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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 (1,662 Views)
TwelveFourtyFive
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"I don't know, Clarice. I really don't know other than that we will be cautious to not let this thing repeat itself. We don't want to get hurt anymore."

Conrad finished bandaging Clarice and thought for a bit before replying to the injured Clarice who was in pain. He ignored the workout comment, even if he was meant to laugh, be amused, smile - he was not in a mood to.

"Really, you sound like ibu could really help you. Even if it won't help as much, it certainly could make you feel better."

Looking around, Conrad caught an intruder. A sword appeared.

Was the attacker of Clarice following them?

No.

It was Harold.

But, Harold held a sword, ready to slay them, if he wanted. His voice did not sound like that was the case, but...

dejavu.

Voices don't mean anything in this death game.

Conrad did not let his guard down. Conrad won't let Clarice let her guard down. Not after what had happened the last time they trusted someone with a weapon.

"We are not okay. She was injured about..." Hours? Half an hour. Half an hour sounds like a good time span to say. "half an hour ago."

Conrad replied to Harold. Quick, fast, short. Harsh. As if he was a doctor who treated Clarice. That was how he felt. And Harold came in, trying to help, interrupting them with a freaking sword.

He observed him. And if Harold did anything dangerous, Conrad would be ready.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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Something was making Conrad nervous with Harold talking to his girlfriend, while having a sword in the room. His halberd was on the ground, but the sword was just there. It was creepy. It looked like it was there to be quickly picked up, leaning on the wall. Surprising people with an attack is a common thing in wrestling, right? Him talking about Ty, talking about the team. A team. Alliance. Conrad was not in the wrestling team. Was Harold implying that the wrestling club members should unite to survive? Conrad knew that Clarice would never ever join such a thing, but what did he know about Ty and Harold planning to do so? Ty scavenging the building with the plan to find items for Harry itself was a scary thought. The former terrible person who bullied people in a situation like SOTF. Why should Ty keep being friendly? What would stop him from becoming his old self again?

And Clarice just mindlessly believing his words was worrying him as well. The two of them joking. Clarice liked it, Harold liked it. But Conrad did not find any of this funny. Clarice was doing the same mistake over and over again. Conrad had to help. Perhaps, Harold is no bad guy. But even then, being cautious is the best solution for Clarice and Conrad.

Conrad Timothy Harrod stared at the sword leaning on the wall. Such a thing could kill someone. Such a weapon could injure someone hard. It was deadly and this could be bad. It's a weapon, and like all weapons it's dangerous if it's in the wrong hands.

Conrad knew he could be quick. A couple of steps, a grab, and back to Clarice. Now, Conrad had the sword.

Much more safe.

Pointing the sword to the ground, he looked at Harold, with an undecided and uneasy frown.

"Sorry. Precautionary move."

Conrad had the sword, Harold had no sword. Clarice was safe.

"Swords are not an item I want to deal with. Not after what Nancy did with her weapon to her."

He looked at Clarice's face and was not surprised at her reaction to his stealing. But he had the responsibility.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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Harold, who was not Nancy, as Clarice stated, might have not attacked him yet. But, he had the potential to do so. A bigger potential than Nancy would have. Harry could wrestle. Conrad could not. Harry attacks him and Conrad's dead.

"Clarice, that's not what I've said!"

He exclaimed that statement with an angry voice. A lie, misunderstanding. Now Harold would distrust him even more.

"I do not plan to outlast my classmates!"

Conrad knew that he could not. Would not kill anybody. Even with the sword in his hand and Harry or Clarice as a target - he would never bring himself to kill either of them. He was a human. He had morals. He was rational.

That's why he should stop being angry at his girlfriend for accusing him of being a coldhearted person. She was hurt herself. She was too trusting. Conrad could handle this.

But then the wrestler talked. Something about the way it was brought to him felt wrong. It was too optimistic, too utopian. Too much of a Clarice illusion.

Harold, coming closer. Step, step, step. Closer.

Conrad could not move. He was shaking, he knew that Harry could use some wrestling techniques to quickly knock him out. Harold was coming closer, until he could reach Conrad. Until he could grab him. Attack him. Harold was so big.

His life is in danger. But maybe it wasn't his life anymore. The terrorists basically owned the life of Conrad by having an explosive collar around his neck. And they could detonate it any time.

And then he thrust the sword forward, trying to push him away. With force.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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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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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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TwelveFourtyFive
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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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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

98 Students Remaining
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