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The Long Road Home; semi-private; PM to join
Topic Started: Nov 23 2010, 12:04 AM (3,539 Views)
Rocky
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They see me walking, they hating
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
((All GMing of all characters involved in the following post is approved (and for the most part written by the handler))

((Sarah Xu, Bridget Connolly, Örn “Dutchy” Ayers, Kimberly Nguyen, and Roland Hayes continued from Dimer))

It didn't take long for Sarah and Dutchy to catch up with the rest of the group, the others had fortunately decided to wait for them nearby. A few hours of hiking through the forest later and she could once again hear the ocean, they'd given the infirmary a very, very wide berth and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs was reassuring. By the time they were out in the open it had to be at least 10 o'clock, the trees were becoming more sparse as they approached the town, though the grass only got longer. Ahead of them a semicircle of houses and disused docks occupied the depression between them and the steep rise on the other side.

Ploughing through the sea of grass they soon reached the first street. The vegetation ended abruptly, with a short drop from the loam to the gravelly impression before the asphalt began. Sarah took it first, landing heavily. She stepped to the side as Bridget handily jumped down. She took a step forward to help Kimberly down, but she'd refused it almost before Sarah offered. Dutchy and Roland soon followed, and they began to make their way down the street.

A little way down the road they came to a suitable looking two story house, one of the larger ones in the street, slightly raised, a sturdy brick fence surrounding it. The door was slightly ajar, but after a few nervous shouts of "Hello? Is anyone in there?" Sarah beckoned the others inside.

They dropped their bags in the living room, Dutchy laid down on a couch and some of them decided to take a moment to sit and rest. Sarah and Bridget were soon up the stairs though, making sure the group really was alone, and checking that it really was an appropriate place to stay. The two girls methodically searched the house, taking note of the amount of rooms and exits, in case someone decided to ambush them through the night or something. Once the search of the upper floor was completed, The two girls stood at the top of the stairway.

"Everything looks to be good. We should be fine." Bridget said, a small smile of relief crossing her face.

"There's just one problem." Sarah responded.
"What's that?"
"There's only four beds."
"I can see how that's a problem."
"Well, there's a double, if you don't mind sharing."
"Not at all."
"Then that's that problem solved."

When you go travelling in a family of five, you got used to sharing beds at every second hotel, or crawling into the parents bedroom during a storm only to find it occupied by everyone already.

They searched the rest of the house. The former occupants seemed to have taken anything of value, monetary or sentimental. The drawers were empty, the fridge was empty, there was a flask of table salt in one of the cupboards, some dishwashing fluid under the sink, nothing worth taking. Outside the kitchen window, Sarah spotted an old shed in the back. She went out back, Bridget following close by.

The sliding shed door refused to open, clogged and jammed with grime and rust. They pulled and pushed and eventually it gave with a screech. More screeching, more pulling, and it finally stood open.

And inside was kind of a huge pile of crap. She swiped away a curtain of rotting cobwebs before stepping inside. A few tubs of paint, a couple of spades, a hammer or two, a selection of screwdrivers and some boxes of screws and nails and bits and pieces. It wasn't much, but they could use some of the stuff in here. A hammer, while not a good weapon by any stretch, sure as hell beat just your fists.The two gathered up some of the equipment, placing the hammers, a couple screw drivers, and nails into a small wooden box on the ground before returning to the house.

And so, the group was alone in the house. Without the fear of being attacked, at least not without fair warning, Sarah decided that it was time to tell the others about her plan. The only problem being how. If Danya and his goons caught wind of what they were planning, then it would be a very short plan. They could write it down, but that would be tedious, not to mention impossible during the darker hours. Perhaps just passing her notebook around would suffice, although judging from Bridget's reaction, she would have to end up explaining something to someone. Well, might as well start now.

------
((Many, Many Hours Later))


There it was. Cards on the table. Kimberly fidgeted in her seat, scratched an itch on her neck, and watched the others plan. From what she'd seen, well, maybe they stood a chance. Maybe. Most likely, though, they were all fucked, were all gonna die horrible, bloody deaths, to decapitation or worse. That was, quite simply, something Kimberly wanted no part of.

She liked them all. Well, not really, for the most part they pissed her off, with their offers of help and their optimism and their not-so-subtle objections to letting her spend some quality time with a tied-up Kris Hartmann and nothing but a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and a two-by-four for company, but hey, she felt at least a little affection for them. They had saved her life and shit, and Dutchy hadn't even spilled her secret yet.

But no amount of affection would be sufficient for her to follow them to their dooms. It wasn't that she was afraid of dying. She was, she certainly was, but that was more of a reason to try anything, to scramble desperately after every last lead. No, what stopped Kimberly from wanting to join in this optimistic idiocy was the terrible fear that she'd be wasting her time. They'd try, and they'd die, and it wouldn't be any different than if they'd died playing, or hiding, or saving lives, or whatever the fuck they could have done. Like, say, tracking down Kris and extracting some measure of vengeful satisfaction.

That was it. Kimberly was going to die. So were Sarah and Dutchy and Roland and Bridget. The difference was, Kimberly was going to die doing what she wanted to do.

She looked around. Her stuff was still packed. Good. Time to get a move on.

Back at school, Kimberly had been known for stalking off in the middle of arguments, the second she lost interest. Now, though, she felt like she could at least spare a moment of explanation for her erstwhile companions.

"Hey, guys," she began. "Good luck and all. I wish you the best, really. I just think you're fucked."

Lay it all on the table. No point easing in gently.

"More than that, what you're trying to do, well, it's not what I want. We're all going to die here. We all know that. I was pretty damn straight with you about what I want to do before then. That hasn't changed.

"So, yeah, good luck. I hope you make it. I really do. And, hey, maybe later I'll have nothing better to do.

"Listen to the announcements. You'll hear my name sooner or later. The context'll probably tell you if I'll be coming back to help or... not."

That was all that had to be said. Kimberly gathered her things and started out the door, heedless of any protest. She'd made her choice. No going back. No being coddled or protected. She could do this.

Right outside the entrance, she paused for a moment, turned back. Smiled at them all, shot them a wink.

"Catch you later."

And with that, she was gone.

((Kimberly Nguyen continued in But I Might Die Tonight))
G068 Chan, Yuan Stephanie
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Dutchy had been laying on the couch for what seemed like eternity. He'd fallen asleep at some point, and had dreamt of nothing. He felt strange, as if his entire body was gradually becoming numb... his fingers felt slow, unresponsive. The others were busy, talking or checking the immediate area. Dutchy hadn't helped, but they didn't seem to mind. Dutchy did. He felt guilty, useless.

They don't need me tagging along... I'm not helping. I CAN'T help. I can't. I just can't do anything...

Dutchy thought back to the previous sleepless night and his mind once more returned to the names. He jammed his hands into his eye sockets, willing himself not to cry. No effort was required however. Dutchy simply couldn't cry anymore. He had prayed he would stop, he prayed for control at least in front of his friends. Now that it was gone however, he felt emptier then ever. Inhuman. A monster, worse then the killers of Survival of the Fittest.

The reported death toll was 41. Dutchy supposed that many more had died since, but he couldn't handle thinking about that. He had known nearly every one to some degree. Dutchy had loved his friends. He had loved his life. Danya had taken it, and was viciously dismembering it all, his happiness, his very existence, piece by piece. The others were fighting, and he should be to. But he just couldn't. He had tried, but the reality was too terrifying. His friends were dying. Steve Barnes, the boy from the beach was dead. Dutchy couldn't believe it, had refused to believe it. But the truth was slowly burned into him as he walked with Sarah, and he couldn't deny it. Tom Guthrie was dead, so was Everett. People he had known, had classes with. They had died, somewhere in the woods. He hadn't been there.

What kind of a friend am I?

It was eerily quiet. The others had for the most part left him alone. He knew his behavior was upsetting them. He had on occasion, tried to put on a brave face, or even smile. The sad looks they had given in return shattered him even more. Dutchy was running out of smiles. He was running out of time. And not for the first time, he was beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, that was a good thing.

They can't leave me behind. It's unspoken, but it's agreed on. They won't let me die. But I will. I know I will. And they'll just have to watch and... and cry. What kind of a friend does that? What kind of a friend am I, if I let that happen? I've let others die. I could have done something more I could have- But no... And I can't let it go. I can't pretend nothing is wrong when I'm dying on the inside...

Dutchy did not know what he wanted. But it wasn't like God was listening anyway.

~~~~

"Good luck and all. I wish you the best, really. I just think you're fucked."

Dutchy flinched back at the words. He didn't know why. It was true. They were doomed. The others were gathered together, sharing information, trying to figure a way out. Dutchy sat nearby. He was close enough to listen, and he did intently. He hoped against all hope that Sarah had found a way, an escape. But as Kim had so eloquently put it, they were goners. Dutchy shivered as the girl stood. He felt cold, despite the pleasant temperature. Just looking at Kimberly made him feel cold, nervous. He hadn't forgotten the secret, the strange encounter just a few hours before. He halfheartedly wondered what had happened, but dismissed it. It wasn't important. He would probably never know why exactly Kimberly had left the camp. And as hard as he tried, he couldn't bring himself to care about even that.

As Kimberly turned to leave, Dutchy felt a pang of fear shoot up through him. The girl had been shot, and was obviously paying close attention to avoid aggravating the wound. He silently chastised himself for his fear, and struggled to prevent his stomach from somersaulting.

Will it be bloody when I go? I can't stand blood. I don't know how she can still walk after that... Sarah fixed her. She's fantastic. I was a mess, after just a glimpse and she... She's so brave. She's braver then me.


The door slammed behind Kim as she departed. Dutchy hadn't felt safe around Kim he realized suddenly, the girl unnerved him. Her behavior wasn't normal, and if he wasn't so trusting Dutchy suspected his paranoia to shoot through the roof. All the same, he was even more so terrified to let her go. The Island was dangerous, and she was out there alone.

I should have stopped her. I shouldn't have let her leave. She'll get hurt, and it'll be my fault because I didn't stop her...


"Bless Kimmy..." He mumbled to himself.

Goodbye forever... What are you going to do? What are you going to do...?
V5
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~~~~ Day 4 ~~~~


Sarah woke the next morning feeling like she was snug in her bed at home again, adding all the more dissapointment when she put on her glasses and remembered where she was. The bed was twice the size of her own and lacked the half-naked Japanese girl she'd grown accustomed to sharing it with.

She quickly remembered why Reiko wasn't there... And before she could stop dwelling on it the announcements declared the deaths of yet more of her friends. Sitting up in bed the violence felt distant, but from Vera's death onwards that didn't make it hurt any less.

She went downstairs. Bridget was already up, double-checking their map in the daylight and the route to where they intended to carry out their plan. Roland came down the stairs not long afterwards.

The drowziness of morning was giving Sarah second thoughts about Bridget's plan. She felt more uneasy about it without the momentum of the day before. She didn't voice it, bravery might come once they were moving. Or recklessness. Besides, they'd decided not to let the others know what they were up to.

They told Roland that they were leaving to get supplies from the other end of town and asked if he could take care of Dutchy, the house, and all that was in it while they were gone. Which, after Sarah grabbed her bag full of junk, they soon were.


((Sarah and Bridget continued in Reduction))

(edits to come for day 3 later, My computer baleted them but we need to catch up. :S)
Edited by Gwbiii, Dec 1 2010, 06:59 PM.
G003 - Sarah Xu -"Th-then I-I'll stitch you up."---> 開始
G049 - Mia Kuiper - "lada didi dada di dum dum."---> Anfang
B040 - Richard Han - "YOU WIN THIS TIME, GRAAAVIIIIITYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY"
G094 - Raina Morales
-*snort* pretty cows...---> Began: Bump in the Night || Ended: A New Day
""-Mandarin ""-Cantonese ""-German ""-Spanish
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"He is a pimp," said the voice coming out of Roland's television, "and pimps... don't... commit... suicide."

Roland Hayes and Vera Osborne sat on the couch in his living room, the light from the TV illuminating their confused and troubled faces as the credits rolled and the soft melody of Blur did its best to soothe their ears. For a minute or so, neither of them said a word.

Roland tried his best to compose himself, opening his mouth several times, each time pulling back words before he could say them. He furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, took a deep breath and asked, "What did we just watch?"

Vera groaned and shook her head. "I don't know. Bullshit, I guess."

He got up and turned off the TV, taking out the DVD and putting it back in its case. As he walked back to the couch, he chuckled to himself. "Yeah. Pretty funny, though. What was your favorite part?"

She smiled and looked at the ceiling, trying to think back to the parts of the movie she enjoyed. "Well... I got a kick out of Jon Lovitz killing people. That was kinda trippy."

"Yeah, that was fun. I liked... um. Geez." Roland crossed his legs, then uncrossed them again. "I dunno. The stupid dialogue. Can't get narrow it down any more than that." He sighed and shook his head again. "You wanna do something else? Wash the taste out of your mouth or something?"

"Nah," Vera said, getting up out of her seat and holding her hand out for the DVD case. "I gotta get back home and study. You should probably study, too."

Roland frowned and passed the case to her. "Nngh. I got math to do. Wish me luck."

"Good luck. And, um, sorry I subjected you to that," Vera said as she left for the door.

"It's fine," Roland said, laying down on the couch and reaching for a book that most likely had nothing to do with math. "I laughed my ass off. I ought to see more movies like that."

---

The month afterward, Roland felt like he was about to die. His lungs felt like they would never get enough air, his heart swung around in his ribcage like a recently-battered punching bag, he had at least five stitches in his chest, his mouth felt like it was lined with leather, and his vision got blurry from his pounding headache.

"Jesus, Roland, you look awful!" Max yelled from many feet away, hopping to his feet and sprinting towards Roland, leading him to the nearest park bench. "How long have you been running?"

"Dunno," Roland replied, his hand searching blindly for a water bottle. It eventually found one, raising it to Roland's mouth and squirting water inside. "Kinda lost track."

Max blinked and looked around, the expression on his face matching that of a man who just discovered that his house had flipped itself upside-down. "You didn't feel the need to stop at any time?" he asked. "You didn't pack a water bottle to carry with you while you ran, you didn't dress for exercise, and now you're about to pass out because you didn't have the sense to stop when you started to cramp up. Damn, Roland, I really thought you were smarter than this!"

Roland coughed, sputtering on his water. "At least I'm exercising!" he said. "You know how many times I thought about getting into it before, only to chicken out at the last minute?" His eyes met Max's, unwavering and unblinking. "I just decided to get it over with." He took another long gulp of water and wiped his forehead. "But you're right. I probably should have prepared for this more.

Max just sighed and shook his head. "You could have just told me you wanted to get in shape, you know," he said, looking up at Roland and giving him a good-natured smile. "You can run with me whenever you want. Just give me a call, alright?"

Roland nodded. "Yeah, okay." He tried to stretch his arms, only to stop suddenly and wince. "Ow. I'm gonna be sore tomorrow."

---

Weeks later, Roland held back sobs, holding his head in his hands after hearing the third announcement. Both of them were gone. The Activist Club had lost its first member, and though Vera was probably the most distant of the bunch, Roland still considered her a good friend. Then there was Max Neill, probably his best friend in the whole fucking school, and the student body president besides. And now he was gone, like he was nothing special. Max had a bright future ahead of him. Roland once told him he wouldn't be surprised to see Max running the country in forty years. Not anymore.

Memories of the night before still weighed heavily on Roland's mind, the night when Sarah finally spilled her guts and let everyone in on the big secret. Roland drank it all in, more than willing to take a leap of faith for Sarah's sake. Then Kimberly had to piss all over it by walking out on them. He responded by flipping her off; he was sure she saw him do it, but she just stormed out instead of reacting. What really set him off, though, was what he heard Dutchy say in response.

"'Bless Kimmy?'" he shouted. "She threatens you and you bless her? Christ, Dutchy, what's wrong with you?" He glared at another of his friends, a friend afflicted with Stockholm Syndrome. "Yeah, I heard the two of you talk last night. Are you that much of a pushover? Are you that much of a sheep? Fuck Kimmy, we don't need someone like that with us."

He turned his head to the open door that Kimberly used to exit. "Good riddance, bitch!" he yelled, before getting up and slamming the door behind her.

That was the night before. Now Roland's words stung him almost as much as the announcement did. His outburst probably hurt Dutchy quite a bit, and now he needed to mend those wounds. He agreed to sit with Dutchy while Sarah and Bridget searched for supplies.

"Dutchy, I'm sorry about what I said. I know how hard this is on everyone. I shouldn't have blamed you."
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Dutchy sat at the edge of the couch, staring off at the wall. The entire house had gradually worked its way to a deathly silence since the abrupt departure of Kim the night before. Sarah and Bridget had gone off in search of something, whether it be supplies or allies, Dutchy didn't know.

I should know. They told me, but...

But he had forgotten. It wasn't important, whatever the case. Dutchy wasn't integral to the success of the mission, and for that he was glad. He wasn't stupid. He realized the state he was in, and he realized the utter uselessness he would have been had they trusted him with anything. The others were keeping their heads above the water. Dutchy was content to drown.

Roland entered the room, the strong boy looking a little worse for the wear. He'd been left behind to guard the fort while the girls went out.

And to guard me...

Dutchy cringed back slightly as Roland sat down next to him. He'd grown angry last night with Kim's departure, so angry that Dutchy had momentarily feared his friend would strike him. He would have apologized for what he had done, but by the time he'd regained his senses from the verbal thrashing, Roland was already upstairs. It had worried him and kept him up almost the entire night.

It wasn't so much the prospect of Roland still being angry with him, but more so the idea of Roland... leaving.... and being angry with him. At one point hearing a creek upstairs, he'd convinced himself that Roland was sneaking his way out, to leave the group just like Kim. Dutchy had stayed awake for a good two hours, keeping an eye on the stairs. Not to reprimand him if he left. Simply to apologize.

Exhaustion eventually took him, and Dutchy didn't dream. It was a blessing, given the circumstances. When he had dreamed, it was always of home, of St. Paul, of warm food and his mom smiling happily as he bounced through the door. It was as horrible as the hours awake, knowing he would never return to it.

For all his initial optimism, Dutchy's hopes were shattered. The announcements had been ripping apart his mind, name by name. Even rescue, even some escape, what solace was there in that? His friends were dying, innocent people were dying. How could he be who he was, past the game? Dutchy had died the second he had stepped foot on the bus.

The announcements brought little comfort, as always. More were dying. Hermione Miller was dead. So was Craig Hoyle, and so was Vera Osbourne. Dutchy had known many of the kids listed on the announcements. Even in his groggy state however, this one struck home. Vera was the first killed whom Dutchy had been close friends with. A fellow activist…, an amazing artist. Gone. Dutchy could still picture her smile and struck his fist against his head to knock the image from his mind. Hermione Miller had always seemed to be in his class. She wasn’t the brightest, even Dutchy could see that. But it didn’t matter. She was energetic, she was fun. And who could forget Craig? He was one of the gentlest kids Dutchy had ever known, and a fellow comic lover to boot. Dutchy had smacked himself again at the thought of Craig lumbering through the hallways, a Minnesota Vikings jersey tight on his large frame. He couldn’t bring himself to remember anymore. It was far too painful.

Dutchy had barely realized Roland had been talking. It was rude and he chastised himself for it. He felt slow in his thoughts, slow in his movements… as if the entire house, his entire life were now submerged in icy cold water. Brushing his blonde hair out of his face, he turned to regard Roland.

“Bless… no. No vertu blessuð. That’s how they say it. Goodbye.” Dutchy whispered, seemingly straining to say every word.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. And an- what she was doing, that night. I- I don’t know. If- if, if it would have hurt you, I would tell you. I don’t want to hurt you Roland. Please, believe me. I won’t do it again, okay?”

He tried to smile, but knew he had made a horrible attempt. He was suddenly shivering, suddenly very cold. It didn’t make any sense.

Since when did this place have to make sense? Since when did the world have to make sense? People die every day. Maybe this is rational. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.
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It wasn't a blessing after all. It was just Dutchy's Icelandic way of saying goodbye. Roland grimaced and looked away from Dutchy, embarrassed at the faux pas he committed in the heat of the moment. "Aw shit. I'm sorry, man. I didn't..."

He didn't mean what he said? Bullshit. He meant every word. He hated Kimberly then, and he still did now. He'd lost patience with Dutchy for just a minute then, and he'd made Dutchy fear him. It wasn't a nice feeling at all.

"I'm sorry," he said again, sitting down on the couch next to Dutchy. "I was just worried about you. We're a team, you know? We gotta stick together, and Kimmy wasn't... she wasn't being a team player." She was also out of her mind, but Roland neglected to mention that to Dutchy.

He sat in silence for a few more minutes, trying to think of something else he could do or say. What he ended up thinking of made him feel even more empty inside. His thoughts turned to his sister Lily; he desperately wondered about her, hoped she was doing alright. He hadn't heard her name yet, which was good. He hoped she'd found some people to team up with, some people she could help, who could help her. If she had to spend this much time out there alone... Roland didn't know what either of them would do then. It was a miracle he'd met so many of his friends immediately after waking up here. Was Lily equally fortunate?

"Christ," he sighed, slumping forward in his seat. "I hope she's okay. I hope they're okay." He wanted to run out and find her, wanted to run out and help Sarah find supplies, wanted to do anything. But the team had a plan, and he forced himself to follow it, no matter how much it killed him inside.
WickedIcon: i just launched a baby wearing a denim jacket and a bowler hat across a hospital, through a window, killing several patients, destroying thousands of dollars of equipment, and finally coming to rest on the body of a presumably dead clown
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chitoryu12I have yet to find gay sex that involves the men punching each other. I must not be on the internet enough

Turning Pages: Read some books along with me, why don't you?

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Dutchy absentmindedly nodded his head as Roland apologized. He couldn't quite reason out why. Was that what normally happened, even if a fight was one sided? For the life of him, Dutchy couldn't understand just why Roland should be sorry. He wasn't the one in the wrong. Or was he? Dutchy ignored the thought.

Just forget. It's over, it's not important. Nothing's important anymore. Heck, nothing ever was important. Everything I've done, what does it matter? I'm still here. This was my destination, all along. Who cares if I was nice, or mean, or anything in between. It ends here, we all end here, the good guys, the bad guys. We're equal. We've had no point.

Dutchy shook his head, knocking the thoughts from his mind. His heart was pounding for some reason, but he couldn't be sure why. Raising his pale hands he rubbed his eyes, letting out a soft sigh. Roland was talking, rationalizing. He tried his hardest to listen and understand, but it went straight over his head. Dutchy gave a nod.

"It's okay Roland. Don't be sorry. They'll be oka- they'll come back."

The bigger boy sagged down in his seat, boredom seemingly striking him dead. Dutchy could understand the feeling. Roland was a fighter, he could be of use outside. But he was stuck, babysitting. Guilt burnt into his gut. He curled up, hands on his knees and tilted over, leaning against Roland. He didn't know what else to say. The underwater sensation was back, and through the haze, all he could think of was Vera.

Vera...

"Roland..." Dutchy began, his voice cracking. "Roland, do you think it's working? The map? Do you think someone saw? Do you think they cared?"
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[ *  *  *  * ]
Roland just sat there, looking over the room as he tried his best to relax, to try to calm down before all of the stress building up inside him burst out and made him do something he'd regret. Dutchy leaned against him, probably to try and get some more comfort out of Roland. It just made Roland tense up, and try to subtly scoot away from Dutchy. He didn't like being touched like that, but he couldn't think of a way to tell Dutchy about it without hurting his feelings. So in the end, he didn't get far from Dutchy, instead letting him lean on him and trying to swallow his pride.

Dutchy asked Roland about the map. It took a moment for Roland to figure out what to say in response. "I... I don't know, man," he said, just deciding to be on the honest side about it. "Someone probably did see it, but it's anyone's guess as to whether they'll be able to use that information or not, and I really don't think they can do it quickly." Dutchy was so earnest and eager in revealing the map to the cameras that Roland felt awful having to reign in his expectations. "We might as well go with Sarah's plan while we wait for them to figure it out."

He looked up at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything that happened to anyone else. It didn't work. "Is... is there anyone else you're worried about?" he asked Dutchy. "I was just thinking about my sister."
WickedIcon: i just launched a baby wearing a denim jacket and a bowler hat across a hospital, through a window, killing several patients, destroying thousands of dollars of equipment, and finally coming to rest on the body of a presumably dead clown
WickedIcon: this is the best dollar i've spent in several years

chitoryu12I have yet to find gay sex that involves the men punching each other. I must not be on the internet enough

Turning Pages: Read some books along with me, why don't you?

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[ *  *  *  *  * ]
Dutchy bit his tongue, unsure of what exactly to say. The realization that somewhere out there, Lillian Hayes was fighting for her life hit him full on. Dutchy had, as ashamed as he was to admit, forgotten that Roland had a sister. He liked Roland, practically loved the boy, but he'd never exactly gotten a chance to know the other members of the Hayes' brood. Guilt quickly overwhelmed him, the pale Icelandic boy grimaced in discomfort as the taste of blood filled his mouth. A shiver went up his spine as he curled up against Roland. The realization of his vanity struck home as he stared off into space, contemplating his friends words.

Here I am, moaning and crying for everyone, for everything I've lost... And Roland has a sister. Out there, out where there's gunfire and.. and killing. People being mean, and people dying and he's sitting here, guarding me. He could be out there, he- he could be sitting here, going out of his mind with worry but- but no, he's waiting. Patiently. He's calm, he's not crying and he's not worrying... he's not even scared. How? How is that even possible? If I die, that's it. My parents, they only lose me. But Roland, his parents... They had to lose two, a daughter and a son.

"I'm... I'm worried for everyone. I don't want to hear any more names..." He whispered, struggling to make himself clear. "I'm scared everytime that microphone crackles and 'he' starts talking... I don't know how you're doing this. You're... you're really brave Roland. You're braver then I could ever be."

I'm doing nothing, and it's costing them time they can't afford to waste...

Dutchy bit his lip again, despite the pain. He didn't know what to add, what to say. Sorry? Sorry wasn't cutting it. He could be sorry all he wanted, but sorry wasn't going to stop Danya, sorry wasn't going to make anyone safe. Dutchy hated Danya. He wanted him to go away, he wanted him to disappear forever. He could almost picture the man in front of him, taunting him for his misplaced courage. He'd been so sure he could save them, save everyone. He'd been so sure he could be strong. But he'd failed, failed miserably. It was up to people like Roland to carry him along like extra baggage, while he dreamed seemingly endless nightmares about broken bodies, beeping collars...

He'd failed, plain and simple. Failed as a friend, failed as a companion. He'd failed to even keep smiling, the one thing that made him who he was. He'd cried, he'd practically fainted, he'd puked and sobbed and moaned and had served no positive purpose, not for a single person since he'd woken up on that beach so long ago.

I'm a symbol of this, of Survival of the Fittest. A symbol of what Danya can do, what Danya IS doing to Bayview. Breaking it apart, piece by piece. I do have a purpose. To remind Bayview of what it once was, and more importantly, what it was now.

Dutchy found himself letting out a low giggle, and barely managed to stop himself. Casting a worried glance up at Roland, Dutch looked back towards the wall, embarrassed. There was no doubt about it. His mind was going. He'd spent far too long thinking, contemplating over things he couldn't change. It was driving him crazy, and the more he thought, the more he felt himself separate, looking back on his own past as if he were a different person. Would the old Dutchy have sat there, thinking about death? It was impossible to even consider the circumstance. He'd barely watched a violent movie in his life. Blood made him squeamish. He'd practically fainted during the Kimberly incident. He couldn't hurt a fly, but then again he couldn't help a fly either. But yet here he was. Death was all around. Vera was gone, and more were dying every minute. And here he sat, not trying to help, not even bawling his eyes out, but contemplating. Trapped underwater, drowning and breaking apart, drifting away...

Back before the island, that was Dutchy. But I'm not Dutchy anymore.
Dutchy wouldn't cry, he wouldn't let his friends down, not like me.
He'd had stuck it out to the last, and he would have... smiled.
I can't be Dutchy anymore... Not after what I've done. But I can't let them know that.
Vera. Vera was lucky, she still thinks I'm me. She didn't- she- she didn't see me. She didn't see that I'm a failure. Wherever she is... she- she doesn't know. She still thinks I'm a good person.
Oh God, Vera.
I can't let them know I'm already lost- that I'm never going to make it out of here...
They deserve better. They don't need to know, they don't need to cry. They're all heroes, the good guys and who am I?
I'm not even me anymore. Good guys keep fighting, Super Man never gave up. Not like me. I gave up.
I'm talking about nothing in my head, worried and sick and getting worse.
Vera.
I can't keep playing this stupid game.
I'm wasting away to nothing, and I'm taking them with me.
And if I get out they'll just look at me and remember what they lost...

No.

I can't do that to them...

I need to make them smile.
That's all I've ever wanted to be, just like Super Man, a hero. Strong in the face of danger,
A hero, a rock, strong and loyal.
If...

I can't do this anymore, not to them. I don't wanna' cry... No.

I don't want to make THEM cry...

If I just had a cape, I'd save you all.

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[ *  *  *  * ]
Dutchy thought he was brave. Roland didn't know what to say to that? Could it really be true? When Roland thought of bravery, he thought of people holding the line in battle, risking their lives to fight off an overwhelming threat for the sake of saving someone or something else. He thought of people speaking up against injustice when the consequences for doing so were severe and life-threatening, possibly becoming a martyr for a cause.

He didn't think that simply being able to endure a hopeless situation counted as bravery, especially when he wasn't doing anything else. There was nothing unique about what he was doing. Dutchy actually admired him? They were almost completely in the same boat! The only real difference between them was who they were before they came here. Dutchy was sheltered, almost idyllic in personality, whereas Roland was more hard-edged and cynical. But it didn't really make any difference, did it? This game was so monumental, so destructive, that it was like a megaton bomb detonating in a crowd of people. It didn't matter whether they wore clothes or armor, they were all doomed.

Roland couldn't look at Dutchy afterwards, nor could he bring himself to say anything. His mind raced with possibilities of what could be happening to the other people on the island. He thought of Lily, one of the most ill-prepared to survive this game. It was truly a miracle that she lasted as long as he did. He thought of Rashid and Harun, two more members of the activists club that he hadn't heard anything about since that wretched briefing. God willing, they found people they could depend on, if not each other.

Most of all, he thought of Sarah and Bridget, wishing he'd spoken up before and requested that he and Dutchy had come along with them. True, they wouldn't bring much in the way of weapons, but at least they'd be together. They wouldn't be torn apart with anxiety, the thought that they'd never see anyone from the other group again.

Roland didn't even think it made sense from a safety perspective. If Sarah and Bridget got into a firefight and Roland and Dutchy were with them, they'd be liabilities, but the boys wouldn't be any safer if they were alone and Maxwell Lombardi ambushed them in this house.

That was the thing about waiting alone. It made people restless and second guess their team. He couldn't take this anymore. How long had it been since they left? Half an hour? A full hour? Two? Did they run into any complications? Was it just taking them a long time to find supplies? Now that he thought of it, what were they looking for anyway?

Roland needed to do something to keep his mind off those things. He rose from his seat and walked to the door. "Dutchy, I'm going to stand guard for a bit, alright? Think you'll be okay on your own?"
WickedIcon: i just launched a baby wearing a denim jacket and a bowler hat across a hospital, through a window, killing several patients, destroying thousands of dollars of equipment, and finally coming to rest on the body of a presumably dead clown
WickedIcon: this is the best dollar i've spent in several years

chitoryu12I have yet to find gay sex that involves the men punching each other. I must not be on the internet enough

Turning Pages: Read some books along with me, why don't you?

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[ *  * ]
((Narrow inactivity dodge. Joe Rios continued from Burn the Louvre))

Joe had decided not to leave the Residential Area. He had decided, at some point, that it was in his best interest to stay there; in a relatively developed area, it was much easier to see people coming, and much harder to get violently killed.

He'd curled up on the side of a building somewhere and gone to sleep. Wasn't a particularly comfortable place to sleep, but it'd do; he was too tired to try and pick a lock, and busting a door down would be massively counterproductive due to not only making the house completely indefensible, but also probably alerting half the area to his whereabouts and signing his death warrant.

When he woke up, everything was still. From the sounds of things, he'd just missed the announcements. He got the sinking feeling that he was forgetting something as he ate a light breakfast consisting of a small chunk of bread and a couple gulps of water.

Then, it clicked.

Liz, he thought. Might be a good idea to find Liz. Not sure if I want to see two girls I was attracted to go in such a short time, Joe thought. He wasn't particularly good friends with Liz, certainly not to the degree that he and Rose were friends, but they were on fairly amicable terms and he had a feeling she'd be okay with him protecting her. The fact that Liz was attempting to get off the island made the deal all the sweeter. Then, a sinking realization came to Joe Rios.

Fuck, I'm nowhere close to well-armed enough to take anyone down that's gunning for her. All I've got's this scythe, and I'm not sure if I want to fight someone who's wielding a gun when this is all I've got. Guess that's gonna have to wait.

He stood up, stretched, and scratched the back of his head. Then, a curious sight caught his attention. A couple of people he didn't recognize were leaving a rather nice house nearby, and he could faintly hear talking from within it.

"Perfect," he muttered to himself. He grabbed his daypack, slung it over his shoulder, and trod over to the house. He knocked on the door.

"Hey, anyone there? It's Joe Rios," he said. "I'm unarmed," he quickly added, aware that simply stating his name was not going to persuade the people inside.
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One day, the fabled Ragnarok will come, and as the gods descend to earth and wage war while the world dies around them, WickedIcon will lead the charge, a 12-gauge shotgun in his right hand, and a bottle of Jack Daniels in his left as he rides a steed made of fire and pain.

And the masses will look upon him and weep at the beauty of it all.


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[19:25] Hallucinogenic: it's not like i wanna put my anus on parade


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04:26MimiOH
04:26MimiTHAT'S LESS BAD
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STICK IT IN ZEE BOOOOOOOT~~~~
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
Dutchy wanted desperately to say something, to beg Roland to stay. But what could he do? The boy was already up, moving to the door. He had friends to look out for, he had a job to do. What would he accomplish if he was sitting inside, baby-sitting?

Baby-sitting. That's what he's doing.

Dutchy didn't feel anger at the thought, he felt shame. If he wasn't so weak, a completely defenseless pacifist, Roland would be out with the others, saving people, and proving a use. Dutchy sat up, weakly shaking his head as Roland moved towards the front door. It was better he went, made a use of himself. The others had been gone awhile, and it looked like the bigger boy was becoming nervous.

Dutchy got up off the couch, pacing around the home. It was more or less empty, devoid of furniture. He held his arms in close, suddenly aware he was cold, very cold. He paced back and forth, considering things, thinking about his life, his friends, his failures.

Failure. Just a failure. Can't help Sarah, can't help Roland. Just a tag-a-long, not even me anymore. How can I be me if I stop smiling? If I was gone it'd be better. They'd be thinkin' about me, thinking that maybe I was alright. They know, they can tell, I'm not alright. I'm really not alright. I'm not me anymore.

Dutchy stopped, feeling his guts churn in agony. How long had it been since he'd last eaten? Two announcements ago? He was starving and his empty stomach was finally rebelling. He didn't know why he wasn't eating. It wasn't like they had to ration the food. He just couldn't eat. He couldn't do anything. People were dying and he wasn't himself and it was all becoming way way way too much for him to handle. Dutchy turned abruptly, heading towards the washroom.

---

For a split second he was sure he was going to puke up the contents of his stomach, however empty it may have been. Instead, Dutchy weakly cradled the lid of the toilet, staring down into the water. He wasn't crying, but he felt like it. Was that all he could do, cry? He thought again about Roland, his poor sister, lost out in the jungle. He could be looking for her. He could be doing something, but instead he was stuck, stuck with him.

"Ughhh." He moaned, making his way to his feet. He needed to eat something, anything. His stomach felt like it was in a knot. Turning around Dutchy made his way to the sink, washing his hands. With a sigh he leaned forward, awkwardly bonking his head against the mirror.

"Whatta... whatta I do..."

It was all too much. Sarah could escape, so could Roland. Dutchy was useless, Dutchy was dead. Why prolong it? Why even pretend he could get out, be the same? People were dying and his heart was breaking in two. What could he do. He could feel every bone in his body tingling. Something had to be done. He had to do something, anything, stop his indecision, stop himself. What could he-

Before Dutchy knew what he was doing, he'd taken a step back, his hands still gripping the sink, his knuckles white from the strain. His brain barely registered what was happening. He looked up, his eyes wide with sudden fear as he jerked forward, smashing his face into the mirror, a loud crack and a louder thump echoed through the house.

With a high pitched yelp, he careened back, his vision replaced with bright lights, his brains scrambled with pain. It'd been so long since he'd last been hurt, he'd almost forgotten what pain, real pain, felt like. Stumbling backwards from the mirror Dutchy fell flat on his back, whimpering as his head came back to smash against the tiles, sending another jolt of pain through him. Curling into a ball with awkward jerky motions, Dutchy pressed his hands against his forehead, a strange wetness began to form from beneath, trickling out from in between the cracks in his fingers. He began to shake, biting his lip and feebly kicking his legs against the ground. Rolling onto his side another wave of pain slammed into his forehead. He whimpered, feeling shakes running through him.

What was wrong with him? He didn't know. His stomach hurt worse then ever, and this time he was sure he was going to throw up. He tucked his knees in tighter, condensing himself into a little shivering blonde and orange ball. Fear was in his chest, tight and constricting. Blood. He'd hated blood. Ever since before, ever since he was a kid. He couldn't see. His eyes were wet.

"Oh no. Oh no no no.."

Dutchy slammed his eyes shut as he pulled his still shaking hands away from his forehead. He couldn't see but he could feel a bruise coming on, numbness and swollen, puffed up skin. How bad had he hit his head? Had he cracked the mirror?

"No no no."

Dutchy slowly opened his eyes. His hands seemed to be dripping in blood. Gasping in fright he began to rub them against the floor, knowing and dreading what his forehead might look like.

"No no no, it wasn't supposed to be that. Not this much. No no no no..."

They can't ask questions. Oh no, that's bad. Why'd I do that? Stupid Dutchy. You're so stupid Dutchy. You're not him anymore, you've got blood on you.

Getting to his feet, Dutchy reached out a trembling hand, grabbing at a towel. Pressing it against his forehead for an instant and pulling away, he saw the towel red with blood. He blinked, examining it for an instant. His fear rising with every passing second. He glanced at the door, white faced and afraid, barely holding back another tidal wave of tears.

"No no no, why'd you do that..."

Gingerly he pushed the towel up against his head.. He could feel himself wanting to pass out. He was crying again, freely now, blubbering like a little kid. He nearly slipped, pressing his bloody palm up against the wall to steady himself.

"Wh-why'd you do that?" He said, barely managing to get the words out. He felt his throat locking up, visions of his Uncle flashing through his head. So much blood. So much pain. He didn't want to see it ever again but it was always there, everywhere. His Uncle and Kimmy and soon very soon, him too. Pain and oblivion, and death and the end to everything he had ever been.

"K-Kimmy."

Why'd you do that? What'd it prove?

He was crying full on now, soaking the towel more with his tears then the drying blood from his forehead. Scrambling desperately Dutchy cranked the tap, letting the noise of the water drown out his sobs. He couldn't let them know, not ever. Throwing the towel aside Dutchy began to wash his hands, looking in the mirror. A small crack ran down the center of it, right where he'd banged his head off. Had Roland heard? It didn't appear likely... But still.

"I'm fine Roland, just fine. No I don't know what happened. Weird huh? It was there when I got there. I've been upstairs all alo- Roland I'm fine, no what are you talking about? There's a crack in the mirror? That's strange. That's really weird." He murmured to himself, his voice low, near silent.

"I don't know anything about a crack. I'm FINE Roland. No, no, no not like that, no. Me? Oh, no I'm fine Roland."

Drown... What am I trying to do? It'd be easier to drown. I like water. Iceland has water, hot springs and cold water, whatever I'd want if I ever made it back there. I could drown, couldn't I?

With shaking hands, Dutchy reached down and picked up the table, rinsing it in the sink. He had a lot of work to do, quick work. His thoughts were scrambled, he felt numb and afraid, afraid of what he didn't know. He was beginning to think he didn't want to know. Throwing the wet towel to the ground, Dutchy began to soak up any blood on the floor. He felt dizzy, all the movement... He needed to lie down. He needed to sleep, to rest, to stop thinking like this.

"I didn't think like this." He croaked out. "Dutchy was a stupid kid who never thought he was gon-gonna' get hurt." He scrubbed harder, angry at himself. His naivety...

"I shouldn't be here. I don't think anyone should be here. Killing is bad. People are bad, and I don't want to be around people anymore. I don' want to see anyone else hurt. Vera's still in St. Paul. I'm still in St. Paul. I just wanna go home. One wish. God? God, can I go home now? What'd I do wrong? What'd I- I-"

He couldn't talk anymore. Mewling and shaking, Dutchy continued scrubbing the floor.

Don't wanna cry. Don't wanna cry, I need to be happy. Need to make them happy. Go out there, make them remember I'm supposed to be the happy one. Happy.

"Gon' be happy." Dutchy said, sniffling. The blood didn't seem to be coming off the floor, no matter how much he scrubbed. He grabbed another towel, throwing it down next to him. His vision seemed hazy in front of him, but he couldn't stop now. He needed to be someone, someone to rely on. Roland couldn't find him like this, he wouldn't find him like this.

"No.. No no no. Gonna be happy. I'm not going make them sad. I'm okay, just like Vera. We're both gonna' be okay."

A drop of blood dripped from his forehead, splashing onto the wet floor.

"I'm gonna be happy."
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[ *  *  *  * ]
Roland didn't get any sort of answer out of Dutchy, unless dejected silence counted as an answer. He sighed and moved back to the foor. "A'right, man, try not to dwell on it too much. I'll be out here if you need me.

He reached his hand toward the doorknob when he heard a knock at the door. His hand leaped back as he looked around for his harpoon. Once the guy on the other side said he was unarmed, though, he decided to open the door a crack to see who stumbled in on their awkward moment.

All he saw was just scared and nervous guy standing outside, as unarmed as he claimed to be. A smile of relief crossed Roland's face as he opened the door and stepped outside. "Hey man, nice to see some company at last," he said, extending a hand for this Joe Rios guy to shake. "I been going stir crazy in there with Dutchy. Not that he's a pain to be with, we just wanna be with our other friends right now." The enthusiastic note drained out of his voice. "The four of us are trying to escape, but I don't see any reason why we can't team up with you!"

A loud sound, one that sounded like ceramic or glass breaking, made Roland immediately turn back to the door and abort his talk with Joe. "Jesus!" he shouted as he fumbled with the doorknob, finally bursting back into the room and haphazardly searching for the cause of the noise. The third room he searched, the bathroom, proved to be the source; he saw the broken mirror and his injured friend and lightened the skin on his face by a few shades.

"No no no no no no no no no no," he mumbled, rushing back into the living room to frantically search it for his daypack, and search his daypack for the first aid kit, and the kit for the roll of bandages. Once he finally got them, he hurried back into the bathroom and did his best to press and dress Dutchy's grievous forehead wounds. "Dutchy, Dutchy, what happened?" he asked in a panic. "Who did that?"

"I'm fine Roland, just fine. No I don't know what happened. Weird huh? It was there when I got there. I've been upstairs all alo- Roland I'm fine, no what are you talking about? There's a crack in the mirror? That's strange. That's really weird."

Roland started to hyperventilate before forcing himself to calm back down and lift Dutchy's head up to get the bandages underneath it. As he put pressure in his bleeding forehead, though, his fears drifted to more serious head injuries, namely.... concussions. His sister Lily would know the telltale signs of a concussion and what to do about it, at least in basic, but she wasn't here, was she? If Roland wasn't careful, Dutchy would become another Marcus Roddy, falling asleep into a void of consciousness forever, becoming a glorified body waiting for Roland someone to finish the job, whether the act be merciful or quite the opposite.

And the kicker? All evidence pointed to Dutchy hurting himself.

Right then, he was glad that Sarah and Bridget weren't around. He was feeling pretty fucking mutinous right about now.
WickedIcon: i just launched a baby wearing a denim jacket and a bowler hat across a hospital, through a window, killing several patients, destroying thousands of dollars of equipment, and finally coming to rest on the body of a presumably dead clown
WickedIcon: this is the best dollar i've spent in several years

chitoryu12I have yet to find gay sex that involves the men punching each other. I must not be on the internet enough

Turning Pages: Read some books along with me, why don't you?

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"Sure thing, Dog Moon."
[ *  * ]
((Alan Rickhall continued from Darken Your Clothes and Strike a Violent Pose.))
((Thread entry with permission from Little Boy))

Alan had been walking for what seemed like miles. It was a phrase that seemed to sum his adventure up perfectly; he'd walk for miles and every now and then take a break to sleep or cower behind a rock or a tree or... Jimmy. Alan had not stopped thinking about his deceased amigo for the entire trip, he was alone now. There was absolutely nothing left to hide behind, Alan had to face the 'turned' head on. The movement will always remember Jimmy as one of the great disciples, Alan would dedicate an entire day to him, once a year the members of the movement will be excused from their normal duties to remember the sacrifice that Jimmy gave so that the Survival of the Fittest could be thrown at the feet of the true humans. Yes... Alan liked the sound of that, and he would tell the story of 'Jimmy Robertson and Danya's Inhuman Serpent' for years to come; once a year every year, June the... The... It was still June, wasn't it? It must have been. Alan had lost all track of time completely, he didn't even know what day of the week it was.

Alan wandered through a strange eerie and deserted town. Alan only had Jimmy's knife-sword thing to defend himself with and that was a pretty shoddy means of defence for a missionary like himself. But everything seemed nice and quiet, except for a strange bird calling from the distance. Alan was never really a bird enthusiast, in fact he had taken no interest in birds of any sort until now, nut he had never heard anything like it, it was like a low, strangled moaning sound.

Moaning sound?

Something was happening. Alan could just about hear it, accompanied by some faint stomping noises, someone could be in trouble. After he had pinpointed which direction the noise was coming from he advanced into his selected house, following the noise until he arrived just a door between him and the source. He could hear grunting aright, and thumping. Opening the door just a crack, he couldn't believe what he saw. It was Örn! Alan couldn't believe that he had finally found a familiar face. Sweet, kind-hearted Dutchy. It took another look to see the blood coming from his forehead. He really was in trouble! They were attacking him. Turned students were attacking defenceless Örn! Alan had to do something. Without thinking, he brandished Jimmy's Knife and burst in!

"Ok inhuman scum. Back away from him." Alan tried to sound threatening but he had already regretted his impulse decision as he caught sight of the array of sharp metal knife-like objects around the room, making his Naginata look like a butter knife. "I... I mean it... You better explain what's... Because if you... If you..." it was at that point that he noticed the bandage around Örn's head and the first aid kit in one of the 'attacker's' hands.

"Oh my god; I'm so sorry." Alan let the knife drop to the floor and bent over in tears. "Oh my goodness I can't believe what I've just done." Alan said to himself. "Why did you have to leave me to make my own decisions. I can't do that... I can't do that. I'm just so stupid! Why do I have to be so fucking stupid?" Alan's voice was barely legible as he toppled on to the floor in tears; praying that he wasn't already dead.
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Sean
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Internet de geso~
[ *  * ]
Joe stood in abject shock as he heard an apparently insane man barged into the house and promptly started apologizing. He snapped himself out of it and walked in.

"What... the fuck," he muttered. In front of him was an injured and delirious boy who he recognized as Orn, a.k.a. Dutchy (whom he quite enjoyed the company of), Roland, and some guy he didn't even know who was ranting about something that Joe had no hope whatsoever of understanding.

A pause.

"What... the FUCK." He raised his voice a little. "No, really, what the hell is going on?" he asked Roland, who appeared to be the only person around who was even lucid other than Joe.
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Quoth Super Llama:
 
One day, the fabled Ragnarok will come, and as the gods descend to earth and wage war while the world dies around them, WickedIcon will lead the charge, a 12-gauge shotgun in his right hand, and a bottle of Jack Daniels in his left as he rides a steed made of fire and pain.

And the masses will look upon him and weep at the beauty of it all.


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[19:25] Hallucinogenic: it's not like i wanna put my anus on parade


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04:26MimiOH
04:26MimiTHAT'S LESS BAD
04:27MimiI THOUGHT SHE HAD TO JERK OFF MONKEYS
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