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70's Horror Movies III: Swooooooooord Caaaaaaaaaaane; [SHOOT FIRST] [Ask later]
Topic Started: Mar 27 2017, 06:24 PM (552 Views)
TwelveFourtyFive
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((Alessio Rigano continued from The show starts at five. Bring snacks.))

It was dark.

But it was better than the cellar. Al could see more. It was a dining room, it looked like.

Alessio had no clue in which room he stumbled, as he was totally unfamiliar with this part of the asylum. It was spooky, even. Going through an abandoned asylum during nighttime was spooky enough even if he wasn't in the situation. It reminded me of horror movies where he was a character who would killed from behind. Except, he could actually be killed here.

It was nighttime, though. He should sleep. Under the table. And so he laid down. Nobody will come to find him.

Thoughts of someone coming in and killing him were making it harder for him to close his eyes.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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All nights Alessio had the luck of not being interrupted by someone while sleeping. Every night.

Of course this streak of him not getting murdered while sleepin' was going to end some time (well, if you don't count Michael waking him up from sleep by kicking him unconscious).

Unfortunately the time apparently was now. A girl whose scream sounded familiar had walked in and that scream happened after she used her flashlight to see Al.

And then the light disappeared.

Al couldn't see who it was, but after a couple seconds of staring at the light, blinded by it again, shortly considering playing dead until he realised that he breathed so heavily that she must have seen how his chest went up and down, he stood up only to bump his head against the table.

Now he held both of his hands against his hit head. He knew this pain. It was painful for a moment, but it will go away after resting. But he couldn't rest, because he had to move away from the table to gather some distance from Dot.

Dot. That was the person. The scream.

He couldn't see shit. So he walked across the room, hoping she would go away to not initiate a confrontation.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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Alessio had a flashlight, too. But he did not know where exactly it was. He never used it, never had to. He was not afraid of the dark.

But now he needed light to see what's happening. So he searched blindly in his bag, felt many things and then finally found something that felt like a flashlight.

He pointed it near the entrance, where he heard the noises.

Switch.

Light.

There were two people lying on the ground.

Dorothy and what the fuck, a masked man.

Dorothy was bloodied too. She was covered in blood. Did she just die?

What happened?

Switch.

Darkness.

Al took some more steps in a random direction.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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Wait, there were noises again.

Alessio turned on the light again, now, from a different direction. Dorothy smashed at the masked person with a hairy ball thing.

Oh Jesus, a skull what the fuck. That was a pretty gross thing. Disgusting. Ew. Spooky. Creepy.

He also saw and heard a sword falling down.

He was tired, he didn't want to run there, he'd rather go away and sleep. But oh well, he wanted to have his sword back. The thing next to Dorothy was his sword he stole from Maria after all. He needed it. Otherwise he'd have nothing against Dot or the masked person, except his useless gun.

So he put the fake gun back into his backpack and with his flashlight in hand, sprinted to the confrontation between the two, not to interrupt them from fighting, but to try to grab the sword.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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Got the sword. Girl escaped though.

Alessio had a sword in one hand and the flashlight at the other.

And in front of him there was the mask with another sword.

"Why did you attack Dorothy?"

Did he attack Dorothy? He probably did. Dorothy defended herself with the skull. The masked guy was the reason of the scuffle between them and Dorothy. Yes, that's how it was. That made it easier for Alessio to attack.

So he swung his sword at the crook.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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Got him.

Nixon was disarmed. Alessio still had the pokerface when trying to hit Nixon with the shamshir again, but Mr. President managed to avoid the hit and jumped at him.

Now, with one arm Al was holding the sword and the other the flashlight pointing at Nixon.

Then, the flashlight was rolling away from them, probably three meters away from the two of them. It was the less important thing for Al. His sword was still tightly grabbed with his right hand, but Al felt pain at his back of the head as he fell backwards.

Now he was lying on the ground, having lost the balance. He positioned his sword in front of his torso to protect it.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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Stand up, Al.

As he swung at Nixon, he could feel the machete touching his skin as a counter attack. It was cold. As Alessio was hit he instinctively backed away, paranoid of the wound. He blindly walked with high speed backwards until he stumbled to realise that he walked against a bench. So he fell on it, sitting on it.

This sword fight was not like Star Wars or Lord of the Rings at all. Fuck it, it made him super nervous. He could die now. He already could feel blood flowing out of him and that he bleeds out.

He had things to do before he died. He did not know what, though. Kill people. See Vanessa's reaction to her causing all of this. Find a partner. Build more traps. Perhaps win, go home, start a new life.

Then he looked down and saw that he did not bleed, but that his shirt was torn. He made sure that it did not bleed by touching it with his fingers. There was no liquid of pain. It was a scratch and Al had to make sure it stayed a scratch.

"Please go away."

He pulled out his fake gun and pointed it at Jon. He put on his angriest face he could pull.

Clint Eastwood again.
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This was it. Nixon had a gun, too. A real one.

Alessio was going to die. They stared at each other. Alessio relaxed his expression, not looking angry anymore.

"Who are you? I want to know who you are."

He lowered his gun a bit.

"I'd rather be...home."

He really was. Gunpoint. His stomach hurt. He was too nervous in this position. Perhaps he could engage in a conversation with Nixon to find out who they were. To find common ground. They both rather wanted to be home. Alessio did not need enemies. He either needed victims or helpers.
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TwelveFourtyFive
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Nixon shot him.

He wailed, cried, expressed his pain, his fear via vowels. But Jon left, without saying anything except that Al could go home, but Nixon lied and shot him, shot him, attempted to kill him. As Jon walked out of the door and closed it, Al should've felt relief, but all he felt was fear. It was the uncertainty of the wound. It was being alone, dying alone, being left alone.

Alessio slowly walked to his flashlight to look at the wound. It was bloody.

This wound now made his scarred hand look like nothing at all. Pain. Pain. Michael beating him was nothing compared to this mess.

He looked in the medical kit. Aspirin and ibuprofen. Lots of others stuff to clean the wound. He had no idea how to deal with a gunshot wound, though. Treat it the same as a different kind of injury? Treat it like a scratch? Was there another choice? No, there wasn't. So he bandaged it up like it was told to him in first aid class.

He was alive. He was not dying from this if he takes care of it. He needed to focus, gotta get a grip and stop being a whiner.

After taking care of the wound, he decided that he shouldn't worry about it anymore and take some sleep. Time will heal it. He didn't bother to turn out his flashlight. He was afraid of the dark, tonight.

Then, he woke up, it was still dark, sleeping with a bullet in his body felt strange, painful. He tried to sleep or at least nap for a couple of seconds but he just blankly stared at the ceiling of the cafeteria. The pain was distracting. After falling asleep again, he woke up when it felt like dawn to him. He stood up and eyed his surroundings. His flashlight and shamshir still lying on the floor. He found the gun he dropped after being shot.

He took a snack from his backpack, picked up the sword, gun and flashlight and left this place.

((Alessio Rigano continued in Overkill))
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