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![distortion [THE END] 0dZrth9](https://i.imgur.com/0dZrth9.png)
| Had someone not called 9-1-1, the victim would have never survived. Blood streams down the victim’s forehead like a torrent, barely stemmed by a hastily placed dressing wrapped around their head. Wounds crisscross the patient’s chest and limbs, deep gashes slicing through layers of clothing and skin, some with peeling bandages falling off of them, evidence of someone’s attempt at saving a life before fleeing the scene. The 9-1-1 caller, perhaps? It is these little things that buoy the paramedics’ hopes as they rush to the victim’s side, that maybe this person won’t be buried in another grave. After assessing vitals, more paramedics move in, one stabilizing the head and the other taking to fixing up the victim’s wounds. Blood gushes out onto the ground, staining the cement a deep crimson, as the second paramedic rushes to seal all the wounds before shock sets in. It’s a war against time, the paramedic reckons: if this was anything like any of the other attacks, there would be more holes in the victim than in a package of Swiss cheese. Dressings are unpacked, vitals are checked, and the paramedics get to work The two toil in silence, relaying information to each other in passing glances as other paramedics secure the scene alongside fire and the police. Speaking would only break their concentration: their major concern was making sure their patient could make it to the hospital. Given their track record with these kinds of attacks, it was definitely not the greatest odds. The silence is broken in an unusual way. “Flashes... lost a couple there, but I managed to get away…” the victim whispers, their voice hoarse. Both paramedics jump a little; their patient was… coherent enough to speak? “… lost a couple, yeah… but it was worth it… radio’d my fellows, told them to come to where…” “What… are they going on about?” the paramedic at the head whispers to their colleague, their gloved hands still locked over the patient’s head. It’s not a very professional thing to gossip about your patient above their head, they figure, but this isn’t exactly a normal situation. Their colleague shakes their head, a look of confusion creeping over their face as they continue to clean wounds. Before they can reply, the victim begins mumbling again, their voice faint and their eyes barely open. “Sticks… they came at us… they came at me with a stick… a long one! But combat is nothing for someone like me… Can catch a grenade with my bare hands… And so I took them on, alone! Just me… I yelled at the enemy … Come and get me! I wasn’t born and bred here for nuthin’, didn’t volunteer for nothing, just wanted… to … serve… ” The victim groans in pain, and the paramedic at the head readjusts their position. “I’m not sure,” the other paramedic replies, wiping off some of the wounds on the victim’s arm. Long gash wounds, just like those which are all too familiar lately. “I… think I recognize this patient, though. Storyteller. Pretty well known in my neighbourhood. You don’t think they have a head injury, do you?” As if to reply to the paramedic’s concerns, the victim opens their mouth again, a small spurt of blood from a knocked-out tooth dribbling out from between their lips. “How dare… Coward! Coward in uniform, not a word as they raise their stick again! And I block, because Ol’ Joe taught me some of those fancy foreign moves back in the day, said I’d do good with them at some point, bash some heads in if I wasn’t too careful… And I break his nose, I think, and I can hear people cheering me on, our team … I was in the mountains again on that mission, lying in wait before the scum climbed up the other side… only scum would fight with sticks… So I spit on them… I spit on that coward in a uniform, try to grab his stick, call in reinforcements, they’ll break over the mountainside… oh… would be so proud of me… it was dawn …” The victim then coughs and goes a little pale, slipping out of consciousness, their eyes rolling back. Both paramedics give each other urgent glances at this change of affairs before barking orders to the rest of their team: saving this person’s life was more important than entertaining their stories. When the victim wakes up in hospital, they remember none of this. ![distortion [THE END] ZT4k8rL](https://i.imgur.com/ZT4k8rL.png) When the victim is discovered, it comes as a shock to the entire neighbourhood. People would speak of a pale-faced individual who sat in the window of the house at the end of the street, gazing out into the road in front of them until late in the night. In a way, they almost seemed like a sentry of sorts, positioned at the window to guard the home from intruders. They also only ever appeared at night; in the daytime, the curtains of that house were drawn. Unusual, but everything in these times was unusual. One day, the figure disappears from the window, though in their place are shards of glass and a curtain stained with blood. 9-1-1 is called, a little girl’s voice desperately rattling off words that she had learned from school, pleading to the dispatcher on the other side of the line to send someone, anyone, to save their parent. In minutes, the police drive up, crushing the roses and hedges that line the front yard with their vehicles. Evidence is taken, forensics are called, and the cause of death is determined to be a single bullet wound to the skull. Finding no clues as to an assailant, the police decide to question the victim’s daughter, the only other person in the home at the time. Questions, though, are met with increasingly frustrating answers: “I-I don’t know. I… I wasn’t told. I… I was told that it was all to protect me…” The deceased victim, it transpired, had hidden news of more recent murders from their daughter. They had meticulously sanitized everything from the media, turned off all laptops and electronics, and shuttered the doors and windows, all in the name of protecting their child from the world around them. There were no outings unless every action was detailed and written down, submitted to the parent for pre-approval. Passerby were given dark looks, the daughter added, and anyone who scared her even a little was threatened with horrible violence. Violence that they seemed perfectly willing to dole out. These descriptions were enough to make the police wonder what else the deceased had hid from their daughter. With the daughter’s help, they performed a search of the residence to answer that very question. The answer? A gun, it turns out, hidden under their pillow. A gun was the weapon, the doctors concluded as they hovered over their newest patient. It was lucky, they added, that the patient had lived; the trajectory of the bullet missed a major artery in the leg. Had the bullet sliced open that artery as it shot through the body, or had first aid not been administered immediately, the story would have been very different. The patient gazes out the window, apparently unaffected by the doctors’ words. In response, the doctors shoot a knowing glance at each other. This was nothing new to either of them; this patient was particularly hard to talk to. It was a miracle that they were in the hospital in the first place: apparently paramedics had to negotiate with them for a good half-hour before they were willing to step foot inside the ambulance, and that was only because they were starting to get lightheaded from blood loss. Paramedics also reported agitation and a “wild look in their eyes”, but no traces of drugs were found in their bloodstream. All in all, one of the stranger patients the pair had seen. The police officers who had arrived on scene had remarked casually to hospital staff that the patient was definitely tough to work with as a witness. Questions about their attacker and the nature of the wound were met with either silence or threats. Eventually, the police gave up their line of questioning and left, bluntly saying that they had more than their share of dead bodies to take care of; the hospital could take care of this living one. |
![distortion [THE END] F33cN69](https://i.imgur.com/F33cN69.png)
| Cure was targeted for a kill, but it failed! Sammiya was killed! They were mafia. A member of the Parent-Teacher Association at the local ◙◙◙ ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙ school, Sammiya was known to be an ardent supporter of several measures meant to protect children in ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙, such as the well-known ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙ curfew, passed by the local government ◙ weeks ago, along with the shuttering of the ◙◙◙ ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙ School after the grisly murders of the ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙s and the ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙. In recent weeks, fellow members of the association reported Sammiya as being increasingly tense during meetings, encouraging violence as a necessity to uphold child and student safety. During police investigation of the murder, a handgun covered in Sammiya’s fingerprints was uncovered. As a result of this and other evidence collected at the scene, police are investigating whether or not Sammiya was behind a murder at the ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙ ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙ several nights ago. Sammiya leaves behind a daughter, ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙. The curfew has ended. Ninfia was targeted for a kill, but it failed! DAY SEVENPlease vote for whom you would like to lynch. You have unlimited vote changes. Phase ends at 7pm PST. PMs will be sent out at that time. Rollover will be posted at 8pm PST. Please PM all actions to nautilus. ?T : ?M |
Last edited by nautilus on Thu Sep 08, 2016 8:21 pm; edited 5 times in total
