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By the time you hear the next pop, the funk shall be within you; Private
Topic Started: Sep 16 2016, 05:32 AM (1,516 Views)
Emprexx Plush
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Paige/EP/Plush, they/them pronouns pls thanks :3
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((Ty Yazzie Continued From Thirteen Steps))

Lotta things a man can see and still keep his composure. Where the line runs just depends on the man. Being aware of that line and staying to the right side of it was how Ty kept himself out of trouble these past months. A sharp eye, and a reminder of how disappointed people would be if he crossed it. Made him behave like a better person, all in all. No matter how heavy the temptation, he stayed on his side of the line.

That line stretched out in front of him clearer than ever as he caught up on the scene. On one side, Harry and Clarice sat looking beat to all hell. Harry was in a lot of pain, he could tell that just at a glance. That was his side, taking care of them and fixing whatever the fuck had just happened was his responsibility. 'cept to understand that, he had to glance to the other side. Had to see Conrad there, holding the sword he'd woken up with all shiny and fresh with blood.

Harry's blood.

Suddenly that line didn't look so clear. Weren't much that did. The only thing that rang clear was that Conrad was the problem.

Ty hit him like a runaway freight. Maybe the kid heard him coming, but he didn't care. It was raw rage and adrenaline at this point. All that mattered is that he hit him, made him drop that sword he stole, made his face slam into the ground as Ty straddled his back to keep him down. That was it. Threat contained. Rationally, you could stop here and everyone would be alright as they could be.

Ty wasn't in the business of rationality at the moment, though. When he looked down, he didn't see a threat contained. He saw an animal that had hurt his best friends. There was no way he was every going to let him do that to anyone else again. With gritted teeth, Ty grabbed his left arm and pulled it up behind him at an unnatural angle. He could feel the resistance, and that was all he could feel. All sound and sensation was blotted out by the blood pounding in is head as he pressed against that resistance harder, harder, no matter what verbal or physical struggle tried to invade his space. He wouldn't let up.

He didn't stop pushing until the resistance gave in, and that zeroed in trance popped with the sound of Conrad's arm breaking.
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Everybody turned against him.

"God."

Harold, staring at him. Conrad stared at the wound he had caused. Bloody, worse than Clarice's wound. She stepped in front of Harold. Conrad gripped his sword tighter, but lowered it, fearing Clarice to attack him. And she attacked Conrad. Verbally. Accusing him of being a person, a person that was not him, with her reciting the outlasting thing out of context, verbally hurting him, looking at him with a stare he would not have wished anybody to ever experience. He tried to justify it to Clarice, to tell her how she was...how he did not plan to...to tell Harry that...but no word came out of his mouth.

Conrad was too focussed on the reactions of his classmates to even notice a Ty running towards him.

And after that, it was a line of events Conrad could not control, being assaulted by the wrestling co-captain. No resistance could be done. And after that, the pain had hit Conrad basically everywhere. Chest, face, back. Conrad tried to free himself from Ty's control over his body, but he did not manage to. Unarmed, Conrad was on the ground. But it did not stop there. Ty was pulling his arm, Conrad had no idea why, but he felt like he was about to die and get killed. He felt helpless and his body wanted to escape. There was no one that helped him.

And then the left-handed vice president felt a pain surpassing every other hit he had taken from Ty.

Conrad screamed. It was a mix of different vowels and consonants, though within the random noises that exited out of Conrad's mouth a 'why', 'no' or 'elp', could be heard as well. His heart was racing and he breathed loudly and tears dropped to the ground and his vision was blurry and he wanted the pain to go away.
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Clarice thought, for a moment, Conrad was going to stab her. Maybe he did mean to. Fuck if she’d ever know, because Ty rendered the question moot.

At first, there was relief. Then relief became… a lot of things. Clarice watched with wide eyes, too surprised and shocked to really do anything about it, as Ty grabbed his arm and started to pull it back. Intent so obviously clear. It took a few moments for her to snap out of the shock, to do anything.

“Ty. Ty! He’s down!”

When Ty didn’t respond to her yell, she stopped shielding Harold—though she quickly made sure he had enough support on the wall—before making a beeline for the two. As she did, she heard a horrible crunching noise, and heard Conrad start screaming.

Clarice’s jaw tightened and her fists clenched briefly as she kept heading towards them. She tried not to look at Conrad. Revulsion seethed in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure if it was for what Conrad had done, or what Ty had just done. But either way, she didn’t want to look at Conrad right now. Didn’t want to think about their better times. Didn’t want to think about the part of her that heard the sound and thought ‘good.’

But if Ty kept going how he was going—

“Ty!” That time, Clarice grabbed Ty’s shoulder and tried to yank him back as hard as she could manage. “He’s done, alright?! You gotta stop!”
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Harold rested his back against the padded cell, guided by Clarice. Watched her put herself between him and Conrad. A simple, selfless gesture that was infinitely more righteous than anything Harold had managed to accomplish. He would have protested, had he been able - no need for her to risk injuring herself even further trying to shield him from his mistake. However, Harold couldn't find the strength for that kind of conviction.

So, he gave up. Let himself be protected. Tried to focus on the softness of the wall behind him, on Clarice's bracing arm. Years of absorbed narrative convention told him that he should place a hand against his chest, feel his life oozing out of him, stare in horror. He elected to not do that, vaguely thinking that as long as he didn't confirm how bad his wound was beyond "pain", he'd be fine. If only Clarice hadn't already used up the obvious Black Knight joke.

Justice hit Conrad hard and fast.

Harold couldn't help but feel a bit of vindictive satisfaction as Ty took Conrad down, sending the damned sword down to the ground. Couldn't help but think that's what he should've done to begin with, to hell with playing the negotiator. Couldn't help but think of how easily he could have avoided being stabbed, just by caring less.

The screaming and crunching of Conrad's bones jarred Harold out of that mindset. There was a fine line between using violence to defend or destroy, and Ty had had already sprinted past it without any intention of slowing down. Harold looked into Conrad's eyes and only saw a manic fear, colored by excruciating pain. He wasn't blameless, but Harold had to remember that it was Evil that had pushed him to this. He couldn't accept this blood being shed on his behalf.

Clarice was evidently thinking the same thing. She did what Harold couldn't by physically holding Ty back, though Harold wasn't sure that either of them could have fully pinned a berserk Ty, even under the best of circumstances. Ty would have to stop himself.

"Ty... please, this - this isn't helping anyone," Harold managed before breaking out into a coughing fit, each spasm shooting pain throughout his body. He could only hope that would be enough, only try to stay upright against the wall without Clarice's support.
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The hard yank on his shoulder didn't pull him outta the rage at first. It only redirected it. His body twisted with a hard, grim stare set on his face like stone, and started to tense like he'd leap on whoever was threatening them next. Until he caught the eyes looking down at him in horror and realized it was Clarice. That she and Harry were talking to him, pleading for him to stop over Conrad's screams. Where he was, what he'd been doing, who he'd done it to, it all came crashing down on him in a moment., and he tumbled back onto the ground. For a moment, all he could manage was to stare at the ground. "Shit," he rasped weakly, "I didn'...just..."

There were no words for what he'd just done. This didn't have to happen, but he saw what Conrad had done to his friends and it stirred something in him. A real anger that he'd managed to keep a lid on for...fuck, years. Never anything this bad. Nobody had ever gotten hurt like this. This time though...this had happened. It was real. The screaming that wouldn't leave his head was more than enough proof of that. Couldn't think about it. Couldn't look at himself, especially his hands. They had to get out of here. He had to get out of here.

His eyes locked on Harry's wound and he got up to help the big man support himself. He couldn't look him in the eye, didn't want to see the disappointment, or how Harry might react to the shame that was etched into his own face. It was hard to say which would be worse; the disgust, or the pity. He wasn't keen on finding out just yet.

"Clarice," he called out shakily, "ya'll hurt real bad. We need to find somewhere to patch up, fast."

He didn't say a thing about Conrad. Not a goddamn word.

((Ty Yazzie Continued inThis Is Not My Country, This Is Not What I Believe))
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Ty stopped. Mostly, Clarice felt relief. Though there was a tinge of dark disappointment somewhere in there. Outwardly, she let out a long breath.

She looked down at Conrad. Lying on the ground, arm twisted around. She looked at him while Ty went to help Harold. Not really moving, just watching. What did she do now? What was she supposed to do? Conrad wasn’t just her boyfriend. He was one of her oldest friends. They’d been around each other since they were little.

She couldn’t just leave him, could she? Not after all that.

Ty said something to her. It took a few moments for her to realise what.

“I’m fine. It’s dealt with,” she said shortly. She looked back at him, then at Harold. At the bleeding hole in his chest. Any hesitation she felt melted away.

She looked back down at Conrad. This time, there was nothing on her face but disgust. He’d made it clear how he intended to play this game. And it wasn’t something that Clarice would have anything to do with.

“We’re leaving.” She stared at Conrad for another long moment, then turned away. She grabbed her bag and moved it over to where Ty and Harold were, putting it down long enough so that she could sling one of Harold’s arms over her shoulders before grabbing it again. She gritted her teeth to stop herself yelling—any pain from her shoulder was secondary to moving Harold—but she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. “Saw a gurney on my way in. That can help us.”

With that, she started to lead Harold out of the room.

She didn’t look back at Conrad.

((Clarice Halwood continued in This Is Not My Country, This Is Not What I Believe.))
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The scattered parts of Harold's brain that were still concerned with morality instead of mortality were glad that Ty had stopped before he had done anything he couldn't take back. A person had to be strong in order bring themselves back from the edge of reason like that. No matter how loudly Harold and Clarice's voices had ultimately reached him, it had been Ty's decision to stop himself. Harold would've liked to say that there had never been any doubt in his mind, that Ty was one of the strongest people he knew; but that'd be a lie - the first part, at least.

When SOTF broke people, it shattered their legacy, forced everyone they cared about to view the good times in their past through a bloodstained lens. Reduced them to single words like 'murderer' or 'psychopath', no matter what their hopes or dreams had been. Evil could kill memory itself, at least in the public eye. Harold had been terrified that he had been about to watch Ty vault over that ledge, tear Conrad and himself to pieces with his bare hands. Under normal circumstances, he would have felt relief wash over him in waves, a sense of pride for that small act of Justice that had been done, proof that good could still win out in the end.

In the here and now, though, outside of the abstractions and philosophical musings being done in the corners of his consciousness, Harold just felt dizzy and tired.

He let Ty and Clarice put his arms around their shoulders, let them start to carry him away. Harold did the best he could to make it easier for them, but whatever strength he'd had was fading. He glanced at Conrad one last time. Saw him crying and writhing on the floor. Wasn't sure if he wanted to scream at him for everything or apologize for not doing better, and then scream at him for everything.

Hatred and pity and sympathy and pain all blurred together as they fought for dominance in Harold's head, and the carefully defined lines he had built his world around began to fade.

They left in silence.

((This Is Not My Country, This Is Not What I Believe.))
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While Conrad was on the ground thousands of thoughts rushed through his body to his brain. Most of them were pain.

The things that came out of him were still inaudible and when no one was there anymore who could hear his screaming, he began to calm down and silently cry instead, thinking about everything. The cold, dirty floor felt comfortable against his right cheek. It was a better feeling than he had in his arm.

Harold might not be dead. Conrad might not be a killer. Clarice and Ty could help him. But Conrad could not deny that the wound he had caused was serious. Life-threatening. Organs were important to live. Vital. Conrad himself was an organ donor, but eventually he would die on this island, and nobody would even profit from it. Just the terrorists. Conrad T. Harrod was going to be a name on a list of victims of disasters, not more, not less. Just part of a tragedy. Just a name like the victims of 9/11, the Breivik attacks, the Aberthol school shooting, like so many tragedies Conrad had heard of but have not known a single victim personally, even the previous SOTFs. He was just a nameless face people might mourn.

If he won, that was a different thing.

Jesus Christ, if he won he could change anything in the world. He would have publicity like no one ever. He could write speeches against SOTF, actually try to change anything. Not like everybody else. Maybe try to run for President. MacAllister sucked in that regard. SOTF still happened after all these years.

An unrealistic goal, but a goal nonetheless. Wouldn’t need to worry about a damn thing in the future. If he made it out.

But he had just one functioning arm. Ty ruined much. Even if that idea of winning was one that would make Conrad feel more secure than he currently is, he would not win. He did not want to kill anyone. He could not even. He would be killed, dead.

But to Clarice, he was dead already. She thought he was a murderer, a player. Someone who would try to be the last man standing. Ty was thinking that as well. As does Harold. As does anybody they would meet and tell them about the boyfriend who stabs people.

But he was not dead. He could have been. If Clarice and Harold had not saved him from Ty's murderous rage. He still had a chance.

A second chance with no second arm. He was screwed. His did not want to move his arm or stand up.

He stared at the wall, where his halberd chilled. The halberd, just chilling on the wall, having observed the chaos that emerged, just leaning on the wall. Conrad could not use it with one arm.

After some minutes, he could not grasp the time, Conrad managed to stand up. With just one arm, he pushed himself off the ground. He eyed the bloody sword on the ground. He could use that. If he wanted to. With his right hand, his bad hand. It looked disgusting, with the blood on it. Harry's. He did not want to pick it up. Conrad sat down and leaned against the wall.

This was the reality. This was not the Clarice idea, the ideal 'let's team up' idea. This was the reality where wrestlers attacked you and break your arm. This was the reality where wrestlers come near one, planning to attack him. One, where not everybody is friendly. One, where not everybody is thinking clear. Conrad did a mistake, he had to admit.

But a mistake no one could forgive. Clarice would never. He wanted to, but he lost. There was no second chance. This was not like basketball, where one could do a mistake and learn from it. Conrad could not learn from it. His name was tainted. He would be feared, hated, once Harold dies. Not even someone as nice and pure and lovely as Kizi would like him.

A mistake. In a way it was like basketball. Conrad knew this feeling, in a less extreme way. When he was nervous, nothing worked. Conrad was a calm guy, even while running and playing on the field. He was cool-headed. Back when he started playing, he played worse because he was a more insecure, nervous player. Nothing worked when you're nervous. Especially in SOTF. Everything is different when you're cool. Conrad usually could handle pressure, but when Harold came so close to him...

Conrad breathed heavily. His arm ached. He tried to think clearly again. Calm down. Stay cool.

Harold was dying. Maybe not immediately, but he certainly would not survive until this game ends. Conrad did not need to be called Dr. Harrod to realise that.

And it was his fault.

"Harold, I am sorry", he said to no one in the room.

"You were not trying to attack me."

Tears dropped. His body shaked. He was alone.

But someone came.
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((Isabel Ramirez continued from Rückenfigur))

Isabel trudged through the wards of the asylum, Tina's blood splashed upon her shirt and Tina's scarf wrapped around her neck, two trophies earned by the crime she committed.

Isabel was listening for other students, potential threats. The island they were on wasn't exactly very big, according to the map, and the asylum was a blatant, massive point of interest. She needed to get out of this place and stay out of this place if she wanted to stay safe, but the twisting hallways and manic architecture of the asylum left her befuddled and confused as to where she actually was.

So she wandered into another one of the wards, solitary confinement. The gates blocking off the ward were left open haphazardly, and as Isabel passed through them she couldn't help but feel as if something was horribly wrong. Still, Isabel continued further inside, hoping to maybe find a stairwell that would lead her to the bottom floor of the asylum. Isabel glanced into each of the solitary rooms as she passed by them, looking around for useful supplies or people who've already lost their minds.

Isabel stopped dead in her tracks as a scream echoed through the hallways, originating from deeper into the ward.

Isabel dodged into one of the confinement cells, hiding behind the massive metal door, sock flail in one hand and the man-catcher ready in the other. And there she sat, for a few minutes, waiting. She heard footsteps, pained grunts, and voices as they approached the cell that she was hiding in. The voices grew clearer, more distinct as they grew closer, one she recognized from earlier in the day. Clarice. It seemed the two of them had followed similar paths. Despite knowing that her voice should signify friendly faces, instead of leaving her cell, Isabel stayed inside of it. Everyone was an enemy, a potential risk to her well-being. She tensed as they walked past, only subsiding when their footsteps and voices were inaudible. Isabel stood, bracing the man-catcher again, and walked out of the cell. A trail of blood leading deeper into the ward had been left behind, presumably by the person in their group giving out those pained grunts.

Despite all of her instincts telling her otherwise, Isabel followed the trail of blood deeper into the ward, letting the yellow brick road of violence dictate her path. As she got deeper, she heard new grunts of pain and the sounds of crying. Someone else was still here. Still, Isabel kept walking, until the noises reached a crescendo as she turned a corner. A familiar face, standing, pressed against a wall. A twisted arm, blatantly broken. A bloody sword, lying on the ground. A wicked halberd, leaning against a wall.

"Oh hey, Conrad. Fancy meeting you here..."
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It was hard to concentrate on speaking anything with the pain, but Conrad emitted words out of his mouth, like usual, nonetheless. He swiped the tears out of his eyes.

"Hello, Isabel."

A familiar face was always good. Especially since he already knew her from the island. He did not need to be scared of her, because she seemed friendly earlier. She did not seem to have snapped and her inputs earlier that day were rational. Smart, even, in comparison to Clarice's plan. She was not like Nancy, a wildcard that murders people. She was not like Harold, who was also armed like Nancy, who also could have been a wild card.

It was also Nancy's fault. It was people like Nancy that Conrad tried to protect Clarice from. Isabel was not Nancy.

But.

Why had she blood on her shirt? Actually the question Isabel could ask was why he had blood on the sword.

"A fight happened here."

He pointed with his right hand at the sword. Conrad grimaced.

"It's unbelievable that our classmates are capable of doing such a thing."

Then he looked at his left arm and then back at Isabel.
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Isabel glanced at the bloody sword as Conrad pointed to it.

"Yeah. Amazing how quickly people snap under pressure."

Isabel looked at Conrad's arm. The break was horrendous to look at, there was no way his arm would be usable without immediate treatment. "About your arm, I might be able to like... make a splint or something? I'm not entirely sure how but I think there might be stuff in the first aid kit, maybe..." She looked at Conrad and his bag before craning her head towards the nearest solitary cell. "Here, let's get you inside here, just in case anyone dangerous comes along."

Conrad mumbled something and grunted in pain as she helped move him and his bag into the cramped padded cell, helping him rest against the wall. The cells directly around them were smaller than the one she had just been in, fairly claustrophobic. Isabel tapped her chin as she pondered for a moment, before turning her head towards the halberd and bloody sword sitting outside. "Here, lemme bring these in too. If someone finds those just sitting there while we're in here then we're sitting ducks."

Isabel rested the sword and halberd against the wall behind her, the halberd's point touching the ceiling of the room. Isabel looked in between Conrad's arm and his bag, before yanking his bag to her side of the cell and pulling out the medical kit. "Alright, lemme see if there's anything in here that I can use."

Digging around in the kit, examining the contents, trying to remember how to treat an broken bone, Isabel arrived at nothing useful, both in her knowledge and the objects in the box. Isabel leaned her head back and stared at the dim ceiling of the cell in frustration. Conrad could've been at least a somewhat useful ally to keep around until it was time to dispose of him. But if his arm was going to be stuck in the position it was, constantly causing him pain and making him more of a liability, that was for naught.

Conrad was talking about something, but Isabel tuned him out, lost in her own thoughts. She thought back to... an hour ago? She wasn't sure how much time had passed. She thought back to when she had been forcing the glass shard towards Tina's throat. How she felt this... sense of control, this... powerful feeling. Having that ability to decide whether Tina lived or died and how she died made her feel alive. It made her feel a visceral sense of agency that she had oh so little of in her life. Taking away the agency of others to empower her own sense of agency... it made her understand why her parents did it to her. Isabel let her neck relax, before rolling her head around to get the tension out of her muscles. She turned towards Conrad, her gaze no longer having the same concern it showed before. She had a helpless victim, one that would probably try to follow her around if she just left him alive, acting as a burden to her survival. A second kill might show the rest of the student body that she was not someone to be trifled with, and help Isabel steel herself against the horrible things she might have to do to survive. Maybe Clarice might want to go after her in revenge, but she could handle Clarice, she was no trouble.

And maybe, she might be able to once again feel that same rush that she got from killing Tina.

Isabel yanked the man-catcher out of her bag straps, Conrad seeming to not take much notice of her action. "Uh-huh." Isabel said as she looked at the weapon, feigning attention to Conrad's words.

Then, in one swift motion, Isabel turned and violently pinned Conrad to the wall, ensnaring him in the jaws of the weapon. She glared at him. "Stop talking." She said.

Not wanting to give Conrad time to escape, or even to process what was happening to him, Isabel brought the shaft of the man-catcher down against the other end of the wall with all the force she could manage, pinning Conrad against the wall, the spines of the weapon digging into the flesh of his torso. "Stay put, or the spines will dig into you more."

Isabel needed to make sure that Conrad didn't embed the spikes further in his flesh, since there was no point in making him suffer even more. Still, as she picked up the bloody sword, she watched Conrad struggle to break himself out of the jaws of the man-catcher with his one arm anyway. It didn't matter what he did, so long as he was pinned there, he was no threat. Safety first, no need to risk anything while taking Conrad down.

Isabel winced as Conrad screamed for help in the tiny room. She motioned to shut the door to the room, to deaden the screams. "Help isn't coming, Conrad." She turned back to face him. "You're going to die here." Isabel sat down next to him, on the side of his broken arm. "But look on the bright side, at least the pain you're feeling right now will stop momentarily, and you won't die alone. We'll be together."

Isabel stood back up almost as quickly as she sat down. "And, let's be honest. It's not like you were going to survive with an injury like that. Best to get things out of the way quickly, right? You have the whole of oblivion to look forward to."

Isabel lightly waved the sword around in her hand, judging the weight before turning her attention back to Conrad. "Goodbye."

Isabel took a deep breath, readying the sword. She would just stab Conrad in the the neck, like she did with Tina. It'll all be over quickly after that. No need for Conrad to suffer for no gain whatsoever. Conrad squirmed harder against the man-catcher, as Isabel raised the sword, desperately trying to escape, desperately pleading with her to let him go. Isabel lowered the sword slightly as she watched the spines dig into his flesh, Conrad growling and gasping as the pain got to him. She looked at Conrad's broken arm, twisting itself around, causing Conrad even more pain. All of it pain that she is indirectly causing. Seeing him squirm and inflict this pain on himself, it made her feel odd. It wasn't quite the same as the feelings of control and power she got from Tina's death. But it was similar, very similar to how she felt when she bullied people, but stronger, better.

"Maybe... maybe I'll... keep you alive, just a bit longer." Isabel said, as she lowered the sword, thinking. Conrad stopped struggling, presumably thinking that she was going to let him go. Isabel had no intentions of letting him go. Isabel instead was conflicted with what she was thinking. She wanted to explore this feeling she was getting, but it would make the most sense to her survival to just stab Conrad and leave him to bleed to death. No need to linger and drag this out, no need to waste valuable time that could mean the difference between nobody appearing to help him and someone stopping her.

Isabel clutched the upper portion of her arm that was holding the sword, biting her lip. She was about to make a mistake. Isabel sat down next to Conrad's leg as he kept talking more and more.

"I said shut up," she barked at him. She readied the blade of the sword against one of his legs, forced against the floor so it could barely bend. She stared at the sword for a bit, contemplating. "So... let's get started."

Isabel forced the sword into Conrad's leg, fresh blood pouring out of the wound as he screamed in agony. Back and forth, she moved the sword in a sawing motion, digging into Conrad's leg all the way down to the bone. Adrenaline rushed through her as Conrad screamed and pleaded with her. She twisted the sword in the wound, Conrad's screams growing more violent as the sword scratched against the surface of the bone and sloughed the flesh from where it was anchored. She smiled. The feeling was all she could think about now. It was intoxicating, liberating, something had never felt this good before. This feeling invigorated her, gave her new purpose.

Isabel ripped the sword out of Conrad's leg, the blood pooling on the ground as the skin and muscle remained attached only by a single flap. Isabel brought the sock flail out of her pocket, before winding up and hitting the side of Conrad's jaw at full force. Teeth fell out of Conrad's mouth as his jaw lopsidedly hung from where it had broken off of the base of his skull. His screams had turned into moans of agony, his mouth no longer able to project his voice properly. Isabel dropped the sock flail to the ground before readying her sword with both hands. She brought the sword down near Conrad's shoulder, but instead ended up splitting Conrad's hand nearly in half down the middle as he tried desperately to stop the blade.

Isabel chuckled as Conrad let out another wail. "That was probably worse than what I was going to do. Good job." She yanked the sword out of Conrad's hand as he tried to pull it away, before readying it again. She brought the pointed end of the blade into Conrad's torso, up from under his ribs. He let out an agonizing noise that turned to choking and gasping as his lung was sliced open.

Conrad's pain was Isabel's passion, his screams her symphony.

Still, it looked like the fun was coming to an end, as Conrad choked, his eyelids wavering. He wasn't long for this world.

Isabel took note, and begged him to stay alive. "Nonono, stay awake. Stay awake." She said, as she brought the sword up to his face and began cutting into it. "Just stay awake a little bit longer, cling to life a little bit longer. You can do it, stay awake. Stay awake." Chunks of flesh from Conrad's face fell to the floor as Isabel carved into him like meat fresh from the slaughter. Shortly after, he gave out one last gasp that seemed like an attempted scream before he stopped moving. Isabel didn't notice, and kept carving, kept imploring him to stay alive, moving up and down his face and torso as she worked, cutting, slicing, ripping, tearing.

Isabel only stopped once she had made it halfway down Conrad's torso, to where the man-catcher was still embedded, and figured out that he was dead.

"...Damn. I wanted to keep that going," she said to herself, in the now lonely room. Isabel stood and gathered her things, pillaging Conrad's bag and keeping the sword and halberd to herself. As she opened the door to leave, she stared at her blood soaked hands, still shaking from excitement. Isabel hadn't made a mistake. She had made the best decision she had ever made in her life. Isabel glanced back at Conrad's body briefly, before wincing. Still, she created quite a grisly sight.

Isabel walked out of the cell with her new weapons in tow, her shirt covered in so much blood that you almost couldn't tell that it used to be pink. Conrad's unrecognizable body lay where it was left, the man-catcher still attached and pinned to the wall. Isabel took a deep breath.

Isabel walked out of the cell feeling, for the first time in her life, truly alive.

((Isabel Ramirez continued in 白色雑音))
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TwelveFourtyFive
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Conrad did not want to die.

He should have been cautious.

He felt good talking some minutes before. Talking with Isabel about what had happened to him since she left their group. Someone that might understand his standpoint. Could relate his motives and thoughts.

He did not expect Isabel to trap him with her weapon. He tried to find bubble gum in his bag, asking Isabel if she had some. She replied with a 'shut up'. And then he just found pain in his stomach.

Help. Why. Fuck. No. Huh. Screams. Vowels. Syllables. That's what came out.

Conrad was not a person who was scared of injuries. If he bruised something while playing, no problem. The broken arm he had? Fucking painful, it distracted him, it was a big disadvantage. But he imagined that it could be plastered in the future. It was going to be fine. The pain, it could go away with meds, eventually, in the future. But Conrad was afraid of death the most. It was permanent.

Getting things into his body, was something he was used to. He was not afraid of getting insulin needles injected.

But this was no insulin needle. He felt dizzy. His tummy hurt. He wanted to vomit.

He tried to move. With all force. Get away.

But he was just one-armed. And his right arm was not good enough to move it away. His left arm made things worse. He needed to free himself from the pain. But couldn't.

Isabel then went to kill him with the sword he killed Harold with.

But then, Conrad had hope again.

She hesitated. She did not kill him. And then the hope vanished. It was worse.

He needs to talk. He needs to live.

He was going to die. He was dying. He was scared.

He just wants to live.

He wants to do so much.

"I can. You need me. I can help. You don't need to kill me."

Anything.

"I am useful. Too useful to live."

He would kill, just to live any longer.

"Die."

He would do anything to get out.

"Help."

This went longer than expected. His eyes watched. The room, isabel, the blood, the pain. It felt so long that he had been trapped on the wall.

"I can help you in winning."

He would eat shit just to get out of here.

"Don't kill me."

Shoot a knife into his eye.

"We can be a team."

Anything.

"God no."

But he did not want to die.

"Don't kill me."

Talk.

"Help."

Convince.

"I can kill, too."

Tears.

"My arm is."

Breathe.

"Why?"

But Isabel made him shut up.

Now, he could not help. He could not talk. Just inaudible noises. No word. Isabel would not listen. Isabel would not listen.








His body was fucked up.









But then things got worse.

Death was nearing.

It was hard to think. Concentrate what was happening to him. He did not know. He wanted out of here. He would be dead. This was what dying felt like.

A stab.

His lung. He could not breathe. Breathing hurt.

Any minute and all of this would end.

So much pain. So much fear.

In the end the fear of dying was worse than dying itself.

B002 - Conrad Timothy Harrod - DEAD

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