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![distortion [THE END] - Page 11 0dZrth9](https://i.imgur.com/0dZrth9.png)
| This one is different. When the paramedics arrive, the individual is not only conscious, but bright-eyed. Sclera bordering blazing irises. They’re twirling a Browning around one finger by the trigger guard, in the way actors do in action movies, in the way nobody should do in real life. Blood weeps from an affluence of open wounds, there’s a rapidly blooming bruise beneath one eye, and they’re laughing, a delirious, primitive, victorious bark. “I said I’d kill them. I said it, didn’t I?” They fling an arm sideways, thrusting a finger into the darkness between street lamps. There’s a figure there. A congealing knot of fabric, metal, blood, and human flesh. Limbs askew, chest a ripple of charred viscera from half a dozen smoking holes. But the police uniform is unmistakeable. The officers assume what anyone might assume, given the scene in front of them. They rush the bloodthirsty survivor to the hospital, and then arrest them. By the time the lab results come in, the police have realized they’ve made a significant mistake. The dead officer’s body is riddled with bullet wounds from .22 Long Rifle ammunition, the very cartridges belonging to the semi-automatic Buck Mark they’d confiscated from the suspect. The identity of the shooter is clear. On the dead officer’s person, police uncovered a recommended issue Smith & Wesson folding knife, glimmering with blood. When the analysis comes in, it lists out four distinct matches for the blood samples on the blade. And all of a sudden, the identity of the serial killer is clear, as well. “I want my gun back,” are the first words out of the shooter’s mouth, when the detective enters the hospital room. Out of uniform again, this time, because uniforms don’t have the best reputation at the moment. “You can pick it up at the station when you’re recovered, provided you have a valid license for it,” the detective replies. And then, though there’s no way for him to enforce it, he adds, “and provided you cooperate.” The shooter—and victim as well, the detective reminds himself—narrows their eyes, but does not argue. It’s as good a cue as any to continue. The detective starts with the mother of all questions. “What happened?” Reticence and dislike for authority battles with a desire to recount a saga of victory. The conflict plays out across the shooter’s features, and the detective watches patiently. The machines hum and beep in the background, a soundscape becoming all too familiar—though, admittedly, much preferable to the silence of the morgue. Finally, in a rasp suitable for campfire tales, the shooter begins. “I was patrolling the streets at night, looking for the killers.” The detective considers an interjection about how this is a job not for civilians, but for the police. Given recent circumstances, however, he decides it best not to interrupt. “Now, I’m not doing anything illegal. No more curfew, so that’s fine. Open carry, but I don’t have my piece drawn. I turn the corner, and there’s this cop standing in the streetlight. I give them a nod. They walk up to me. And all of a sudden, I know something’s wrong. “They’ve got a knife in one hand, and I see it flashing in the streetlight. So I reach for my piece, and as I’m doing so, the cop runs up and hits me hard in the side of the head with their police baton. I hear a sickening crack, and lights are flashing behind my eyes. Now, I’m operating on instinct. I draw my weapon and fire, and I shoot that fucker in the chest. They reel back, but they’re standing, even though I can see this big smoking bullet wound in their chest. And then they bring up the knife and I feel this pain in my gut, but I don’t have time to think, my blood is pumping pure adrenaline, firing every last round in the magazine. And finally, they drop to the ground dead, and I drop to the ground, alive. And that’s it. I killed the killer, just like I said I would.” There’s a ferocious glint in the shooter’s eye, one of a predatory mammal. Fueled by the struggle and dominance of the hunt. The detective allows them to bask in their triumph. “When we found you, someone had administered first aid—” the detective begins, but the shooter cuts him off. “Oh, yeah. They did a decent job, but left as soon as they heard the sirens. After what happened, I don’t blame anyone for wanting to hide from the police.” The detective takes a breath to begin his next question, but he’s interrupted once more. “They had a message for you, though. Said they had something they wanted to tell you, but that it didn’t matter anymore, so they won’t be dropping by.” “Hm,” replies the detective, because really, that answers that. |
![distortion [THE END] - Page 11 F33cN69](https://i.imgur.com/F33cN69.png)
| angelstar was stunned! Ninfia was targeted for a kill, but it failed! Mr. Alice was killed! They were mafia. A rising star at the ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙ Police Department, Mr. Alice was one of the many officers responsible for investigating the recent string of killings. Mr. Alice was killed in a skirmish with a local resident, who asked not to be named in this publication. Mr. Alice was discovered posthumously to be carrying a folding knife covered in the blood of past victims, believed to be the assault weapon in recent attacks. Upon further investigation, the bruises of past survivors matched marks left by a standard issue police baton. Outraged citizens swarmed the ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙ police station early this morning, demanding to know why the station was harboring a dangerous criminal. Detective Inspector ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙, who remains in charge of the serial killer case despite this incident, has declined to comment. (continued on page 6) ![distortion [THE END] - Page 11 ZT4k8rL](https://i.imgur.com/ZT4k8rL.png) DAY EIGHTPlease 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 |
