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We pissin' our pants yet?; It's gonna be pee-pee pants city real soon...
Topic Started: Aug 13 2016, 05:17 PM (591 Views)
Fran
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He had to go back home! He had to, he had to, he had to, he had to, he had t-

Then he heard the insults of the boy.

((Jerry's v6 start))

All his bravado he was building while sitting on the floor of the toilet was now gone. He thought he could face his enemies - no, his fellow students - and find his friends and then... and then...

Kill them? Betray them? Backstab them? Hurt them? Torture them?

Or instead, be the victim, be the betrayed, be the trusting idiot, be the one in pain, be the one dying?

None of that made any sense normally, but now it did. Killing made sense to Jerry, he had to go back to his parents, but it means to give up everything he worked for. His humanity, his morals, and obviously, his life. No matter whether or not he made it out, all his life would be ruined. Everybody would know him, question him, interview him, try to snuff the life out of him. He can't win either ways, but only one let him alive.

Oh, fuck the game and be nice. He decided to cross the bridge when he'll reach. Not that's his goal, but he still had somewhat of a weapon and if all of his friends died then...

Fuck the game, be nice. For now.

He dropped his knife in his duffel bag and headed toward the screaming man. What if he had a gun? Should he just stay there cowering in fear?

Fuck. The. Game.

He exited the woman's washroom and tried to stay as casual as possible while saying,

"May I... join you?
Edited by Fran, Aug 14 2016, 12:12 PM.
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Jerry sighed. It wasn't someone he could consider a friend but it wasn't someone he could consider an enemy. And plus, he had an axe and it seemed really scary so no fighting between the two of them. He'd love to keep in his body, especially his head, in one piece if he were to go home. But also for his parents if he happened to not got home.

Gosh, why is this have to happen? They didn't do anything wrong, they just happened to be alive at the wrong time. So unfair and disgusting. Nobody had to go through this, the anxiety of betrayal and the fear of death. Just five minutes in this hell and he wanted a way out. He could go on a rampage starting with Michael, but was it really him? Was he born a killer? He looked at his past, at his family, at his friends, did they made him into a future killer?

No, they didn't. He lived a happy life and nobody could take that from him.

He sat down in a sit beside the window. Michael was obviously apprehending a fight and, to be honest, Jerry too. Who wouldn't? Paranoia is the only thing to keep you alive other than your weapon. He really wanted to home, but fuck that game. It's not going to ruin him.

Not today, maybe tomorrow.

"I..."

Fuck, how do you say that you got a knife? Nobody teaches that! Then a flash cross through his mind, he remembered a battle royale in wrestling. It was similar, but instead of being eliminated: they died. But that wasn't the only thing: wrestlers have alter-egos and personas. Jerry could do the same, right? He shallowed hard and revealed his weapon,

"I got this baby," oh gosh, please don't be cheesy, please don't sound corny, "it's, uh, a shock knife if I read that right."

He could work on the tone of his voice to sound more tough but that'd be good enough for now. He kept it in his hand in a while to check the weight of it, and let it fall into his bag. He noticed the number on it. Weird, he got B022 written on it. They weren't considered humans anymore, just numbers.

"Oh fuck this man, look at your bag! It's not even our name on it, it's a fucking number. We're not people anymore," his voice rised then lowered, remembering that somebody with a gun could hear them and decide to shoot them up.
Edited by Fran, Aug 14 2016, 12:43 PM.
me by naft
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"I want to find my friends."

He blurted out without thinking of anybody in particular, just somebody he could trust to have his back in any situation. Michael wasn't one of these people, but he could work out fine if he decided not to go around hitting and hacking people with his axe of his. The more he thought about the other boy's weapon, the more he felt envy toward it. Christ, it was a knife that was "shocking", what is that supposed to mean? He wished he could have been able to google it.

He scratched his neck. It wasn't itchy but he started to think about the overall situation. They were on an island, that was for sure. He remembered that from before he passed out. He also remembered Mr. Graham's death, shot and left there, bleeding. He erased the image from his mind by focussing on something else: the island. People lived there, people stayed there, people died there, and people left. These people must have left an impact here, one way or the other.

The terrorists must have swept in to clean it up and removed stuff that could be considered a weapon like a knife or a gun. "Cleaning", more like taking away any items that could be used to defend themselves. Securing, then. Only to make it deadlier by giving kids weapons. He felt like barfing when he thought about them. He was downright disgusted just by the idea that someone would do this to them, yet there they were.

For now, he had to think about survival. He looked around from his seat, he tried to situate the room in time. It looked old, but not in a fashioned way, more like it was abandoned for years and years. The place seemed like restaurant but with a handful of small tables and seats. Then it hit him, the counter! It was obviously a bar, this was some kind of pub or something. They must be storing food, that was most likely rotten and eaten by thousand of rats, and bottles of alcohol.

He stood up and pointed at the counter. It took a couple of second before he started to explain his plan.

"Are we in a... pub?"

That wasn't very convincing for someone that was supposed to be strong and tough, he tried again, "Stuff must have been left behind, should we search for it?"

He really had to work on his monotonous, badass voice.

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Fran
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Oh crap, paper toilet. He never thought about that. Even though he was on this island, he was still a human being with need like going to the bathroom, eating, drinking, sleeping, and much more. Nobody could just go around hacking away and thinking they could still leave today.

This game could spend days, maybe even a week before it comes to an end. It could last even longer, up to fourteen days of fighting, if he recalled right the news report about one of those version. If it was time limited, he would have played, but it wasn't. They could stay here for a long time, if one person was murdered a day and the murderer called it a day. They'll spend so much time on this island, it'll become their lives and histories. It freaked Jerry the fuck out.

It could last a month maybe if the class didn't feel like playing. Maybe one day for everyone students on the trip. Maybe they'd all be dead, but for one, tomorrow. The future held the answer, and he'd rather not know about it.

So the plan was to loot the place: find paper toilet, find some booze, and find something to use as a weapon. Should be feasible quickly and neatly. Especially since they are two and they can seperate to find more at once. Divide and conquer the pub? Sounds like a plan.

He thought about it, he started in the woman's bathroom and it was the closest room to him, other than the man's and Michael seemed to have awaken somewhere around here, so maybe he should search this specific room.

Did it really make a difference? No. Jerry just wanted some kind of control over this situation. They, the students, had no power over this program/game/fight or whatever the terrorists called it at the "you get tied down and gassed" briefing. They were terrorists, right? It wasn't some kind of inside job? Gosh, if this was one of those conspiracy revealed to be true, how fucked up that'd be?

He sighed, he didn't have time to think about those things. He was busy trying to not die and stick around long enough to see another day. He exhaled and inhaled, fuck this was a dramatic ten minutes. He shook his head, just get going and don't stop. If you stop, you think, if you think, it hurts. Just go and never stop. He bit his lip, time to get going, no time to think.

"I'll check out the washrooms, and you search where they stashed the booze, okay?"
Edited by Fran, Aug 16 2016, 03:29 PM.
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Meanwhile in the bathroom, Jerry heard Michael's swinging. He must have been having fun over there, whacking stuff with his axe.

He wished he had an axe when he searched the men's bathroom. Some of the door were easy to open, but others had to be kicked because somebody had the idea to lock them. He could have just slid under the space below the door but that was nasty. The floor was obviously not cleaned for a long time and who knows what went on it.

He felt like he just walked into a time capsule. The wall, the floor, the decor, everything was so old. The paper toilet looked old too. They were kinda crusty and dry, but still usable. However, in the middle, bugs were crawling, angry that somebody shook their houses. When realized a bug was crawling on his hand, he screamed.

"It's fine, j-just bugs!"

Nasty, nasty, nasty.

Instead of going for each and separate bathrooms, he went for the janitor's closest. In there, he found a broomstick. Was that a weapon? He could hit someone with it, so he considered it. He was going to go back for it after he got the paper toilet.

There were two kinds of paper toilet: the rolls and the tissue one. The rolls were in a pile, and it was obvious it was the house of crawlies while the tissues kind was wrapped around in plastic. There was about a dozen of neatly stashed tissues on the shelf.

He beat-hugged the pile and carried it out of the bathroom. He dropped it on a table, the once neat square was transformed into a rectangle with holes right and left. He dropped a couple of them, whoops.

"I got the paper toilet," he screamed to his ally, "I also found a broomstick for whatever its worth."
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Fran
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Okay, we got no luck for the bottle, maybe they were empty or moldy. However, they were still bottles, made of glass and sharp when broken, made a lot of sound when thrown and smashed. Though since they lack the precious liquid, Michael didn't take them. They were still useful, he felt like speaking up but Michael still had a fucking axe and he didn't want to be the reason why that he went around cutting people, starting by Jerry. Maybe he should do that later.

They still lack of guns but they found other things that could be considered weapons like a soon-to-be spear and a table leg. He thought about killing someone with one of those thing and it wasn't enjoyable. With a gun at least, it was from far away, you pressed on a trigger then you're done. The person is dead and you're alive.

But with a stick, you'd have to get close, poke someone with it and chances are you wouldn't be done. You'd have to do it a lot of times, repeatedly until their last breath leave their body. You'd have to get bloody, so bloody. Your clothes would be soaked, you'd be covered in dry blood, you'd have some in your mouth. He wasn't ready to do such thing, if he was to play the game, he'd have to wait. Until somebody tries to kill him or while protecting someone, that'd make him a hero, a savior even.

Yes, that'd make him a nice person. Not a killer, not a murderer, not a villain, not a psychopath, not a-

Stop thinking, get to work. He had to figure what was so shocking about his knife and he had to make his broomstick pointy and deadly.

"Okay, so I'd go get the broomstick and the package I've dropped along the way."

He went back into the janitor's closet, founding a trail of compacted packs to it. One, two, and three tissues plastic wrappers left behind. He squeezed them under his elbow and he grabbed the broomstick.

When he went back into the main room, he found Michael still in the same position.

"Okay so here's the broom," he handed it over and he said, "I found some leftovers, I'll go make two piles."

Figuring that knife out would be for another moment.
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The chills on his back started to crawl upward.

Like electricity flowing through a cable, his spine conducted the bugs up to his brain, passing through his stomach, lungs, heart, neck, collar, mouth and, finally, reaching their final destination. The bugs spread around his brain, hitting themselves against the skull, knocking cells around and devouring his thoughts. The invaders finally attacked the central command of Jerry starting with the brain stem, eating their way through his fleshy yet so yummy brain. There was a frenzy, then nothing for a second.

He became numb.

They just stayed up there, waiting. They looked through Jerry's eyes, listened through Jerry's ears, felt through Jerry's skin, and they studied. Despite rampaging through his body and sending shocks in every corner of his body, Jerry wasn't dead. He still needs to breath, sleep, eat. But something somewhere changed, whether in his DNA or chemicals in his brain, he became someone else. He was a puppet, the puppet master being those insidious thoughts and the string being his emotions.

For a moment, he zoned out as the words echoed in his head.

He tried to swallow away the bugs, to drown them, to kill them, but they were still there. He killed one and ten were given birth by the echoing voice in his head. No matter what he did or thought about, they still crawled. He felt them crawling in his veins, crawling in his arteries, crawling in his capillaries, crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling.

He opened his mouth, the bugs almost escaped, they were craving for that moment, but he sewed his mouth back shut. These thoughts, this pain, this thing inside of him needed to stay there. He needed to contain and lock it in. The urge of vomiting these monsters was becoming unbearable, however. He felt them gathering in his throat, forming a knot, resisting against their host.

They needed to escape to spread their eggs. They had to make sure their spawn will live because they knew their host was dying. Not yet, but one day, he will be. He'll simply fade away, and if they stayed stuck in inside of him, how will the next generation of parasite will exist? Who will spread their deadly traditions? They couldn't stay here forever, they had to find a way out. So they fought, spreading the knot, making it impossible to swallow. They made a stone in his stomach, and Jerry felt like puking it out. They let the mercury flow inside of him, making him heavy and slow. They tied his feet to cement blocks. They gently pushed him toward the ed-

He gave up, and let the flies escape.

"You can count on me."
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Jerry laughed softly, at least Michael kept his sense of humor. He calmly answered to the question with a smile drawing in his lips.

There was people he wanted to check up on them, to make sure they were fine, to make sure they were alive. Most of them, however, could handle themselves. There was one girl, in particular he was afraid she wouldn't be able to defend herself, but she was friends with everybody.

Nobody would go on a murdering rampage the first day, so she should be fine

"I'm not looking for anybody in particular, but if we meet our friends, we should try to help them."

He walked toward the door, feeling his weight against the floor. He wondered how old it must be, was there a chance of Michael and Jerry falling through it? That'd be anticlimactic, all this dramatic talk for nothing.

When he reached the door, he looked back to his companion. So that was his ally, and they both agreed to defend each other. That calmed the buzzing inside of him, he felt safe despite the situation. He knew that this feeling won't stay inside of him because only one person could get of this alive, unless someone came to rescue them, but it was the present that really matters.

Not the future.

"Let's go?"

((Jerry Larkins continued elsewhere))
Edited by Fran, Aug 24 2016, 02:27 PM.
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