[ if they'd been face to face, he might have killed her for that implication alone. as it is, the fact that the phone's in one piece is a fog miracle. ]
[ if he keeps her distracted, can he find the end of the blood trail? it might be lightening up. maybe he's lost her - or found where she tried to stop it. ]
come on dont lie youre always so anal about anyone being there in the woods. you didnt try to chase her once? didn't get smacked by her drones once? i got in.
[ She can get in lots of places. He knows that. She does get caught. He knows that. But not always. She's rifled through the doctor's notes, she's dug around Dead Dog. She's stolen candles from the huntress and incense from the plague. Penicillin from the nurse, poppers from the clown, weed from the Nirvana fans. Would he ever want anything?
Meg is nearby. She hears his boots, her own back pressed hard against a rock. She's crouched, a stick in her mouth, grit hard between her teeth to stop her from grunting in pain. Her texting grammar goes down the toilet, because one hand types, the other tightly grips a flashbang. She'd shove it down his throat if she could. ]
[ but break into her stupid hunting lodge, suspended on stilts? no. once she's dead for good he'll burn it down. for now, he doesn't care what she has or doesn't have. he's not a wine guy, anyway.
he notices the disappearing capitals. it's something he would have missed, back before. is the blood loss getting worse? did her guts start falling out? or is he on her trail, too close to pretend she's not concerned?
there's still blood. less now. but there's scuffed footprints, too. ]
same as i think i already did to you. you're just taking your time with it.
[ Her thumb hovers over the screen. If she types, he knows she's there. If she speaks, he knows she's there. If she doesn't— well, it's a gamble. She has out-sneaked killers before, but... not today. No, she doesn't think so today.
She drops the piece of wood and her mouth feels dry from the bark sapping it. The corners of her mouth feel rubbed raw. She looks like a dog that just lost its muzzle. Her voice is low, monotone, not so loud it's immediately obvious where she is. It's colored with rage. One flavor of it. ]
[ her voice is - over there. somewhere. it's quiet enough that he can't pinpoint it, but there's only so many places a bleeding girl can hide.
he makes his way toward where he assumes she must be, slowly. ]
Better iron. [ steel, preferably. he shifts his grip on the cleaver, just in case. ] Bigger traps. Mortar that doesn't turn into dust in a couple weeks.
[ revenge. destroyed memories. other things maggots can't create in this place, and probably never could. ]
[ Better iron: there's some in Gideon, maybe. But how much can Meg carry, really? Mortar? Fuck that. She doesn't have time to research mortar compositions. And no way to do it really, unless she got deeper into Evan's own compound. Hard liquor though...
Her lips feel bone dry, brittle too. Her thumb nail wears at the release gauge. She wishes it was a grenade. ]
I dug up a jug once in Dead Dog. Straight moonshine. It tasted like gasoline.
It tasted— great.
[ Without her stick to wear her teeth on, on the last word, her throat whistles. Dry and pained. ]
[ she sounds like she's dying. she also sounds a little closer than before. it'd be more gratifying, if not for the actual conversation they're having. ]
What, you gonna offer to get me some?
[ here? now? or is she just trying to find a weak point? evan's actually a little uncertain about her plan. maybe she's just buying time. ]
Why not? You don't have any friends. Who else would share with you?
[ Should she be insulting him? No. But, it seems true enough from her vantage point. The Trapper doesn't make friends. The Trapper doesn't mingle with other killers, as far as she knows. He just sits in his mausoleum, wishing for better steel, mortar, and hard liquor it seems. ]
[ Her voice is low and raspy. He certainly knows where she is now. Any moment she's dead. Unless she can force her legs to move again. Off with a bang. Unless she drops from blood loss. ]
Why not?
[ 'I want to gut you and make your own intenstines trail after you.' ]
It might make your heart grow three sizes that day.
[ 'I want to string you up for the crows to peck on. I want to be the one that slices your throat from ear-to-ear.' ]
[ he watches the spot where he can see blood. not a lot of it, but enough to suggest she was there - or is there - and tightens his grip on his cleaver. ]
Bring it and we'll see.
[ if she actually brings something, he'll give her leeway. for now ...
[ It's a maybe. But it's a maybe for— later. No dice. No cigar. Tonight she's screwed. She realizes this just as she hears his boot settle only so many steps away. It displaces a twig. Not a snap, but a quiet straining of the wood.
Meg barrels forward from her hiding spot, her mind whirling as she keeps track of her legs, her spinning thoughts, cottony from blood loss. The timing is tricky, but her nail clips the release, the flashbang hits the ground, and she shoots off like a gun.
There really isn't much gas though after the initial burst. ]
[ he wasn't expecting the flashbang. he never sees them until it's too late.
it goes off and he's blind, instantly furious, instantly forgetting what they were just talking about. he stumbles forward until his vision clears and sees her running like hell, just like she always does. this time her footprints aren't alone; the trail of blood is back.
he charges after her. watching her, or the trail if she disappears, and listening for her. running like that on a gut wound like she has means the pain'll make sure she's not quiet for long. ]
[ Adrenaline is good medicine, but only for so long. There's a series of obstacles, rocks and half-walls that Meg skirts around, praying she can make her tracks confusing enough to finally slip away. Either to safety, or to a private place to bleed out and die. She sees the trap when it's nearly too late, her bad ankle twisting in the air to avoid it, overstepping onto the ground and upending herself.
She avoids it, but she slams her shoulder into the ground. Any other day, that would be a win. One she could bounce up from and take off rabbit-fast. Not today. She hits the ground and the wound around her middle pulses. No amount of butterfly bandages and a haphazardly tied hoodie can keep the mess together now.
What are all those stages of grief? She already hit bargaining. And depression is already baked-in to every moment of their existance here. In comes acceptance. She rolls onto her back and snickers. Then she laughs, eyes on a facsimile night sky as she hears his boots approach. ]
[ when his vision is finally clear, he has to follow sound, not sight. there's still flashing afterimages in his sight; the shadows still cover everything, even the blood. but he knows where his traps are, and as he follows the sound of her agony, he knows she's headed right for one.
he doesn't hear it go off. he does hear her hit the ground, and when he rounds the corner there she is, on the other side, having managed to avoid it but failing to do anything else. she's lying on her back, blood soaking through the wrapping around her middle, and ... ]
Funny how sad that was, huh?
[ he's not laughing. but she's not going anywhere. he picks up the trap, lets it close with a dull snap, and looks down at her. either he kills her or she bleeds out here. he's not sure which he wants to see more after that blind. ]
No. [ She spits out, hacks out. There's blood on her teeth, bubbling up at the corners of her mouth. She laughs again, grinning up with blood between her teeth. ] Thought of a— joke. Ever hear the one about the tortoise and the—
[ Meg hacks up a glob of red mess on her chin. Her hand slides over, hand gripping her hoodie and pulling it up. Her abdomen is a sliced mess, made worse by the poor patch job and the running for her life. She'll probably bleed out soon enough, but: ]
[ he'd be angrier with her comments if she wasn't visibly, obviously bleeding out. as it is, he snarls under the mask, but manages to avoid any telling insults - or trying to make the wounds worse. there's no point. ]
Better'n you.
[ that is to say, no. gloating over lesser people was a given in his life. but he's known meg to mock him on the way out the exit gate. ]
And you ain't a hare. Rabbit, maybe. Too dumb to know when you're dying.
[ She hooks her bloody teeth over her bottom lip when she smiles, little rabbit teeth. A rabbit, a hare, what's the difference really? They both kick when they're grabbed. They both bite hard and squeal strange jackrabbit sounds, eerie and alarming. They're both prey.
She's mocked him plenty. She mocks him right now, her hand, bloody from her stomach, gestures toward... all of her. She doesn't have anything to lose. She tried bargaining, and though she'll come back again, and again and again, for a moment her hindbrain is aflutter with the approaching death. No matter how much it happens, it always brings: fear. Regardless of what logic says, the brain never wants to die. ]
And I know. Aren't you going to finish it? That's the part you jerk it to afterwards, right?
[ the blood, the guts, the obvious fact that she'll be dead in five minutes whether he does anything or not - evan watches her. watches the smile, the look at this bullshit gesture toward her dying frame, the way she doesn't move even to try and protect herself from his cleaver should he choose to use it.
she doesn't beg, either. but the ones who've been here for a while usually don't. they know it's usually useless.
she does make a vulgar comment, which makes him snort. ]
Not me. Maybe the ghost.
[ he keeps watching her. she won't be much longer. ]
He's probably jerking it right now. [ She means for her hand to gesture toward the forest, to wherever Ghost Face is, snapping shots of her dying at the Trapper's feet. If he is out there, maybe he'll taunt her with them later. It always feels fucked. Looking at a picture of herself, guts steaming. But her hand doesn't raise this time, just twitches where it lays. The panic rises. ]
P-power fantasy. [ Or something like it. Maybe he just finds her pathetic. Likes watching her bleed out without lifting a finger. She doesn't feel pathetic, she knows in that space her soul resided that she's iron, that she's— she's— maybe she is pathetic. She doesn't actually want to die.
She feels cold even though her guts had felt so hot. She sucks in an awful breath. It's a rattle, it's close to a cry. She's so close to the edge, that moment of nothing; it's frightening to watch it coming. To realize, she doesn't know if she wants to see the campfire. If she wants nothing, nothing ever again. To really, really be dead. She blurts out in a shaky breath to a serial killer: ] I don't k-know if I want to come back.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Not until I asked her where her wine glasses were.
Can you handle your woman? She seems really high strung.
[ There does not appear to be any love between the Trapper and the Skull Merchant. She knows that. Maybe she can use that. Maybe not. ]
Or has she not invited you over yet?
:(
no subject
[ if they'd been face to face, he might have killed her for that implication alone. as it is, the fact that the phone's in one piece is a fog miracle. ]
she's a trespasser. worse than most of you.
no subject
Worse than me? Rude.
So. You haven't gotten into her impenetrable fortress?
I can get in.
no subject
i didn't try.
[ if he keeps her distracted, can he find the end of the blood trail? it might be lightening up. maybe he's lost her - or found where she tried to stop it. ]
no subject
come on dont lie
youre always so anal about anyone being there in the woods. you didnt try to chase her once? didn't get smacked by her drones once?
i got in.
[ She can get in lots of places. He knows that. She does get caught. He knows that. But not always. She's rifled through the doctor's notes, she's dug around Dead Dog. She's stolen candles from the huntress and incense from the plague. Penicillin from the nurse, poppers from the clown, weed from the Nirvana fans. Would he ever want anything?
Meg is nearby. She hears his boots, her own back pressed hard against a rock. She's crouched, a stick in her mouth, grit hard between her teeth to stop her from grunting in pain. Her texting grammar goes down the toilet, because one hand types, the other tightly grips a flashbang. She'd shove it down his throat if she could. ]
no subject
[ but break into her stupid hunting lodge, suspended on stilts? no. once she's dead for good he'll burn it down. for now, he doesn't care what she has or doesn't have. he's not a wine guy, anyway.
he notices the disappearing capitals. it's something he would have missed, back before. is the blood loss getting worse? did her guts start falling out? or is he on her trail, too close to pretend she's not concerned?
there's still blood. less now. but there's scuffed footprints, too. ]
same as i think i already did to you. you're just taking your time with it.
no subject
[ Her finger's on the trigger. Her teeth crunch further into the wood. She can feel the bark on her lip. ]
u msut want something from someone
no subject
[ he can smell blood. fresh blood. sweat and fear - or maybe not. maybe rage instead, helpless or otherwise.
he puts away the phone, and speaks where he know she can hear him. ]
But you can't give most of it.
no subject
She drops the piece of wood and her mouth feels dry from the bark sapping it. The corners of her mouth feel rubbed raw. She looks like a dog that just lost its muzzle. Her voice is low, monotone, not so loud it's immediately obvious where she is. It's colored with rage. One flavor of it. ]
Name something.
[ Her mother didn't raise a pussy. ]
no subject
he makes his way toward where he assumes she must be, slowly. ]
Better iron. [ steel, preferably. he shifts his grip on the cleaver, just in case. ] Bigger traps. Mortar that doesn't turn into dust in a couple weeks.
[ revenge. destroyed memories. other things maggots can't create in this place, and probably never could. ]
Hard liquor.
[ well. that's one exception. ]
no subject
Her lips feel bone dry, brittle too. Her thumb nail wears at the release gauge. She wishes it was a grenade. ]
I dug up a jug once in Dead Dog. Straight moonshine. It tasted like gasoline.
It tasted— great.
[ Without her stick to wear her teeth on, on the last word, her throat whistles. Dry and pained. ]
no subject
What, you gonna offer to get me some?
[ here? now? or is she just trying to find a weak point? evan's actually a little uncertain about her plan. maybe she's just buying time. ]
no subject
[ Should she be insulting him? No. But, it seems true enough from her vantage point. The Trapper doesn't make friends. The Trapper doesn't mingle with other killers, as far as she knows. He just sits in his mausoleum, wishing for better steel, mortar, and hard liquor it seems. ]
no subject
You wanna share with me, Red?
[ he knows her name. he's just not going to use it. ]
no subject
Why not?
[ 'I want to gut you and make your own intenstines trail after you.' ]
It might make your heart grow three sizes that day.
[ 'I want to string you up for the crows to peck on. I want to be the one that slices your throat from ear-to-ear.' ]
no subject
Bring it and we'll see.
[ if she actually brings something, he'll give her leeway. for now ...
he heads for the hiding spot. for the blood. ]
no subject
Meg barrels forward from her hiding spot, her mind whirling as she keeps track of her legs, her spinning thoughts, cottony from blood loss. The timing is tricky, but her nail clips the release, the flashbang hits the ground, and she shoots off like a gun.
There really isn't much gas though after the initial burst. ]
no subject
it goes off and he's blind, instantly furious, instantly forgetting what they were just talking about. he stumbles forward until his vision clears and sees her running like hell, just like she always does. this time her footprints aren't alone; the trail of blood is back.
he charges after her. watching her, or the trail if she disappears, and listening for her. running like that on a gut wound like she has means the pain'll make sure she's not quiet for long. ]
no subject
She avoids it, but she slams her shoulder into the ground. Any other day, that would be a win. One she could bounce up from and take off rabbit-fast. Not today. She hits the ground and the wound around her middle pulses. No amount of butterfly bandages and a haphazardly tied hoodie can keep the mess together now.
What are all those stages of grief? She already hit bargaining. And depression is already baked-in to every moment of their existance here. In comes acceptance. She rolls onto her back and snickers. Then she laughs, eyes on a facsimile night sky as she hears his boots approach. ]
no subject
he doesn't hear it go off. he does hear her hit the ground, and when he rounds the corner there she is, on the other side, having managed to avoid it but failing to do anything else. she's lying on her back, blood soaking through the wrapping around her middle, and ... ]
Funny how sad that was, huh?
[ he's not laughing. but she's not going anywhere. he picks up the trap, lets it close with a dull snap, and looks down at her. either he kills her or she bleeds out here. he's not sure which he wants to see more after that blind. ]
no subject
[ Meg hacks up a glob of red mess on her chin. Her hand slides over, hand gripping her hoodie and pulling it up. Her abdomen is a sliced mess, made worse by the poor patch job and the running for her life. She'll probably bleed out soon enough, but: ]
Weren't you raised better? Don't— gloat.
no subject
Better'n you.
[ that is to say, no. gloating over lesser people was a given in his life. but he's known meg to mock him on the way out the exit gate. ]
And you ain't a hare. Rabbit, maybe. Too dumb to know when you're dying.
no subject
[ She hooks her bloody teeth over her bottom lip when she smiles, little rabbit teeth. A rabbit, a hare, what's the difference really? They both kick when they're grabbed. They both bite hard and squeal strange jackrabbit sounds, eerie and alarming. They're both prey.
She's mocked him plenty. She mocks him right now, her hand, bloody from her stomach, gestures toward... all of her. She doesn't have anything to lose. She tried bargaining, and though she'll come back again, and again and again, for a moment her hindbrain is aflutter with the approaching death. No matter how much it happens, it always brings: fear. Regardless of what logic says, the brain never wants to die. ]
And I know. Aren't you going to finish it? That's the part you jerk it to afterwards, right?
no subject
she doesn't beg, either. but the ones who've been here for a while usually don't. they know it's usually useless.
she does make a vulgar comment, which makes him snort. ]
Not me. Maybe the ghost.
[ he keeps watching her. she won't be much longer. ]
You're finished without me gettin' involved.
sorry for disappearing! she'll be dead soon...
P-power fantasy. [ Or something like it. Maybe he just finds her pathetic. Likes watching her bleed out without lifting a finger. She doesn't feel pathetic, she knows in that space her soul resided that she's iron, that she's— she's— maybe she is pathetic. She doesn't actually want to die.
She feels cold even though her guts had felt so hot. She sucks in an awful breath. It's a rattle, it's close to a cry. She's so close to the edge, that moment of nothing; it's frightening to watch it coming. To realize, she doesn't know if she wants to see the campfire. If she wants nothing, nothing ever again. To really, really be dead. She blurts out in a shaky breath to a serial killer: ] I don't k-know if I want to come back.
rip 2 meg
rip 🙏🎀