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Darkness Within; Morning of Day 2
Topic Started: Sep 19 2010, 12:25 AM (1,703 Views)
armeggedonCounselor
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[ *  *  *  * ]
((Janet Binachi continued from Regrets.))
((Note for those trying to figure out timelines: Janet arrives here slightly before Announcement 1, by about an hour. Adjust your summaries accordingly.))

Janet was exhausted by the time she entered the forest. The sun had gone down hours ago, but the moon was full and the ground was mostly lacking dangerous things to trip over. But now, she couldn't run anymore. She dropped her bags at the foot of a tree and quickly gathered some branches. It was important that she cover her little shelter enough that she would be mostly invisible until the morning. At least nobody else knew what had happened. It was between her and her conscience. With her crappy shelter made, Janet stripped off her clothing and pushed it into her daypack. It was silly, but she felt wrong sleeping in clothing. She laid down under the shelter, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Janet woke, sitting up groggily and whacking her head against the tree. Unsurprisingly, SoTF hadn't turned out to be a bad dream. She heard words being said, but mostly ignored them. Unimportant.

And then she heard her name.

She sat up again sharply, hitting her head again. She cursed and tried to figure out what had been said. Slowly, her brain figured it out. Danya had listed her as the killer of Everett. God dammit. Janet stood, cursing to herself over the announcement. Still, she hoped enough people would have trouble applying a face to the name. Hopefully.

She flipped her hair back, rummaged in Everett's daypack and pulled out his food. A thought struck her. She delved back in, looking for the gun he had said he had. But... nothing. "He was lying. Dammit," Janet muttered. That meant she didn't even have a crappy selfish reason for killing him. Everett's death now functioned solely as her foot-in-the-door. The next one would be easier. The third one might not even make her nauseous.

Unbidden, Everett's face appeared in Janet's mind, making her stomach turn. She had never seen someone so... broken. The damage that the hockey stick did was... not surprising, really. Physics wasn't Janet's strong point, but she understood enough to know about leverage and surface area and all that shit. She felt her foot tingle as the sound of his crunching ribcage played itself over and over. Janet hugged her knees to herself, not noticing that she was still mostly naked. Her hunger had been replaced by a gnawing ball of guilt, trying to eat its way out of her body.

"I'm afraid, Grandpa," Janet whispered. "I'm afraid to lose myself to the darkness. When does killing stop being evil? Ten? Twenty? They say 19 people died yesterday.... They should have said twenty. I am no longer people, I am no longer a student. I am a murderer. And... I'm not giving up, Grandpa. I will win, and make it home. I will make sure that the death I commit has a nobler purpose."

Janet looked up, at the slowly rising sun. "Danya. I will play your game. But I won't let you win this time. I'm going to see you destroyed. I swear it," she said, vehemence rising in her voice.

With her piece said and her conscience successfully conned, Janet turned back to her breakfast.
Edited by armeggedonCounselor, Sep 19 2010, 02:16 AM.
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(Mizore Soryu continued from The Quiet Lives Of Baron Saturday)

"A nobler purpose like what? Saving your own life?"

Mizore's voice was harsh. She hadn't meant it to come out that way. She was looking for paint. She was trying to survive. And yet she had heard a player's confession to a video camera, and here she was trying to talk to the woman.

Well, she had talked to a player once, and gotten away with it. Maybe she could get away with it again.

Plus, from the looks of it, this woman only had a hockey stick. And Mizore could book it over rough terrain faster than almost anyone outside of cross-country sprinting, if it came to that.

The woman was looking for the source of the voice. Mizore stepped out from behind the tree cover. In her rainbow boots, blue jacket, opaque tights and ribboned hair, she was bright.

"I'm Mizore Soryu," She said. "I'm not playing."

What else to say?

"I know you're playing. I'm not coming closer to you, because I want to last a little longer than this. If you're looking for me, in the final four or whatever, I'll be drawing somewhere that's not a danger zone."

Mizore raised an eyebrow and cracked a wry smile. "You can have my death then, if you can catch me. I hope you'll have a kinder weapon."

"Basically, right now I'm looking for paint. Do you know where I can find some?"
--------


Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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(Lucy Ashmore continued from Shelter From the Storm)

“N-No… Can’t die… Must not die!”

It had almost become a chant. Just repeating the same words over and over. A slight tremble in her voice.

She was petrified. She had already seen death outside of this game, and ever since it had been her worst fear. She didn’t want to die, no, not at all. She wanted to survive. To live long and prosper- the basic things. Never did she ever ask for anything more than a normal life; maybe something to do with music or plant science. But that was it.

What did she ever do to deserve to die?

It made no sense. Why them? Of all the seniors in the United States, why did the stupid terrorist guy have to pick them? Even the bullies didn’t deserve to die like this… Of course not. This was simply barbaric.

Leaving the residential area was a difficult task. There weren’t many trees around the houses and considering she woke up in a building she didn’t want to stumble in to another building, fearing the worst. The last thing she needed was to bump in to a savage murderer. Instead she stuck to the shadows. It was almost as if she were a spy; she bloody well felt like one. Creeping around the shadows, infiltrating the area boundaries. She had to remain hidden, no way was she going to openly reveal herself and live to tell the tale.

She must’ve been out of the area in about 20 or 30 minutes? The shouting from behind her and all around her was faint; the voices weren’t recognisable and she had no way of knowing why they were arguing- fighting- killing.

Remi Pierce.
Dallas Reynolds.
Warren Brown.
Eric Lorenz.
Reika Ishida.
Chris Davidson.
Sally Connelly.
Cyrille LaBlanche.
Daniel Vaughan.
Petrushka Ivanova.
Megan Nelson.
Everett Taylor.
Keith Christoph.
Paige Strand.
Robert Lerger.
Brent Shanahan.
Maria Santiago.
Tony Russo.
Amber Whimsy.

Nineteen. Nineteen students that she either shared classes with or bumped in to in the mall or just in the corridor. They weren’t all ray of sunshine’s. They weren’t all innocent, but still. Nobody deserved to be shot to death, nobody on the list deserved to be eaten by a fucking bear, or stung by a hornet…

She couldn’t help but shiver at the coldness of the joke that the terrorist presumably called Dorian had made. Leaving a person who could have an allergic reaction at any minute without an epi-pen!? What sort of people were they…

They weren’t even human beings. They were savages… uncivilized animals!

She also understood that going to the Lighthouse or the Groundskeeper Hut was definitely a bad idea. And the Greens; whatever that was.

Either way; she was in a deep and murky forest. She had no idea where she was, she was pretty much lost. Until she began to hear the sound of waves beating against a coast. It was dark and she couldn’t really see much ahead of her, but she managed to persevere and in less than an hour she had reached the coast; or at least she figured it was the coast.

The wind was harsher than ever. To an extent where if you stood facing the oncoming wind for a lengthened period of time you would lose your breath… It was also surprisingly cold. Her cardigan wasn’t doing a great job of keeping her warm; her tender skin was pale and blotchy and not to mention freezing cold.

She eventually finished pacing around and sat down, looking out to see. Momentarily it was peaceful. Just watching the sea ebbing slowly forward and back. Racing up the beach before hurriedly retreating back in to the murky depths. The darkness also caused the sea to almost shine. It all made it slightly eerie.

And it remained peaceful for a while. Well, about ten minutes before she heard a voice call out from just around the corner.

A person talking to herself? Saying something about playing a game. She couldn’t make out the person because she was facing the other direction, but she could recognise the voice.

It was Janet Binachi. A stupid killer. What was the chances of stumbling to a player so quickly!?

Although, it seemed she wasn’t the only one…

“A nobler purpose like what? Saving your own life?”

Another voice that could only belong to a girl emerged and pierced the night sky from her left. She had no idea who it was; she couldn’t even recognise the voice. That was bad. Maybe they were friends. Maybe they had scouted each other.

Part of her told her to run; just to leg it. Get as far away from there as possible. But she also wanted to stay. Something was about to go down, well, it was until the second person mentioned something about not playing and only wanting to find paint.

What the hell?

Either way, she wasn’t about to reveal herself to the girl wanting paint or the murderer. She would just lie there and watch on, for now.
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((Samantha Ridley continued from The Right Thing For the Wrong Reasons))

Samantha Ridley continued to drift through the island's forests, heading toward... somewhere.... It wasn't like she had any pressing concerns to deal with, so why rush and go tiring herself out?

Wait... Where was that clapping coming from?

"Kids, I have to say that I'm truly impressed with your first day showing. Blood! Tragedy! Explosions! Mayhem! You've utterly smashed the record for first day kills; it makes an old man proud to see you all taking his instructions so thoroughly to heart! Congratulations to those of you that are still alive, because you've already outlasted 19 of your classmates."

Nineteen people? Bayview?... Really? Damn.... She could kind of understand people succumbing to the game, but this many people? Wasn't Bayview supposed to be full of pacifists?

Okay, now on to the names; Remi Pierce, Dallas Reynolds, Warren Brown... She wasn't recognizing any of these names... Sally Connelly, Cyrille LeBlanche... Cyrille...?

Sam felt like she had been punched in the gut. 'Cyrille? But... ' Sam had felt certain that none of her friends were going on the trip, but Cyrille was... and now she's.... "Dead..." Sam mouthed the word silently to herself, "Cyrille is... She... Someone... Ishida, Reiko Ishida... killed her."

Sam leaned back against a tree, and began to slump.

She was angry, but her feelings of failure over rode that. She had been such a crappy friend that she didn't know that Cyrille was going on the trip and now... Jane will... CRAP! Cyrille wouldn't be here alone Jane must be here to... here on this island, slated to die.

Sam felt sick. She felt dizzy, and nauseous, and miserable, and... She dropped to her knees, and brought her hands to her face hoping they could halt the tears welling up in her eyes.

"It's my fault, it's all my fault." She mouth formed the words but no sound came out. She could accept her own upcoming death, she wasn't worth it anyway, but her friends were out there fighting and dying, and she couldn't stand to know they were getting hurt out there while she walked around as if nothing was wrong.

Heck, were Cyrille and Jane her only friends on the island? For all Sam knew everyone she ever met was on those fucking buses, she hadn't been paying much attention. What about Amy, Jake, or Ted? They're college students now so it isn't very likely. Brian? No, while he was in the right grade he doesn't go to Bayview anymore... That would be Corrigan's fault, shit, that meant she actually had to be grateful to Justin fucking Corrigan, damn, if this trip couldn't get any worse. Hmmm... Emi and Liza? No, they were a grade lower than Sam just like Ash...
Panic momentarily gripped Sam, hurting Sam's friends was an easy way to send her over the edge, but among her friends Ash was... special. The two were practically joined at the hip, if they weren't a year apart in age they'd probably spend all damn day together every day, but... As much as tried to shake it she couldn't help but feel that her best friend who couldn't possibly be on the island was still in danger despite it all...

But no, Jane was the immediate concern, she was most likely on the island and probably wouldn't be taking Cyrille's death well. Sam's secondary concern would be offing Ishida, but securing Jane's safety was first.

Sam picked herself up and tried to compose herself. She had goals now, and she would be damned if someone kept her from them.
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Janet looked up sharply as the voice called out, derisive and mocking. Or was that her own editorial twist, a product of her mind to make what she had done, and was going to do, seem justified? She couldn't tell the difference anymore. The girl had stopped a distance away, and was talking about... paint? What the hell?

"In answer to your first question, yes, saving my own life is a noble purpose- to me, at least. However the noble purpose I was referring to had more to do with my plot to get revenge on Danya. Which, I realize, is cold comfort to a soon to be corpse. In answer to your second question, no, I don't have any paint. I don't imagine it would be easy to find, although the Groundskeeper might have some, although I imagine it would not be of a quality one would use for painting art," Janet said, stalwartly pretending that it was perfectly normal to have a civil conversation like this while she was wearing only her underclothes.

She failed to keep up the charade, and, seemingly nonchalantly, turned her back on the apparently unarmed person. Still, she tensed slightly as she bent down to gather her clothes from her bag. She dressed with her back still turned, ears pricked for the sound of movement.

As she finished dressing, she grabbed her weapon and turned to face the girl again.
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A plot to get revenge on Danya?

Mizore stood by politely while the girl put on her clothes. She felt a bit odd talking to someone in her underwear; killer or no, it felt like Mizore had some sort of unfair psychological advantage here. Moreover, Mizore's mind was spinning. A plot to get revenge on Danya? Did this woman know anything about Danya? Enough to get revenge? Even Mizore knew Danya's base and origins were unknown, mysterious.

Did this woman know something the rest of the world didn't?

Mizore's mind spun out of control. What if they could strike at Danya? What would Mizore Soryu, freegan vegan anarchist pacifist, do then?

Would you hurt him?

The answer was immediate.

Yes.

And as hard as Mizore tried, she couldn't think of a reason not to.

There is no reason not to hurt him after he hurt so many. No reason not to murder him. Neutralize him. Take him out of this life. Send him to hell.

She was squeezing the sleeve of the blue jacket.

Raidon.

I swore to you I wouldn't break.

But if this woman knows how to hurt Danya…

There was no snapping or breaking in her mind. Nothing inevitable. Just a conscious decision, a conscious realization that, for the first time in her short life, she could find herself capable of killing another human being.

I'd do it. He deserves it.

Almost undoubtably true. But not relevant. Mizore wasn't God, or a servant thereof. It wasn't her job to judge.

The voice in the announcements, laughing, far away.

I'm doing it so the villains don't win.

But this was not a movie. And Mizore fought her villains with pickets and graffiti and civil disobedience, not cold-blooded murder. A difference of degree was not a difference of fact--right?

And she felt, phantom, under her fingers, Raidon's inked, scarred skin. He had had ghosts in his eyes, and a gun in his hand, and violence all through his body, and she had never wanted to let him go.

An odd coolness was resting under her skin.

I'm doing it for you.

But no. She pushed that away. Raidon wasn't here now. She had spent half a night with him. She couldn't know his desires. And she had never pledged herself as his instrument anyway. What he wanted wasn't relevant. Her decision now was hers alone.

And Hellmurder Island seemed a bad place to start conning her conscience.

I'm doing it for myself.

And that was the truth.

The girl finished dressing, picked up her hockey stick, and turned back to Mizore. And Mizore asked the question:

"What do you know about Danya?"
--------


Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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~Really short and tacky Post is short and tacky. :C~

With every second that passed, both the tension and the conversation got worse.

It had gone from introductions to a craving for paint to a revolt… Murder.

She wasn’t stupid, nobody was that stupid. Everybody in America knew that Danya’s whereabouts were unknown. It was almost as if he could go invisible. Beyond any form of governmental tracking… It was futile to even think you could actually do any form of attack on him. Especially when you were in the game.

There was no escape, it was meaningless to try. Even if it worked in the favour of some persons ego, they never ended with success, or newfound identities and a new life out of the limelight of the government, the media and more importantly the terrorist organisation.

They were blood crazy.

She wanted no part of it. None at all. It wouldn’t work. No… It couldn’t work. She wanted to survive not to die for a futile cause. A lame and dumb cause.

Revolts and rebellions were for adults; not teenagers who had no prior experience. It was virtually suicide. She cautiously stood up as she began to creep out of the area so she could flee and not die at the hands of Janet and paint girl.

With every step backwards she took, she continued to look towards the two chatting girls; to make sure they didn’t spot her. She couldn’t turn her back, just Incase-

SNAP.

Lucy Ashmore looked down, petrified, as she lifted her foot off what remained of a broken stick. Her eyes widened as she swore profusely to herself.

How stupid could you get?
Edited by Zecuma, Oct 7 2010, 01:15 PM.
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Sam heard voices. Going to investigate, she found Janet and Mizore.

Janet was a killer but... Sam had bigger things to worry about, like finding Jane. She hadn't been seen so she could easily slip away... right?

As she began to walk away, she heard a twig snap. It was nowhere near her, but if it was caused by a person they might be in danger. No, she couldn't waste anymore time, everyone was already in danger she couldn't concern herself with strangers when her friends were out there!

Coming to a decision, Sam left to find her friend, and her new enemy.

((Samantha Ridley continued in Measure Once, Cut Twice))
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Janet was a little taken aback by the question. Sure, vowing to kill Danya assuaged the pain of her tortured conscience, but it never occurred to her that it may not be as simple as find him and bash him with the hockey stick until the red flowed freely. Janet quickly organized her thoughts and spoke, haughtily.

"I know enough. I know that he is the leader of an organization that kidnapped us. I know that he is probably one of America's most wanted criminals. I know that... he could be found by hacking into the local area network that these camera's are on or something. I'm pretty sure they upload these videos to the internet, so the IP address could be tracked."

She would have continued, but a sharp crack rang out somewhere nearby. Tight nerves caused Janet to drop to the ground and roll up to her knees, Hockey stick in a ready position.

"Who's there?!"
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"Do you know how to hack into the local area network?" Mizore asked sharply. Perhaps more sharply than she had intended. But she wanted to know. "Do you know what materials we need?"

Then a stick cracked, and the woman dropped to the ground, rolled to her knees, crouching with the hockey stick. Mizore, with less keen survival instincts, merely put her hands to her face.

They looked around a moment. Silence. Mizore picked up a tense hum in her ears. Her shoulders felt weighted. She and the woman looked at each other, and then to the woods again.

Mizore lowered her arms, finally, and took a step backwards.

There was a girl. Lucy Ashmore; Mizore remembered the name. Tiny, gaunt, quiet, meek. Mizore had sketched her once, during band practice, the terrible year she had played piano for the school.

Lucy looked at her. She looked, frankly, terrified. Mizore held up her hands to show, again, that she was not armed.

Her peripheral vision showed movement. The woman looked to be lurching up again.

"You should run." Mizore said. Then, for good measure, "Now."
--------


Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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Zecuma
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"You should run." the second girl bluntly spoke, "Now."

She stuttered out of fear, "R-Running..."

Within a second later she had spun around on the spot and began to run. She just ran. She had been so freaking careless and she was still punishing herself in her head. It wasn't worth sticking around. She had been given her warning and she heeded it. She wasn't going to let the rebels ruin her plan of living... Surviving.

Without turning back she continued to run, almost echoing her actions only hours before. Getting the hell out of the residential area. She thought she could've found sanctuary, but no. She needed to carry on running, being free. Being alone.

Was there anybody out there to trust?

(Lucy Ashmore continued in Burn the Louvre)
Edited by Zecuma, Nov 15 2010, 06:49 PM.
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Janet watched the observer run off, then stood. She casually hooked the shoulder strap of her daypack with the stick, leaning it over her shoulder as she turned to the other girl.

"You caught me in a good mood. I'm not going to pursue you, or try and kill you. There is nothing in it for me- I at least still have that much humanity left. Good day."

And with that, Janet turned and set off at a light jog. She didn't know where she was going, although she would have to be wary of Danger Zones. And other players. But danger zones were a more pressing danger, as she would get no warning if she set foot in one. Just a popping sound, and then sweet death.

That would not be conducive to her plans.

((Janet Binachi continued in The Various Downsides Of Becoming "Paranoid as Balls".))
Edited by armeggedonCounselor, Oct 24 2010, 07:15 PM.
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And Mizore was alone again.

At least it was pretty. Sunlight dappled from the trees. Spanish moss on the branches. Mizore had never liked the classic landscape paintings, but as she lay down, the world whirled, and the netted branches patterned surreal enough to take her fancy.

She reached into her bag for some bread, a baguette. Her body felt slow, sedentary. The desire to kill was still sour in her mind, an ugly elixir of vengeance, desperation, clawing despair, misguided protectionism (Raidon. Raidon.) and a tiny voice in her head saying it's not fair! It's not fair! She tried to overlay that thought with it's impossible. It would become easier with time.

Janet doesn't know a thing about Danya.

She was Radio Asuka. She was on SOTF. She would be a pacifist, a painter, an idealist. Not a child bent on cockeyed revenge.

Your public perception means so much to you, Radio.

And her private perception too. She was going to die. She was going to die making something fucking beautiful. She was not going to die wanting revenge.

She was not going to die wanting revenge.

Raidon.

She ate her baguette lying down, like a French picnic. It was a beautiful island, really. The moss was soft under her head.

Yes. It was so much easier to die on this island when she didn't have to think about the thin Japanese boy.

Mizore swallowed the last of her bread, closed her eyes, and began to meditate.

It was one of the unabashedly Buddhist things about her commune, the fact that so many of them practiced meditation. They were a motley crew, full of nightmares and paranoia and slightly hallucinogenic paint, and meditation worked for a lot of them. For Mizore, it stopped her from obsessing. It blew her thoughts away.

The trees rustled above her. There were birds here, irregularly cheeping and wailing. Noises. Smells of moss, grass, thick sap. Everything became clearer when she closed her eyes.

Someone could plow her down right now. And she didn't really care.

The revenge was in her mind, clinging to desperation, posing as hope. Fear of her own death--what dreams will come? Fear, more tenacious, of Raidon's death. Of attachment. Of I can't save him, why have I crippled myself?

She imagined it as something feathered, and let it blow away.

After a while, she got up. The sun had moved in the sky. She studied her map. She was going to the Groundskeeper's hut to get some paint.

Danya, Danya, I will not die bitter. This is one victory I will deny you.

(Mizore Soryu continued in instinct*algorithm)
--------


Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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