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The Ballad of Ackbar; Private-until-Solitair-posts
Topic Started: May 1 2011, 05:46 PM (2,047 Views)
Namira
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Null sheen.
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((Kris Hartmann continued from Feral Intelligence))

Sitting with her back up against one of the mirrors that was still actually intact, Kris waited.

Anybody that looked at her could have been forgiven for mistaking her for one of the dead. In spite of a change of clothes prior to the encounter in the square, Kris was still splattered with blood, especially over her face. Her hair... the state of her formerly white blonde hair made it look like somebody had cracked her skull open. It was a congealed mass, plastered to her head, no trace of its former colouration remaining.

It wasn't only her appearance, though, it was her posture. Kris slumped like a corpse, eyes just barely open, facing towards the busted open entrance in the distance. There was a corridor of sorts clear through what mirrors remained unbroken. Her perch was against the opposite wall to the entrance, and for very good reason. Getting too close to that entrance would be... a bad idea. Kris's grenade launcher was cradled in one arm, her hand gently resting upon it. And in her other...

Well, Kris's opposite hand was underneath her shirt, perhaps, to some observer, nursing a wound. To the inattentive... this had been a bloodbath, many killed, the winner barely outliving her victims. If, of course, they hadn't meticulously tracked the announcements.

It was a house of the dead.

By the entrance lay Alan Rickhall. On his back was a bag labelled with a name that was not his own, and one that until recently, a certain individual had been carrying around.

R.J. Lowe

A smile twitched the face of Kris Hartmann, for the briefest instant.

Then all was still again.
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Namira
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Null sheen.
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Having somebody else's life in the palm of her hand was an unsettling feeling.

This wasn't blind fear.

This wasn't guilt-crazed hallucination.

This wasn't crazed insanity.

This was... calculated... pre-meditated... cold-blooded....

Mörda...

Mörderin.

Killer.

A thumb tucked underneath Kris's shirt caressed what was held tightly clenched in her fist.

Four. She'd killed four. Had tried twice more to take lives. And why? Why... why...? Because she was afraid. Because she was crazy. Because she wanted to. Because she could. Because she didn't want to die. There were many possible reasons. Some rang truer than others. Some resonated only at the very depths of her mind, those dark places where she never wanted to venture.

This wasn't the right thing the smart thing the moral thing the Kris thing to do. But now...

Etain... flash. Gunfire. Gone. Death. Blood.

I can't do it...

There's nothing left.

Father. Uncle. Boarding. Drawing.

Reika. Kimberly. Amber. Al. Janet. R.J...

Why'd this...

No choices.

Too late.


Kris's eyes opened fully. She looked at the person crouched above the bag in the entranceway, the bag which she'd planted alongside the body of Alan Rickhall. She looked at them through bloodshot eyes abruptly pricked with tears, blurring the silhouette across the opposite side of the building, through the corridors of shattered mirrors, glass and bodies.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Her thumb slammed onto the button of the detonator.
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Namira
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[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The explosion engulfed Kris's target in a split second. He'd been at ground zero for the detonation, there probably hadn't even been time for him to feel it. She had a brief moment to wince at that thought - as if whether it had been painful mattered - before the effects of the explosion rocked the building.

The front entrance to the hall of mirrors was blown to pieces, leaving a ragged hole were once had been a door, rubble strewn every which way. Several of the mirrors closest to the explosion had been destroyed, leaving yet more broken glass scattered across the floor of the building. With the series of detonations that had taken place within the structure over the past few days, it seemed that in some areas that it was almost on the verge of collapsing.

Kris leaned forward, the trigger for the bomb still clenched in her fist, button still depressed in spite of the C4 being long gone. Her victim - her fifth victim... he hadn't had a hope in hell. It had worked just as she'd thought. ...Just as she'd hoped?

Perfect...

Kris had arranged it all just right, left the explosives in place and... waited.

"Dad always told me to use my brain more, I guess," Kris tried out a laugh, but her voice cracked and she shuddered, hugging her knees into her chest. The detonator fell from her fingers with a clatter, her grenade launcher slipping to the floor.

Coward.

The ex-skater sniffed a little, tears trickling quietly down her face. She was surprised she even had any left after everything that had happened. Kris was surprised she was even able to cry. This was winning, right? She didn't deserve the sorrow.

Slowly, Kris picked herself up, grabbing her weapon as she did so. Turning around, she looked into the mirror and simply stared. Stared at her blood-streaked body and her matted hair, stared at the death grip she had on the grenade launcher, stared deep into her own eyes.

She saw fear. Sadness. Disgust.

She saw determination.

((Kris continued in Livebait))
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