Anna down past Kyle was far scarier than she would have liked to admit. Visions of him jumping at her and slicing her up like Thanksgiving Dinner flashed through her mind and her chest tightened around her heart. Screw him. He wasn’t going to push her around; he’d be the one who had to live with killing someone, not her. She’d never kill anyone. Kyle was a piece of shit, she wasn’t anything like that. She wasn’t. Gracie glared at him, her sleepy eyes attempting to make him spontaneously combust right there on the spot. To become the dirt that he was lower then.

Maybe she’d get Anna to teach her a few spells later.

As they rounded the bend, with tangible freedom lying only a few feet away, Gracie stopped in her tracks. She turned to face Anna, untangling her long fingers from the girl’s hair. A burst of guilt rushed over her, her eyes locking with the hard ground.

“Sorry,” Gracie said softly, "I just wanted your bag, no hard feelings. Good luck, okay?” With that, she turned and jogged out of what might as well have been the Pearl Gates of the Fun Fair.

Don’t die, okay?

[[Gracie Wainwright continued Twists and Turns]]

[[GMing approved]]
Edited by Mimi, Sep 27 2010, 02:54 AM.

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