where is everybody
I'll be Perry the Platypus
eta: i sure hope nobody was expecting the pagetop because hoo boy here i go again
I'll be Perry the Platypus
eta: i sure hope nobody was expecting the pagetop because hoo boy here i go again
Cry Wolf is a brand new forum focused on the forum version of the deception game Mafia/Werewolves
Name: Mr. Alice
Position: The "Disposal Unit" guy who probably does questionable things to fulfill job duties. But technically gets the job done. Probably eats people.
Quote: ";9"
Comments: Let's go rescue a princess.
Kiyoko wrote:Thank you Perry I'm glad there's at least one other person besides me interested in Mitsu's well-being
Mr. Alice wrote:Name: Mr. Alice
Position: The "Disposal Unit" guy who probably does questionable things to fulfill job duties. But technically gets the job done. Probably eats people.
Quote: ";9"
Comments: Let's go rescue a princess.
put me on the team, boss
They open the door to a cacophonous greeting, a discord of echoing metal. Cylinders, bare and shining, roll out from the entrance, silver glinting into darkness. The high-powered flashlight beam sweeps across the hall and up the stairs, where they catch upon metal. Dozens and dozens of points of light, glowering back at the officers like the eyes of watchful beasts. “Fire hazard,” comments one officer, picking her way through the debris. “Fan of soup, or something?” “Warning system, maybe,” suggests her partner. He’s not as careful. A stray kick sends a tin can flying, crashing into the others with a bowling alley clatter. “I didn’t think anyone actually did that kind of thing. Why not just buy an alarm system? Or a dog?” She tests a step with one careful foot, and winces when it creaks like a suffering animal. “Hell, these stairs are loud enough as is.” The other officer doesn’t reply. He’s busy flicking his light into every corner, across the floor and its graveyard of cans, across the ceiling, along the bannister and up the stairs, and there he lingers. Because at the very top of the steps, hanging down like a decaying spider, a limp and bloodless human hand. “Hey,” he hisses, to catch her attention, and she freezes in place, all adrenaline and discipline. “Top of the stairs.” She sweeps her beam in front of her as she walks with tense, measured paces. The light ascends the stairs like a reverse slinky, in lurching upwards jumps. Finally, three steps short of the peak, she stops. “Dead. Bullet through the chest. Can’t have been dead more than one, two hours. Angle of entry suggests the shooter was down on the bottom floor.” The other officer looks down and grimaces at the mess he’s made of the entrance, cans strewn all over. “Better take some photographs before I mess the crime scene up more than I have.” The other officer sighs and picks her way back down the stairs. “Let’s call in forensics, let them handle it from here. Behind her, the body cools. Blood pools around the limbs and over the edge of the wood It leaks down the stairs in tendrils of red. Step by step by step by step. Everything is bleached in white as the patient awakens, an IV drip hooked up to their arm. A quick look around reveals a sterile hospital room, with white fixtures lining the walls and a heart monitor sitting in the corner, numbers fluctuating endlessly. 78. 74. 79. The leftovers of memories flicker past them as they struggle to recall what brought them here again, but heavy bandages running up the arms tell a very familiar story. It was them. Again. They had survived. Again. The patient decides not to count their blessings: they’ve never been a particularly superstitious person. They’ve learned not to place their faith blindly in morals or sayings. With a heavy gasp, they pull themselves up off the bed and onto one of the pillows, shock waves of pain reverberating down their arms. Sitting next to the hospital bed was the detective from the last time, smiling cordially as if greeting a friend. The patient turns away instinctively, such gestures being a remnant from a past filled with bad emotions and frayed relationships. Cordial familiarity only begets more lies, and friendliness is salt in old wounds. It also didn’t help that the detective was a police officer. Their dress was once again a casual polo shirt and slacks, presumably to make the patient feel more comfortable. Such efforts were futile: a police officer was still a police officer, regardless of whatever flavour they came in. “… You’re pretty lucky,” the detective begins, one hand gesturing to the gauze and bandages that hold the patient together, like tape over a broken window. The patient does not respond, but sits up further, a pillow propping the back of their head. Their gaze is vacant, empty, without the slightest mote of emotion. The detective clears out his throat. It would be best, he thinks, to get this over with quickly. “Do you—“ “No. I don’t remember anything, but if anything comes up, I’ll let you know,” the patient responds, in a tone that sounded slightly rehearsed. “I’m guessing someone saved me again?” “Right, right, and right,” the detective replies, smiling weakly. “You certainly have quite the guardian angel out there, don’t you?” The patient furrows their brow again before staring at the white sheets in front of them, though the numerous folds offer no answers to their questions. The detective, too, looks at the sheets. There had been relief back when they had found the police officer several days ago, their baton covered in blood. Tests ran on the baton had also linked that killer to the patient’s prior hospital stint, and the detective had thought that this case had wrapped itself up nicely. Killer: dead. Case: closed. A whirlwind of cases would have come to an end. But those wounds on the patient’s arms told no lies. “… One last thing,” the detective finally says, reaching his hand into his front pocket. As he does so, the patient’s arms tense a little, a prominent artery in their neck throbbing ever so slightly. With baited breath, they wait as the detective pulls a small object out of their pocket and hold it out in front of them to see. It’s a wooden carving of a hydra. The tail has been snapped off. The patient stifles a laugh. Such a conspicuous display of humanity shocks the detective, having only seen subtle changes in expression mixed in with disdain prior. He sits silently, mulling over his thoughts, before he opens his mouth again to speak. “Paramedics found this next to your body,” he begins, his voice uncertain. “… Seems to have broken off of something. Something big. Maybe a statue?” There is no response. The detective wonders whether or not this silence is because of the outlandishness of the story or whether or not the patient’s willingness to cooperate has finally run out. Still, though, he presses on, eager for any drip of information he can wring out of the patient, even when most of their conversations are filled the sound of hospital monitors. “… I’m guessing you don’t recognize this, either.” Silence, then a response. “… You guessed right.” |
Tiki The Troll was killed! They were town. A longtime resident, neighbors describe Tiki The Troll as “nice enough, but a bit of a recluse.” According to their landlord, Tiki The Troll was “somewhat OCD, as in, the actual condition, not the lining pencils up straight kind of way” and “had this obsession with putting cans all over the stairs, like some kind of booby trap.” Tiki The Troll is predeceased by two parents, ◙◙◙◙ and ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙ ◙◙◙◙◙. alcasync was targeted for a kill, but it failed! DAY ELEVEN Please 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 Sun Sep 04, 2016 9:21 pm; edited 3 times in total
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