| University of Colorado, Colorado Springs | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 2 2016, 10:36 PM (277 Views) | |
| Cambrysiel | May 2 2016, 10:36 PM Post #1 |
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![]() Once stood tall and victorious in its numerous scholar awards and football trophies, the school is nothing more now than a place to stop for food and warmth. A group of old students have created a barricade of rubble and furniture around the main building and have a camp set up there. If you approach with your hands up and ask nicely, they may just let you join them. campus map
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| Cambrysiel | May 9 2016, 08:09 PM Post #2 |
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The young woman’s shadow was cast eerily across the walls of the small, empty store. The dark shape contored in odd monstrous shapes as she moved - she was scavenging for supplies, but her shadow danced acrpss the wall like a feeding corpse. It was obvious to anyone that the place had been looted many times and times again - and still, items remained. Items of clothing remained on hangers thrown askew, shelving units stood mostly intact aside, and still food, weapons and a few other useful items remained for the taking to those who knew just where to look. Once Bethany had cleared out the few remaining supplies in the shop - those trigger-happy bastards from the woods took everything she had - she came back round to the front of the shop and scanned the streets. Her eyes narrowed in on a lone vehicle about a hundred feet in. For all she knew, there could be zombies hidden in the brush. Assuming she was lucky enough to even find the keys or successfully hot wire it in the first place, she’d be likely be screwed if it was low on gas or a tire got punctured on the glass; it was a Harley and the sound of the motor alone would attract a horde… Then again... she was still three miles out from the school and night was approaching. She glanced behind herself at the Garden of the Gods. The sky behind her was gray with smoke. It’d been four weeks since she’d last seen a hint of military presence. Lone stragglers such as herself were still making it out of the city, but they rarely made it all the way out to the school. A shiver went down her back as she slinked into the seat of the Jeep Grandmaster Cherokee, cringing at the thought of driving on the roads like this. “C'mon Bethany… You can do this.” she whispered, tapping her fingers against her steering wheel as she tried to convince herself. “… Fuck it.” ___________________________________ A soft rumbling in the distance grows louder as Bethany approaches the school, her care maneuvering around the barricades with some ease, thanks to her memorization of the barricades. Three days had passed since Bethany had been seen. Three days of her friends wondering what happened to her, three days of questioning members of the group she had been with -- "Beth is back, drop the ladder on the right barricade!" The order finds its way around the camp in whispers and gasps. Those who were close to the girl rushed towards building two to greet her. Bethany, meanwhile, had parked the vehicle and was wandering inside. Immediately, she denies medical care for her head, and instead retreats to her tent, which had (hopefully) been left untouched in her absence. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:17 PM.
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| FeelsGoodMan | May 9 2016, 09:02 PM Post #3 |
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"So, I cut the fucking head off! Hah!" Several young lads sat a uniform distance of four feet the locker, each eye firmly--more importantly, willingly--to Stanislaw. The acrid stench of Cosmoline moistened the adherents' eyes, but Stan knew that they would get used to it; the same smell was what gave Stan his confidence, his ego. Boldened, the brazen bastard spewed litanies of his glories with the legendary SKS leaning upon his leg. But this time, some were true. Discovering a new path through the barricades, which he had taken care to mark with strips of cloth: a Columbus, in the true sense. Told them how he'd saved that brunette from dozens of dangers, maintaining a vigilant watch over the night. And they believed every word of it. At first, it was a murmur Beth! barely audible. Stanislaw recognized it, but his highly-compartmentalized brain took the necessary precautions to prevent any damage to his ego or disruptions to his speech. So he continued. But there it was again Beth!--louder. Infuriating. How dare she. The ears, once given to his own speech, now perked in a different direction. They no longer regarded their savior, Kazik Stanislaw. As one group, they looked to each other, began excited whispers, and set off. Beth! Stanislaw: pale, though his mind ran crimson. Alone, again. He would lose face (lose face, in the eyes of whom? Nobody cared as much as he did--nobody knew him.) if he deigned to show himself outside, acknowledge the return of his rival. But what to do? She had a locker. He could start with that. The little, pathetic ways to get back at a person--Stanislaw knew them all well, having led the egging of many a teacher's car for their inability to recognize his genius. He marched off, vengeance providing vigor to each step. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:17 PM.
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| Cambrysiel | May 9 2016, 09:20 PM Post #4 |
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Beth had always hated the being on radio duty. She hated hearing people die on the other end, she unable to help. Now, she stared ahead, arms folded, as she heard the static on her hand-held radio, discarded on the desk before her initial departure. Hearing the white noise - the lack of life - was frightening. It felt like they were, so suddenly, all alone. Bethany sure felt that way. Calm down, Bethany. “I am calm,” she hissed, seemingly to herself, although the movement of her hands as she removed the stolen gun from her hip revealed otherwise. This place - they were all part of a small group of survivors. She had only joined it because numbers were proving to be safer if a horde of the undead were stumbled across. One person along could be easily overrun. A group of ten or so, however… It made life much easier. The past days events proved to her that travelling in a group was not a foolproof plan. Not only had she been secluded and then hunted, resulting in her going AWOL for three days, but she'd been informed upon arrival that the already-small group had lost someone yesterday. Another pointless death added to a long list of other pointless deaths. Eyes turning upwards to the rain cover on the tent, Bethany exhales a sigh and rubs her face, wincing as her fingers brush the still-tender wound on her temple. The feeling of being hunted was not one she would soon forget. She remembered the heat of the bullet on her ear as it whizzed by and slammed into the tree she hid behind, felt the scratches down the side of her face resulted from the splintering of the bark. It isn't long after her arrival that the smell of Cosmoline invades Bethany's home, her private space, where nobody was supposed to enter. As she is drawn out of her daydream, prickles went down the back of her neck and she turned to face the intruder, quickly covering herself with her sweater. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:17 PM.
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| FeelsGoodMan | May 10 2016, 08:27 PM Post #5 |
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Fuming, Stanislaw bursts into the tent. He allowed this display of unkingly rage, for he knew none were present. His dull bloodstone (minus the blood) eyes, too dull to glint as would be appropriate, dart about the small inside, ignoring that which he did not want to be there. But of course, that was futile. She was a real, human being. No delusion could prevent her presence. Redoubled in his fuming, Stanislaw locks his gaze onto Bethany. The insolent wretch! How could she be here? His prospective cultists had left to welcome her? Where was the big goddamn welcoming party for her? How infuriating! He let it loose upon her. "What in the hell, you bumbling idiot! You're supposed to be--" he motions outside the tent "--out there! You've ruined everything, yet again! First the fire, then being at Kay's, and now.../This/!" He gestures to the room, breathing heavily--the outburst had emptied his lungs entirely, giving her time for response. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:17 PM.
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| Cambrysiel | May 10 2016, 08:35 PM Post #6 |
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"Look," Starts Bethany, her tone holding a shocking and sudden forcefulness to it. "I don't know what your problem with me is, and I don't care. I've been nice to you - even before all of this, I was nice to you." Giving him spare pencils when asked, leaving an anonymous, friendly note in his locker that week he was sick wishing him a sincere 'Get Well Soon!', all of those watchful glances (and flickers of a smile) in the library when him and his friends gathered around the hunting section: Beth always tried to be the good guy, to everybody. "Guess you forgot that, though, what with your head so far up your ass. That's fine, really. Not like anybody ever bothers remembering the good shit, only the bad." That one time she blew up on him after something at home left her with a sour taste in her mouth: she'd shoved him. It was the day before the outbreak reached their city. Bethany must've been fuming herself, because the usually kind-natured girl was letting off on Stanislaw with what was clearly some pent up emotion. "And now, all I've done is try and help you and help everybody by going on these stupid fucking runs, and nearly getting myself killed to bring back supplies for you!" She gestures to the outside of the tent, obviously referring to everybody in the camp, not just Stan. "You know where I was these past few days? Bound to some perverts bed after getting shot in the woods. Not that you care, since niether you nor anybody else came looking. Whatever, whatever!" She throws her hands up again, and her previously dominating voice was now on the verge of cracking. A sheen of sweat tickled her skin, glinting off of her forehead when the sunlight hit it just right. She was still sick, just in a different way... Then, Bethany pivots on her heel and comes face-to-face with Stan. Or, as close as she could, because she was only 5'3". "You want me gone so bad? Fine. I'm gone. I didn't want this position in the first place." Bethany picks the pistol off of the bed and tosses it, it skidding across the floor and stopping at his feet. She begins throwing things from around the tent into her bag. Whatever. They didn't need her, right? They'd been fine without her, nobody had even come looking - that much she knew from how shocked everybody was when she returned. She'd seen it before, in reuniting families and lovers. When you somebody you love goes missing you think the worst. God forbid you waste supplies looking for them, can't spare the manpower in case something goes wrong on the homefront. What was the most astonishing about little Bethany's outburst was the sheer fact that she was wrong. People liked her, and people needed her, and for whatever reason, she was unable to see that. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:17 PM.
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| FeelsGoodMan | May 12 2016, 05:57 PM Post #7 |
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“Viktor. Leo. Tomorrow.” It had elicited a gasp from Viktor, who would've argued with Stanislaw over the change—for he knew he was skilled at soothing his leader's occasional bouts of furor—but abstained. There was something different this time. Stanislaw sulked into the dorm, slightly hunched forward (typically he had excellent posture), cast his backpack upon the couch (spilling an opened box of .223), and gazed out the window (he usually liked to keep the curtains closed). Very uncharacteristic—the only time Stanislaw had ever been seen in such disrepair was after Christmas. Viktor would never know what it was that held Stanislaw's attention through the window, who it was, walking. The fire in her words had kindled the memory. How could he forget? Even as she blew up in front of him, it should've been obvious that he was not listening to her—though her unusual domineering tone would certainly have caught his attention in any other case. He already knew what she was saying. And what a fucking idiot that made her, thought Stanislaw. What a fucking blind fool. Didn't she realize who she was? Bethany Blake. The name that reverberated around campus, before-and-after the outbreak, with a certain veneration. That she would just lie down and die was infuriating to Stanislaw. She had everything he wanted (which his subconscious knew to be true and which his conscious would never admit). He tried to last as long as he could, really. But when she stood upon her tippy-toes to breathe the hoarsely-spoken ultimatum to his face, the fuse was lit, steadily slithering down the rope. She had thought his original rage had subsided into shock because of his taken-aback countenance throughout her anger. She didn't see it—the turning of his face from a steady pale to a flushed, pink tone—because she turned around. The pistol slid across the ground, bumping against his feet. Boom. Within moments, he had closed the gap between them with heavy trodding. She might've turned around then, or, in her fury, continued packing, but regardless of the face, he spread both arms in a sick mockery of a bear-hug (their lean nature hidden beneath his somewhat-bulky varsity jacket) and, like a pincer, clamped his trembling hands about her arms. With what strength he held in his body (though the role of adrenaline no doubt played a major part), he'd bring his face ever-so-close as she had done moments before, leering over her with a new fury—though of a markedly different emotion than her last. “You're an idiot.” Subdued, almost calm—though something clearly roiled beneath his words. He affixed a piercing dull green gaze upon her, forcing eye contact. A short pause. Then the vocal dam broke—once or twice, a small fleck of spittle would hit her cheek as he shook her about violently. “You're a goddamn idiot! Look at you! Can't you see? You're the leader here! You're the one everyone looks up to! What do you think these fucking mongrels would do without you? Starve! Die! Why can't you see that? Sure, you don't want it—” His eyes detached from hers for a short second, floating to the side of the tent, but returned. “-- but you're the only one I can stand. You can't fucking leave me here, like you did at the Diner! Don't think I didn't search for you—I killed for you! I shot them both. I shot both of them and didn't stop shooting. I couldn't find you after that. I would've killed the pervert, too. If I don't beat you...I've got no purpose. Can't you see?” His volume lowers substantially towards the end, till it'd just be a barely-audible muttering between the two. His energy peters out, gaze falling down to her chin while maintaining his pathetically trembling grip—his legs seem a bit wobbly. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:18 PM.
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| Cambrysiel | May 12 2016, 06:43 PM Post #8 |
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"Don't touch me!" shouts the brunette, caring little who heard her. An attempted recoil from Stanislaw is met with a dull ache in the spaces his fingers occupied, hues of brown and green and violet blooming along her svelte limbs. A swarm of sensations overcome the young woman as she's shaken: The crushing of glass underneath a heel. Teeth sharp, like daggers. Tongues intertwining in battle. Picking battles isn’t an option. You don’t know how to stop fighting. No fear. No fear. No fear. Or at least, don’t show it. Commendations. Shiny gold medals. Caged animals. Crystal smoke shimmering in the end of a glass pipe. You invest so much you think you’re beginning to go insane. “You’re as safe here as you’ll ever be.” The brush of a doubled-over belt. Whack! “Start again. It wasn’t good enough this time.” Training someone who you didn’t think was good enough at first. Protege always turn their backs on their masters. Hot blood trickling down her arm. Hot blood soaking her sweater. Hot blood, forbidden. VERBOTEN. VERBOTEN. VERBOTEN. ( pop goes your mind, like a lightbulb thrown at the wall, shatter-shatter-SHATTER!!!!! ) The urge to read his outburst a sign of submission has to be swiftly smothered within the cranium. This did not have to turn into a grotesque duel ( not that she is afraid, she is simply interested in learning more. and there is no knowledge to gain from a dead body ). The dissociative episode only lasts a few minutes. Just long enough for Stanislaw to monologue to her, something left unheard by her, because she'd floated somewhere safer - elsewhere. Bethany comes out of her daze so slowly that one can almost hear the rusty creeeeaaaaak of the nonexistent gears working behind her bruised temple. A deep breath in. Deep breath out. Beth crosses her arms and hides the red ink blot stain with her hand, surely he hadn't seen it, surely he hadn't cared. If she were able, she'd run. She'd run far from this place, and from Stanislaw. Unfortunately, her feet were concrete blocks and she was teetering on the edge of a very narrow bridge. Her gaze finally, finally flickers back to Stanislaw. Her eyes, wide with discontent and abhorrence. She can't run, but she can hide. The brunette swivels around to the makeshift desk of boxes beside her bed, and she toys with a candy wrapper, hoping he'd just... go. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:18 PM.
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| FeelsGoodMan | May 12 2016, 09:57 PM Post #9 |
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His words did not affect her--he could see that. And yet, he kept on shaking her, battering her with his words until he could make it through that dense cranium of hers. But his stamina failed him, and his speech petered off. He let her go without much fuss, a sullen, downturned look with eyes somewhat aimed towards her. He could tell her expression, just by the aura within the room. "Die. Die, Bethany Blake. Die, since you want to, so badly," he thought. He couldn't do it himself. And yet it seemed as if she something was stopping her. Couldn't place his finger on it. She hadn't listened--but hen again, he didn't listen either...This for that, he supposed. A rare moment when Stanislaw's inner bastion of a mind considered wrongdoing by others to him fair. What was there left for him to do? He felt her gaze upon him--overbearing, uncomfortable, stifling. Reminded him of the time when there was construction work being done on his room on the farm, and he had to sleep between Mama and Tata. There was nothing left for him to do. This was a problem he could not gut with a bayonet nor a care he could bookmark and shelf away for eternity. Nothing. He. Could. Do. His low-hanging gaze tilts up, catching the crinkling of her candy bar. It reminded him of the third of a granola bar he had left in his jacket--but he felt lethargic. And the best cure for that was Cosmoline--a comforting smell. The tent smelled unpleasant--not repugnant, but demoralizing. Hostile. Perhaps it was some scent she gave off herself, when threatened. No, that was too bestial. With such thoughts filling his mind, he began shambling towards the exit, expression becoming blank. He needed somewhere safe. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:18 PM.
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| Cambrysiel | May 12 2016, 10:13 PM Post #10 |
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"I'm sorry." It's only a murmur. And then Stanislaw is gone, out of the tent, and Bethany is left alone to her vices. She pivots left. Willowy fingers drift over a tiny locked box. Inside? A pack a cigarettes. Three photographs. A bone-handle knife. A box of butterfly bandages, half empty. Bethany traces the edges of the box, ensuring each corner still existed. She's in Elsewhere now, only a soul as troubled as hers could bring her back before the ritual was complete. Click! The box creaks open without resistance. Disappointment in three parts. An empty bird’s nest. Broken pencil tips. There’s an empty paper in front of her that she’ll never fill. “We want you to succeed. I hope you can grasp that.” They weren’t there when it happened. Corruption. The handle of the knife is so cold, so cold, and the silver reflects the ribbon of sunlight pouring into the tent from a hole in the rain tarp. That didn't matter, not now. Her back is facing to entrance to the tent, her lips are half open, her eyelids closed in pure ecstasy as she pulls her head back, as if under the touch of a teasing lover. She begs her lover to bite hard, harder, HARDER!! “Pay attention in class!” Nodding off at her desk. Detention is hard. Existing is harder. Bright red lights behind her eyes. Candy color pills. They think she's on the brink of death. They’d be right. Dripdrop. Drip. Dripdrop. Bethany's eyes flutter open. She exhales, a shudder rolls down her spine. The sweater is yanked off and wrapped around the afflicted area, and Bethany lays out on the bed, forehead-to-wall. An itch under her skin. The answer to a question no one asked. A hand squeezing her shoulder, pushing her forward. Bloody fingernails. Cinnamon candies burning her mouth. “Speak louder, please,” they always ask. Marbles rolling across the floor. Tightly-laced shoes. Another stuttered spell and the ensuing slap to her face comes fast. This wasn’t supposed to be her life. Why didn’t she run when she had the chance? Edited by Cambrysiel, May 16 2016, 08:19 PM.
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