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Twists and turns; Boy 102 start, open
Topic Started: Aug 8 2010, 11:11 AM (5,816 Views)
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[[Gracie Wainwright continued from Break Up and Break Down]]

A sharp gasp, followed by a stifled moan resonated from Gracie, her hand working meticulously to cover up the blotchy red and purple contusion blossoming from her cheekbone up toward her eye. The skin was still extraordinarily tender, even under the soft bristles of her makeup brush—thanks for that, Kyle! Douchebag. Poor Hayley. It must’ve been hard to date the world’s biggest prick, it’d explain why she was such a skank though. Whatever. And hey, if they got their shit together, they’d probably be able to pop out at least one crack-baby by the time the game ended.

Gracie sighed, further reclining into the hard yet oh-so-welcomed tree at her back, her eyes still trained on the compact in her free hand as she continued to try and hide the bruise. Her body ached in unison with her face, the taxing trek across the island and the sleepless night beginning to catch up with her. The cooling shade of the overly-large tree and the distant sound of the crashing waves would have put her to sleep—if it weren’t for the squealing and crackling and subsequent abrasive voice roaring throughout the area.

It felt like it when on for hours, but in reality the culmination of nineteen kids’ lives ended with a three second shout-out over a P.A System. And, to be incredibly honest, Gracie didn’t really feel any different than she had before—no desire to cry or scream to the ever-present cameras or throw a hissy. She kind of felt the same way she did when Pappy died, that empty cloggy feeling where you just don’t even realize what happened until you stop seeing them around and they stop picking you up from school and stuff like that, y’know? She hadn’t seen Pappy’s body either, maybe that was her problem. You could say someone was dead until you were blue in the face, but unless you see it with your own eyes it’s just words. Ignorance is bliss, yeah? Gracie made a mental note of the players, though. She didn’t want to be someone’s after-thought.

Without realizing it, Gracie’s heavy eyelids succumbed to the weight, her hands hung limp with their respective items still held loosely, and her head lolled to the side—finally accepting the sleep that was itching to overtake her. For a brief moment in her own subconscious she was home again, eating dinner with A.J and the twins—a magnificent Thanksgiving dinner lay sprawled out over the table, the harmonious scent wafting into their nostrils. She was hungry. So hungry. Hungry enough to forgo the use of normal silverware and begin ripping and tearing at the turkey, her bitten-down nails digging deep into the soft meat and relishing each chunk ripped from the bone. A.J was at her side, pushing forcefully against Gracie with her muscular shoulder—trying to strong-arm her way into her territory. “Move over!” Gracie growled, whipping her head around to face her sister—though what was received her wasn’t what she was looking for.

Kyle Portman lunged at her, his hands wrapping around her neck as they toppled off the table and landed with a sickening thud on the stone floor. The twisted, upbeat medley of bells, whistles, and cheerful carnival music filled her ears as she tried to pry Kyle’s iron grip from around her neck. ”Clio, RUN!” He screamed at her, spittle flinging into her blue-ing face.


Her entire face tightened, the immense pressure itself felt as if it’d rupture her eyes—sending them and gore flying every which way. She tried to plead with him, tried to make him stop and let her live, but nothing came out of her closed airway.


The screaming sounded distant, the convulsing of her own body fore-fronting her mind. Darkness swallowed her peripheral vision, desperation kicked into over-drive. She could feel her life slipping away, she wouldn’t even get a last breath.


Only pitch black remained.

”Clio, RUN!”

Her breath was ragged when she woke, moisture that pricked at the corners of her eyes were quickly wiped away. Gracie clapped a hand over her chest and took several deep breaths, an arbitrary attempt to calm her racing heart and collect her bearings. All the while, she watched the retreating form of an unknown male racing away from the warehouse some distance away. Still keeping her eyes trained on the John Doe, while also trying to suppress the terror from her nightmare, she shoved her makeup back into her newly compounded G010 duffel bag. Lucky number her ass, freakin’ cursed by Draculina herself. She really shouldn’t have dumped hers back along the beach. Worst idea ever.

Giving the almost-gone figure a last incredulous look, Gracie swung her duffel over her shoulder and grabbed her rifle from its perch against the tree. Halfway between jogging and running, she made her way over to the warehouse. She wasn’t sure what made that dude run away, but she couldn’t deny her curiosity. There was a saying about curiosity, but honestly? If a stupid ass idiom stopped you from doing something, then you’re a retard. And if it was trouble, then so be it—she had protection. That whole debacle at the fun fair—wasn’t gonna happen again. She learned her lesson.

And God save him if she ever ran into Kyle Portman again, else momma’d have a new pair of boots.

Gingerly stepping through the opening in the door, Gracie instantly heard yelling. Part of her pleaded with her to forget about it and leave, but Gracie was Gracie. She couldn’t fight the curiosity. Trying as hard as she could the mask the clicking of her boots, she moved down a hallway. Beams of sunlight pierced through holes in the roof, providing some guidance as she traipsed her way toward the voices. With each bend she turned, they became louder and louder—until she peaked around a container and found the participants.

Two boys with their backs to her and a girl.

And not one of them had a weapon that wasn’t dangerous.

Gracie’s back slid down the container, suddenly feeling far too scared to even think about retracing her steps and leaving. Instead, she pulled her duffel to her chest and listened.

Just like she should have listened to that damn cat.

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Gracie clutched the duffel tightly against her chest; her dismal excuses for fingernails burrowing deeply into the canvassed bag as she listened to the scene play out behind her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the threesome wasn’t engaged in a friendly tea-party, happily sharing scones and talking about the latest trouble with the Jamis dickhead down the street. Tension was threatening to overtake her, the scene behind her practically ripping at the seams with animosity. She felt like she was on the outside looking in, watching her own events from the previous day acting out in front of her. It was crazy trippy.

Two-thirds of the Bizarro-Musketeers had been identified, though the third remained on the tip of her tongue, tangible but ultimately elusive. The identified boy was one of the Nicks, she’d have guessed Reid—it was dark— but she’d know that ear splitting voice anywhere. Nick LeMonde, a.k.a Flamer LeMonde, was so far beyond obnoxious that there wasn’t even a proper way to describe the levels of obnoxiousness dude had, like, hello, I don’t want to shake you’re freaking hand, so back the hell off. And she knew, it was hard not too. She didn’t care how many ‘girlfriends’ he had, though ‘beards’ would probably be a better title for them. Guy was a major fudge-packer—he could put Hershey out of business type of fudge-packer. Maybe Mr. Mystery was his secret showmance, it definitely seemed like it. On Nick’s part, anyway. His buddy didn’t sound gay, at least.

Gracie leaned back, not feeling the need to muffle her own breathing anymore as the voices of the trio rose. She let her head relax against the hard metal of the storage container at her back, still letting the conversation engulf her. Mr. Mystery was smooth. She could practically feel her panties flying down her legs as he calmed friggin’ Queen Hoe, Clio Gabriella. Like, hi, sorry to say, but Clio wasn’t even that freakin’ cute, come on now. Why would you even waste your time on her? Not only was she a major twat, a murderous twat at that, but you could’ve probably done over a pig’s head with a hammer a few times and it’d still be better looking than Clio Gabriella. Purple streaks? Really? Is this 1983? And those clothes, those freakin’ clothes. Oh you made them yourself? I could hardly tell. What material did you use? Garbage bags? Screw off, bitch—you’re nothing. Hell, maybe she could give Anna a call and have her hex that murdering whore into dust, she had it coming. It’d do her well to enjoy what was left of her life, because she was dying just like the rest of them—being a ‘player’ didn’t give her special privileges. Just a matter of time.

And that time was now, apparently. Whether it was the beyond sketchy conversation or the, y’know, threat to waste someone that tipped Gracie was up to interpretation, though. Instinctively, Gracie freed a hand from her death-grip on the bag and picked her rifle up from the hard ground, still hanging on every word erupting from behind her. She wasn’t going to be a dipshit this time, she needed to assess the situation; running around the island like a freakin’ rhino wasn’t going to work.

Whatever, she could be flexible. And seriously, to give credit where credit’s due, she handled that whole friggin’ situation over in the Fun Fair amazingly. Like, come on. Not only did she get what she went there for, but she also managed to metaphorically bitch-slap not one, but two trolls. Who else could say they did that? Not many, at any rate. The twinge in her heart as she thought of silly, silly retard baby stirred her back to reality. The heaviness weighing down on her because of the situation had yet to leave and she was beginning to think it’d never dissipate. She’d be walking around the island with a freakin’ sumo sitting on her chest—lovely. Whatever, she’d let Anna friggin’ Dinkley know the hell she put her through the minute she saw her again. Better not die before then, okay?

In the meantime, however, an overwhelming silence had replaced the raucous fighting of the trio following Nick’s order. Instantly, Gracie’s heart began pounding at her chest, practically blasting off the walls of the warehouse in the silence.




She began counting, not fully aware why she was doing it. Clio was a murderer, she didn’t care about Gracie or Gracie’s well-being, so why in God’s name was she worried about that whore? She didn’t care. She didn’t care.




In what was either a moment of sheer stupidity or overwhelming curiosity, Gracie shakily peered around her container—still not fully sure what she wanted to see. It wasn’t her choice, however, as Teo Weinstock—‘roid head to the extreme—had his beefy hands wrapped around Clio’s neck, slowing taking the girl’s life from her.




And then he let her go, just like that. He had her. He had her. Gracie wasn’t sure if she was disappointed, or what she was feeling. The game had to have been getting to her, the immense pressure finally break her down and turning her into Kyle and Clio, delighting in watching her competition—her competition? Seriously? Pull it together. For the love of God, pull it together. Who’s gonna take care of the kids if you go nuts, huh? If you can’t keep it together for yourself, think of them, please.

Clio whizzed past her head, running with a new lease of life toward the entrance. Behind her, Teo and Nick spoke with hushed words, just soft enough that Gracie couldn’t pinpoint what they were saying. For a moment, she sat there lost in her thoughts about A.J and the boys, the dire need to get back home to them suddenly becoming too much to handle. In an instant she stood up, pack and rifle in her hands and walked toward Nick and Teo.

They were strong. They could help her, with them she could get to the end—she was sure of it.

“I would’ve just killed her,” Gracie said, keeping her pace toward the boys “You’re better men than I am. Well, y’know, obviously.”

She stopped and flashed them a smile.

“Would you help me? I could use a snuggle-buddy. It gets cold at night, yeah?”

They were strong.

And dangerous.

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"Uh.. yeah, it is," Gracie said, edging her gun slightly away from Flamer. And before you ask, no, you can't have it-- I don't care if your poopshoot is starting to feel empty, you're not gonna get it. And honestly, he had that freakin' kitchen knife on steroids, there was no need for her to even think about handing her baby over. Not to mention that close call with the freakin' self appointed Queen of Sheba. She was smarter than that, smarter than the Tweedles in front of her anyway.

"Oh God, you're a lifesaver, Teo," she smiled, absent-mindedly rearranging the weight of her pack on her shoulder. Riiiiight, big guy, you're crazy if you'd think she'd trust you to 'look out' for her, screw that.

Still, the foundation of a relationship is built on trust.

"I'm actually not super tired though, don't let me hold you guys up, okay?"

But sadly for Teo, Gracie wasn't looking for a relationship. Nobody said you needed to trust a meat-shield.

[[Gracie Wainwright continued elsewhere]]

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