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Aaaaaand he's gone.; Open, in case it needed to be specified.
Topic Started: Aug 24 2016, 02:17 PM (1,128 Views)
MK Kilmarnock
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((Jerry Fury continued from Rare Footage of Jerry Worried))

The jog over from the radio tower was a short one. That was a good thing; Jerry didn't mind running, but these stupid day packs were a little cumbersome. His neck also felt much warmer than usual, a few beads of sweat dripping down from the back of his head and getting caught between the skin and the metal band of the collar. Things were starting to get a little itchy. Suddenly, a bomb going off around his throat seemed comparatively nice.

"I've got a complaint to make about these things," Jerry said while hoping a nearby camera could hear. He tapped on the collar, swallowing some spit collected in his mouth. "Can't you, like... install climate control in them or whatever? I've seen those at the mall, and I think it'd be pretty nice to do for us. Since you're killing us and all." Hoo boy, that got dark quickly. Better think of something to get your mind off the imminent death of you and all but one of your classmates.

Jerry had found himself standing before a humble cabin of some sort. Pulling the switchblade out of his pocket and tucking it closely in his balled fist, he walked an entire circle around the house, his eyes flickering from window to window to watch for guns. He figured that if anybody started shooting, he could probably just dart back and forth all serpentine-like and dodge the shit out of those bullets... that's how it worked in FPS games, right? At the very least, he'd be throwing their aim all outta wack.

The small area behind the cabin opened into some kind of bay. Not a crazy distance away, there was a metal truss bridge of some sort running across to the other side and, as Jerry's eyes followed along the shore, he could trace most of the shoreline around the bay. The island they were on seemed to closely resemble that one island from Battlefield 2... Jerry couldn't place the name.

Somewhere on the other side of the bay, a bell rang out. Jerry simultaneously got Pantera and Metallica songs stuck in his head as he listened to it ring out, then turned back to the cabin. Well, if anybody had been in there and had been alert, he'd have been shot in the head like... six times already. Failing that, he walked back around to the front door, checked the handle to make sure that he could indeed enter, and stepped inside.
Edited by MK Kilmarnock, Aug 28 2016, 01:06 AM.
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Jerry stared at the stairs just a little bit longer than he was comfortable admitting. Something about the way they went up and out of sight just bothered him... a totally irrational case of the jibblies. "These jibblies... I do not like them..." Jerry mumbled to himself in a thick, fake Russian accent. He could honestly go for a game of Poker Night at the Inventory right about now. Not that second one, though. Second one just wasn't worth it without Strong Bad. That's guy's personality was total gold.

Turning his attention away from the stairs, Jerry took in his surroundings. The cabin seemed... well, 'lived-in' was the first thing that came to mind, but it was clear nobody had lived here in a while. That being said, he wouldn't necessarily have any problems making a place like this his pad. The tiger rug, in particular, added this pretty neat touch. Now, if only he had a rifle; he could feel like he was on safari, hunting the most dangerous game.

Jerry was pretty sure that's what that one episode of Gilligan's Island was called.

He couldn't help but notice the distinct lack of a deer head on the wall. The rest of this place reeked of 'hunting lodge' decor to the point where he wouldn't be surprised if he found some camo-shit just laying around (obviously the high point of any fashion). Yet, not a single trophy lined the walls. A shame, really, because that would have just added the Evil Dead touch that the place oh-so-desperately needed.

Speaking of the Evil Dead, Jerry had this niggling feeling in his spine that something was looking at him. Wasn't the rug, that didn't have eyes. Wasn't the deer trophy on the wall, there wasn't a deer trophy on the fucking wall (seriously, was this person the worst hunter ever? Just have a thing against tigers?). Maybe it was those stairs... he hadn't checked upstairs, yet. There was a very real possibility that somebody was lurking at the bottom of the stairs. Watching... waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Jerry swallowed, his head swiveling like Mr. Goddamn Owl's before taking a lick out of a tootsie pop, and his eyes set on that staircase like glue. His hand fumbled through his pocket, trying to get a good grip in the switchblade. Y'know, just in case.
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Jerry had an instant reaction to the creaking of the floorboards.

Several options were available to him. He had seen the environment; he knew the environment. He WAS the environment, and it was him. By mastering and successfully melding several forms of martial arts, Jerry Fury had all the tools necessary to make his move towards the threat and neutralize it. One possible route to take, he would have imagined, involved vaulting over the table using what parkour training he had amassed. From there, it would be a simple matter of balancing on his arm while setting his feet, pushing off with a fancy-yet-effective kick. Who said flashy was impractical? Losers, that's who.

And after this true display of skill, Jerry would be free to go to town on the intruder with a knife. Counterbalance the switchblade, quick slash, retract. Rinse and repeat, and the job was done. Any counterattack his enemy had should be stymied almost immediately but in a worst-case scenario, there's nothing that can't be fixed by hold #767: Armbar.

Of course, none of that actually happened.

Jerry jumped in shock, screaming in a wonderful falsetto. He stumbled from the landing, his heart kicked into full gear and pumping as much blood as it could pump so its host had what it needed to run like the dickens or fight like a lion, whichever he was about to choose. A pain shot up through his heel -- his ankle that he had twisted maybe a month and a half ago felt like pins had been inserted into it, and only through sheer luck had it not been twisted again. He had no time to be thankful for this little present, as it was still painfully clear somebody was in the cabin with him. His back swung to the stairs and Jerry planted his good foot, brandishing the knife and flipping the switch.

"WHOSSAT! WHO'DERE!" Jerry screamed in rushed fashion.

His brow snapped to the open door... the door he had just come in, and he was positive he shut it behind him. Somebody was peeking from behind the door. But that wasn't the direction the noise came from, was it? No, the noise was coming from INSIDE the house!

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?" Jerry screamed again, his voice breaking harder than Frankie Munez at his sixteenth birthday party.
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It was all practically simultaneous: Brendan entering through the front door, the other presence speaking up (turns out she was a girl), Jerry screaming, Brendan entering further, a bunch of 'chill outs' and 'I'm not gonna hurt you.'

Well, no shit. Nobody was hurting Jerry Fury. Not Jerry motherfuckin' Fury, not while HE had the knife and everybody else had... who knows, cardboard cutouts of Dame Maggie Smith or Chinese yo-yos or something totally lame like that. He was in control! He had the power, damn it!

Buuuuuut just to be on the safe side, let's go ahead and back up the first couple stairs to eliminate the angle that somebody could attack from. As long as there wasn't anybody upstairs, he'd be fine. If there WAS still somebody upstairs... Jerry shivered just thinking about that, suddenly wishing knives would grow out of his shoulder blades.

"Coooool, cool, just some people. Right. Brendan and good ol' what's-her-face," Jerry rambled, not having gotten visual of the other girl yet. Turns out when you go to school with a bunch of different teenage kids, they're all REALLY hard to identify on voice alone. Certain people like Trav or Noodle, he'd pick them out right away. 'Specially Trav, that cocky bastard. Brendan Harte, on the other hand, didn't have the most distinctive voice in the world. Cochise wasn't full of Frank Sinatras and Louis Armstrongs and Carol Channings.

"I'm not nervous! You're nervous!" Jerry insisted, still holding up the knife. "Hey, uh, Ben on his way? You know, Ben Fields?" Come to think of it, where the hell WAS Ben? He and Jerry were supposed to be traveling the island, preventing conflict. Yeah. Ben was REALLY dropping the ball on this one. "We're, uh, working together."
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"Uh, fuck you. Wanna know why?" Jerry insisted, mostly directing his attention toward Brendan though he could kinda-sorta see Nadia from where he was on the stairs. "Because I have a knife, that's why. I NEED this thing, it's like... totally my baby." Yes. If his baby were sharp, made of steel, and equipped with a spring, it would totally be a switchblade. Somewhere along the line, that simile really got away from him.

Nadia did have a point, though, about there possibly being somebody in the house. "As far as I know, nobody's around. Not the ground, anyway." Jerry peeked over his shoulder to make sure the goddamn boogeyman didn't get him between then and now. Shit, the very thought of going upstairs was still kinda tweaking him out. "Dunno if somebody's hiding or sleepin' or is dead upsta- ugh. Creeped myself out..."

He allowed (as if he really had a choice) a shiver to roll over his shoulders. His hand was still tensed over the handle of the knife, and he snuck a look to Brendan; it was something in the vein of 'yeeeeah, you wanna try takin' this from me, fucker?' in his intention. Then again, without a mirror, it was hard to tell if he properly conveyed a look that said that or 'I just ate that burrito with a salsa maybe one notch too spicy, and I'm going to regret it later'.
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Jerry's eyebrow twitched. If there was a stabbing for every time these fuckers told him some derivative of 'calm down' or 'chill out', there would be two very, very dead kids on the floor right about now.

No, no. He had self control. He had to show responsibility with the knife. Be the knife. Know the knife. Don't brutally murder his classmates with the knife unless it was totally warranted. "Okay. You tell me to calm down again, I will ACTUALLY kill you," Jerry growled. Alright, well, that could have gone better, but at least he gave them a warning, right? Anything that happened from here on in was clearly their fault. The court would probably see it that way, too.

Maybe.

"You want to go upstairs? Fine by me. It's honestly creeping me out a little bit, standing here." Jerry took a step down. "Uuuuuh, maybe get out of my way. You're not smelly or anything, just... y'know. Death game. Don't want you getting too close to me." Jerry flicked the knife to the side, motioning Brendan to maybe probably just a bit give him some goddamn space.

"I'll probably follow you up if nobody murders you."
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Jerry sighed. Were they ignoring him? He kinda felt like they were ignoring him. At least Brendan was backing off.

Theeeeeen again, it looked like they both wanted to go upstairs and check things out. Well, sheeeet, what was so magical about going upstairs all of a sudden? Did they have it in their heads that there was a weapons cache up there? For all Jerry knew, there was still some boogeyman-esque killer with a machete waiting to hack them to pieces the moment they rounded the corner at the top of the stairs. If he were smart, he'd let the both of them just clear the area and follow them up.

Then Jerry thought again. He was better than smart: he was smart AND calm, and confident. If anybody was in total control of the situation, he thought to himself, it was him. If there was a killer trying to get in his way, he'd just say 'fuck you', kick 'em in the face with his energy legs, and quite possibly just shank them ten or eleven times. That's right, neither Brendan or Nadia had shown off a weapon of any sort. It would be more responsible to have him go first, wouldn't it?

"Hold up. Change of plans." If these other two had half the brains he did, they'd be rational enough to listen. Jerry felt his genius go unappreciated often enough; now that they were in a life-or-death situation that catered specifically to his badassitude (he made a self note to trademark that word when he got out of this alive - plan on how to do that to come later), they'd have no choice BUT to recognize it.

"I'll go up first. I've got the knife, after all. Just check it out, make sure the coast is clear." Jerry stepped backwards up the stairs, taking care to look at his heels to make sure he didn't land square on his ass. That'd... that'd just be unnecessarily embarrassing.
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So nobody was following him up? Wow. Okay. Fuck you guys, too.

Actually, maybe it was for the better. If somebody popped up out of nowhere up there, it'd be for the best that Jerry had enough room to beat a hasty retreat. Obviously such a retreat would be for better tactical positioning for a brave, sure-kill strike... yeah. Definitely that. And seriously, where the fuck was Ben? Did that guy seriously get lost on the way here? What part of 'let's meet up when we find something interesting' did he not understand?

Up the steps Jerry went, stair by stair, inch by inch. Anybody jump out at him yet? Nope. How about now? Nope.

Tentatively walking all the way up to the top, Jerry led with the knife as he peeked this way and that. Seeing no signs of life returned shreds of bravery to his heart. He took a moment (and ONLY a moment, lest he earn a shanking from the greatest Hide and Seek player of Cochise High) to call behind him. "Seems clear!!"
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"AAAAUGH, SHIT!"

Silence.

"THERE'S LIKE A HUUUUUUUUUUUGE PUDDLE OF PUKE UP HERE!"

And so there was. Jerry Fury was staring down at a sizable, half-dried glob of vomit on the floor, part of which was already covered by his sneaker. He pulled it back and squished his shoe against the wooden floor, attempting to absolve him of his messy mistake. His efforts were largely in vain, though he did manage to get a few drops of the horrible, horrible body fluid smeared elsewhere on the floor. Seriously, puke was the worst. THE GODDAMN WORST.

"Wait... WAIT..."

Jerry jerked back in his revelation, then turned back toward the stairs. Shit, gotta go down, gotta go down... puke means somebody was there. Or IS there. Hiding in a closet, waiting to strike? Well, no sir, that opportunity wasn't going to any old nauseous schmuck! Not death rights on Jerry Fury! Nobody made him bleed his own-

His ankle rolled on the stairs. Ooooooooh butterscotch.

Jerry tumbled, reaching a hand out for the railing. He was only half-successful in catching himself and tumbled down the remaining five steps, practically watching events play out in slow motion as the switchblade landed on the floor... and then he landed on it chest-first.

Fuck. Well, goodbye, world.

B019, Jerry Fury - DEC-

Wait, hold up. He landed on the handle.
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"NO! NO THAT CAN'T BE GOOD!" Jerry screamed in a shrill voice, clearly irritated with the slim prospects of looking awesome whilst having a post-tumble lay on the floor. He landed on his goddamn knife, too! What if that thing had been pointy-end up or otherwise positioned in a way that he landed on the blade? Then he'd look like an idiot AND he'd be in pain.

Oh. Wait. Pain. That was starting to come to him in waves. And lord was it starting to come, his knees likely scuffed up and his wrist crying out in agony from having taken much of the fall so his teeth didn't have to. "I swear, there's something up with these stairs!" Jerry whined. Whining was yet another thing that ended to shoot badass credentials in the face, leave them bleeding on the floor, then offer for them to stand up so they can die an honorable death.

"Yeah, sure, thanks..." Jerry grumbled. "These fucking stairs. It's the stairs, I tell ya. The steps are too narrow... I bet you ANYTHING I'm not the first person to fall down them today!" He pulled his hurt wrist away from Brendan's efforts but tugged on him for leverage all the same, heaving and straining until he was standing. He looked down to see that he was the proud new owner of another hole in his jeans. He rubbed the skin revealed beneath the hole and confirmed that his knee was scraped up, and a gash trickled a fair amount of blood. He'd had worse happen to him while running, and it was nothing compared to the parkour incident that shall go unmentioned.

He stooped down to pick up the nigh-forgotten switchblade, bashfully tucking the blade away with a 'click' and slipping it into his pocket.

"Well, needless to say, if anybody HAD been upstairs, that ruckus would have scared them into making some noise," Jerry expertly concluded without making direct eye contact with anybody.
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"Tough shit, man," Jerry said, limping away and finding a nice cushioned place to sit down. There was a couch near Nadia; that would do. "My knife is my knife. You want a weapon, go find your own."

He reclined on the far end of the couch, still a little grumpy at having ruined his own moment. "Though I mean, this place was a hunting lodge of some kind. I didn't get the best look around upstairs. You'd think there'd be a gun or a bow or something you could scrounge up, but I didn't see anything. Worth a second look. But fuck, watch out for those stairs. The steps are like... they're too narrow for your feet, you know?"

Jerry squinted at the steps as if they were a sworn enemy.

"Don't say I didn't warn you about those things." Something else came to mind. "Oh, right, and there's that puddle of puke. If you go up there, try not to step in it like I did. Guess somebody got sick recently. They're not there anymore, though. Pretty sure."
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Brendan to Nadia. Nadia to Brendan. Damn it, were they ignoring him AGAIN?

It occurred to Jerry that, maybe, it was because he wasn't doing anything at the moment. That thought was immediately expunged and replaced with the reaffirmation that 'yes, they are ignoring me', and leaned forward on the cushion. Go ahead, Brendan, you go ahead and look upstairs for whatever you're going to find. Unless you want to jar up that bottle of puke and throw it at somebody... Jerry shivered at the thought. If the vomit weren't dry, and if vomit weren't the grossest goddamn body fluid in the world and he was never EEEEEEEEEVER getting near it as long as he lived (just one of many services SotF aimed to provide, he supposed), that actually would have made a pretty good weapon. Like that jar of piss from that one game with the Australian dude, only vomit.

The way things were, Jerry understood that there was little left for him in this cabin. Ben clearly had gone and fucked off somewhere, with no telling whether or not he was even alive. It wasn't even high noon on the first day though, so maybe Ben deserved more credit. Shit, odds were that not a single one of his classmates had managed to die barring explicit cases of suicide. The corner of his mouth dropped as he mulled over the possibility.

On the darker take of things, that was one person that he didn't need to potentially kill.

Oh. Right. They were supposed to be killing each other. Yeeeeeeeeeesh.

And, uh, Nadia is right there. Without a weapon. Talk about awkward.

Jerry twiddled his thumbs while entertaining the thought of casually murdering his classmate with a knife.
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"Then you just go ahead and break off a table leg!" Jerry insisted, the first couple words shaky in their intonation after having been pulled from his little daydream. "Or d'ya think I should do it instead?" Made enough sense to him that he'd be better at snapping off a table leg, but it also made sense to have a strategic mind about things. Right now, Brendan and Nadia were competition. They were his competitors in a little death game, and all three of them weren't able to make it out of this thing alive.

Maybe he didn't necessarily have to kill either of them. Hell, maybe he didn't have to kill anybody! Couldn't he just play it cool and stay on the fringes? No, the terrorists had thought of that, didn't they, what with the 'danger zones' and stuff... he couldn't think of those two words following one another without immediately going to the scene in that old Top Gun movie. So maybe, then, this was a game all about alliances. He could just be the brave peacekeeper like he and Ben were gearing up to be, and maybe at the end, the last few remaining kids would... who the fuck knows, die of dysentery or some fucking thing?

No... shit, those guys had thought of that, too. The words of Mr. Greybeard or whatever ran through Jerry's head.

The winner had to kill at least one person.

He had to kill at least one person.

If he wanted to win, he had to kill. ... ... But maybe not right now. Maybe later. Right?

Jerry went to stand up off the couch... and ended up jumping clear off the cushion when the sound of shattering glass sounded from upstairs. "Oh hell! S-Somebody really was up there!" He stammered, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. His hand fished the knife back out of his pocket and he stood around the bottom of the stairs, hand trembling.

Don't fear. Fear is the killer. The quake killer. The... ugh! How did that line go!?
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Jerry just stood there. Gosh, he must have been standing there for... what, a solid minute and a half, just holding his switchblade. His wrist seemed locked out of shock from hearing the shattered glass, watching Brendan walk down right past him, hand a shard to Nadia (but not him, selfish asshole... then again, Jerry remembered, he had a knife), then book it out of the hunting lodge.

"Done with this place?" Jerry asked quizzically. "He went upstairs, shattered a window, then vamoosed. Like... what the fuck?"

Jerry stared at Nadia, knife still held up as it was when he first went to the stairs.

"Did ANY of that make any sense to you?"
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"Yeah, no... yeah. No. Yeah. Probably best that you just put it down," Jerry verbally stumbled.

He look a quick look around the cabin. His eyes flickered from door to stairs to Nadia to... far area that had the back door somewhere around there. Flick flick flick. They returned to looking at her.

"Guess it's, ah, just tw- just the two of of us," he said, lowering the knife but keeping it open. "Any ideas? It might be dangerous to travel alone. You know our classmates; there's bound to be a few wackos running around with their pants on their heads stealing food and claiming they're gonna skin us alive and fuck our corpses." Jerry shrugged. "Not that they'd actually do it. Just, you know. Crazy. Somebody's bound to lose their shit on the first day, right?"
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