Anchor up to me // Indi + Whit (clueplot)

[charade]

B̵̗̥̥̄͒̈̈́͝ḽ̶̛̣̐̒̌͌͋̕ö̶̢̰̳̖̞͇̣͔́͌ọ̵̣͋͊̈́͆d̵̘̲̂̌̑̒̑̆͘.̸͖̭͎̘͚̘͈̄͜ ̸̭̘͎̺̍̂͒͋͛̔̓B̸̝̻͕̗̣̜̫̥͚̃̿̈́̈͂̔͌̑͘l̵̡̳̬͉͙͕̻͈̈́̍̆̔͗̎̆͒o̵̢͇̳̣̻̟̥̞̐̽̚͠͝ô̶͓̗̘̊ḍ̸̨̲̼̳̬̩̏̋̈́̕ ̸̢̛̳̺͎̟̟̃̅̅̈̉ȍ̶̧̨̨͕̹̤͠n̶̥̥̼̋̎̄͐̅̐̿͑̊ ̷̢͇͈̤̬̯̲͔̂̄̍͜t̷͕͈̰̖͔͇͔͙̬̔̈́́ḧ̴̲͚́͒͛̀e̶͓̜̜͎̔́͆ ̶̜̹̘͇̟́̎͌͝f̵̢͚͔̀̆͐̂̏̅̌͝l̶̨̖̲̲̟̞̬̃͒͒̒̔̅̚o̸̡̢̘͊͂̑̄̀͆o̷̢͎̰̱̱̳͈̦͑̐̾͗̄̕͠ṙ̸̠͎̖̋̓͒̔́̚.̷̡̙̣̯͉̈̎͑̾ ̶̺̙̺̓̈́͌̅̌͘͝͠B̸̧̪̩͚̗̼̘̀́l̶̛͉̬͔̰̞̔ȯ̵̝̦̯̭̙̞̻̏͛̆̈́̔̿͌ó̶̡̫̰̜̻̮͍̦̽̉d̷̡͎̳̜̲̊̍̏͋͌̃ ̶͍̭́́ç̶̧̺͇̱͚͍̂͂o̸͔̻̜͕̐m̶̡̡̼͎̟̰̗̼͙̔̐̿į̸͔̮͈̦̮̲̱̳̓̒̌̇̽n̴̨͍̩̫͎͋͝ͅg̷̜̘̦̀̈́̆͆̽́͠ ̸̖̙̤̻̬̆͝f̷̬͓͙͖͋͌̀̏͑́̽͜r̷͉͇̜̈̓̾͆̀͜͠o̶̥̻͎̜̓͂̎̋͐̓m̵̞̭͔͎͕̟̼͎̰̒͌̀̉͋̒̕̕͝ ̸̩͇̒͘P̴̧̤͇̖̞̘̦̝͂̇̃͆̇̀̒̕͘ǫ̶͍̟͕̠̩̜̺̠̔͆͐̂̏͘̕͝p̷̢̦̫͈̥̮͚̘̞̐̏̍̈́p̶̢͖̤̜̫͘͜ý̸̡̻̩̦̤̣̜̔͘͜'̷͈͍̇͊͆̅̈͊͆̂͠ş̴̡̧̼̣̲̊͋ ̶̢̱̜̱̜͔̠͎͎̿̋͆̎͛̕͝ṅ̶̨̩̹͈̟͎̥͐͐͒͝ę̸̥̞̜̤͋̑̂̈̆c̷̯̪̝͉͖̅̑̓͆̆̕k̵͖̀̂͆͝͝͝.̷̧̗̥̦̼̤̞̩̋͗̃̀͂ ̶̲͍͇̒̑̄͜B̷͔̘͍͇̭͔͗l̸̯̏͂̈́̚ǫ̷̦̼̫̍̐̎͋̓̚̚͝o̵̬̜̥̫̹̖̯̲̍͊̇̍̀̆̀d̵̢̜̫̺̰̭̙̬̪̏́̍͆͑̈́̕͠͠ ̴̙͕̘̰̠̟̟̥̏̓̍̈́̓̅͑͝͝c̸̛̙̒͛̇͠͠ǫ̵̫̥̘͕̤̼̒̋͌̃͘m̷̟͌̏̍͊ͅi̸̧̠̞̓͝n̶̮̪̳͌g̸͇̭̿ ̶̧̻̙̗̘̣̫͕̐̿̓̐͊͜f̷̢͉̮̞̙͇͑̉͋͐͂͊͘r̷̢̢̺͔̮̪͙̦͚̒̈́̎̑̊͘ô̴̢̡̩̮͈̘͗m̶̲̩͎̫͗ ̴͍̳͕̭̠̤̯̰͌͌̒̐͐̓́̚A̵͊̊́̇ͅm̷͎̲͆ṟ̷̢̧̬̣̻̌̾͛͂̌̊̿͠i̸̡͇̖̞͗̈̽͜n̸̝̹͙͎̮͇̏̊̅͜'̵̢̀̌̈͝ś̷̺̣̫̰̯͗̌̐͝ ̸̛̣̂̌̽̐h̵̲̻͈̝̭̱̣̳̱͂̈́̏̉e̵̺̘͆͐̈ā̶͍͐̊͌̊͒d̸̡̘͎͕̺̬̖̉̉͑̒̑̑͘͝.̴͓͓͎̞̩̒͋̈́̌͐̐͑͘ ̴̦̟̗̭͍̻̝̂͋͜H̷̛͚̬̹͉̀̉͊̍̇͛ȩ̷̢̩͎̳͉̟͐͗ ̶̛̱͆̅̽̽͌̔̀̚h̶͍̖̰͖͗a̶̠̯̞̤͓̥̥͂̍͑̈́̂̓d̴̨̧͙̠͕̙̳̝̫̆́̈́̆́̿̒͑n̷̡̥͙̺̪̞̈́̏̌̓͊͛͑̇͠ͅͅ'̸̧̡̩̬͚̜̣̗͓̓͆̌t̶̫̬̭͚̦͎̫͓̲̎͐͆͑͐͌͊͝ ̴͎̗̖̰̀̊͠t̵̘͖̖̯̩̱͇͌ḧ̶̺͖̭͓̍ȍ̶̡̱̺̥̹̞̥̲̤͂̈́̕u̵̳̞͇̖̇̌g̴͖̰͚̞̲̋͐̈́͌̈́̅̍́ḩ̶̘͍͙̖̠͆̐̈́̾̾͗ţ̸̧͚͔̩͌̃ ̸̬͔͇̜̋̕͜C̶̣͖̗̠͙̱̊͊̐͊̿̓o̵̧̳̳͓͎̰̳̿̉̆̍͐͝͝r̴̝͓̎̀̒͆̑͝a̴̡̐̅̉l̴̟͎̗̞̑̉̐̓̇̅͝ͅị̶͇͓̬̣̰̻̖́̾́̽̀̓́̋̌ȇ̸̡̩̞̿̈́̿̇̓͘ ̴̤̭̜͉͕̗͈̓̑̅̾̍͝͝w̴̤̟̉̔͘̕ǒ̶̢̨̨̤̫̣͍̘͖̍̀̈͆̃u̸͔͎̳̳̠͈̺͗̽͑ͅl̵̛̫̗̈́́̏̄́̍̄d̸͚͑̔͊̀̅͘͝ ̸̮̘̲͍͐̉͋͝h̸̨̳̬͕̤̞̊a̷̡̡̨̗̘͍͈͐̐̾̌̿̒̈́͠v̶̢͕͇̺̑̊͌ȩ̷̡̣̥̻̖̞̙̙͐̐̿̈̐̚͘ ̸̫̮͈̎́͑̒̋̆͗̃ḩ̷͖͍͔͔̦̻̓͜͠͝͠ȃ̶͓̗͖̥͖̞̈́̄d̶͔̤̍̇̚͝ ̵̱̜͕̇̉̇̈́̌͐͊͠͝i̸̩̊́̐̀́̕͝͝t̸̫̤̀̇ ̸̣̳̘̰̟̗̌̓͐̉̈͂̂i̸̧̢̩͈̔͛̈́͒̋̅̕͘͜n̷̢̪̩̑̽̃͒͘ ̸͓̣̥̞͛̾̓͑̍͑̒͗̊h̶̖̬͔̝̝͗̐̀͜ȩ̶͍̜̭̼̱̺̻͋̆̋̌̀̍͑r̴̥̐̋͋.̴̪̑́ ̴͇̜̘͌̍͐͆͠ ̵̱͛̑̾A̸̫̺͍̫̻̹͈̭͛̎̈́̐̊̀̚͜ď̴̡̩̭͍̹͈͕̩̮ṟ̸̢̙̦̖̝̭͘͠í̵͈e̶͉̤̹̥̝͇̓̒̀̋͋͋̉̏͜n̶͙̱͈̱̣̦͈̳̏.̷̨̡̟̲̬͚̺͖̊̍̃̀̌̕̚ ̶̳͚̺̍̇̈̊͋ͅH̷̠̩̿̂͋͗ê̵̬̽̉̑̏̔͋ ̸̢̩̯͎̓͆̈́͋̋̚͝n̶͇͉̅̌͑̍͊̒̈́e̶̡̲͚̺̘͉͈͉̫̅̎̿̃͠ę̶̡̼̻̜̍͛̚ͅͅd̶̩̮̦̳̾̽̈́̃̊̃͊͒̕e̶̝̦̳̘͇̬̲̔d̵̞̟͗̀͒̈́͋͆ ̷̟̬̟̭͚̼̙̟̺́͌̀͆̀̆ţ̷̢͙̥͔̩̏̃́̾͆͜͝o̸̢͖̩̻̙̱̥̜̪͗̈́̾ ̶͕̪̬̠̩̃͛̊̐c̷̛̯̝̪̯̤͓̫̘̔̈̌̈́̄͒o̷̞̻̹͚̭̮͆̌̇̀͒̊̋̐l̸̡̤̳̤͉͈͗̉̎͘l̸̡͈͈̲͖͇̜̍͛ȇ̷̤̠͐ͅc̶̨̖̜̭̏̈ṯ̵͖̬̟̹̱̙̼̉̀̎͊̑̐̋̏̕ ̵̯̟̉̂͛̄h̷̠̱̪͇͑̔̊̃̚į̶̢͙̖̹͔͓̮̲̓̒̓́͊̔̔̕͝s̶͇̩͓̤̓̈́̋́̋̂̈́ ̵̫̘̖̦̻̤̠̌͝t̵̻̯͙͖̦̟̜̑͛͋͛̈́͑ͅh̷̘̞̘̲̔ó̸͎̣̫̼̲͕̳̮̝̏̌̐̉̿̄͘u̶̦͈͗̂̍͌̏̈̕g̷̨̗̫͈̙̪̩̝̮̿́̓́̋h̷̝͔̦̥͚͒͒̽ẗ̶͉̰̮͚̥̰̻̜̘́ś̷̻̖̣͓̝̾̒̌͒̆͂̒ ̸̮̯̼̫̜̪̃̆̍à̵͍̙̟̖̫͆̒͐́̕n̶͖̝̩̰̠̲̐̀͑̚͝͝ͅͅd̴̡̜͇̈́̏̍ ̶̧̢̛̙̠̙̥̥̜̦͊̀̈́͆̌͝t̴̡͚̼̔̅̔̔́͌͘͜a̶̛͇͙̞͓̙̒̅̐̀͘ͅľ̸̟̙̑̋̐͑͠͝k̸͙̗͉͓̪̟͚̐̀̇̽̍̃̉̈́͠ ̸̢̘̻͔̖͂͋̃̓̈́̚̚̚ṫ̸̛̠̯̟̻̖̻̉̏͆͋͝ơ̴͉͉̱̲̥̥͉͝ͅ ̵͕̖͕͎̯̩̉͋̂̚ͅh̷̡̫͎̩̰͕̼͌̓̈́̓̒́͑͝ͅi̷͔̼͕͈͗̄̅̚͜͝m̵̧͚͔̼̟͇̮̭̣͌̿.̵̦̙͈̝̺͌̅́̈́͐̉͠͝ ̷̨͎̱̘͕̤̳̌̊̓̎̈́͝ ̷̢̧̗̭͓̪͈͎͝P̸̝͇͍͖̣̔̄̓͐͒̈́̄̿o̶̢͈̫̟̘͖͋̐̉̈̐͝͝͝p̷͔͔̥̱͖̗̠̉̓̓͒p̵̖̥̳͐̕y̴̼͔͐̅̐̍̐̐͝ ̶̹̖͍̤̯̩̲̥̌̀̋̂̏̚w̵̝͚̬̺̫̜̬̗͎̓̈́̈́͑͂͒̀̕͝ä̴̲̺̣̺̣́̓̑̂̓́̿̈́s̶̘̯͗͆͆͂͊́ ̴̨̤̠̞̮͌̉̓͐̕͘͠s̵̞͈̠̭̥͍̐͜p̵͈̏̎̀̃̋̀̋̈́ê̶̢̛̖̯̹̜̻̙̄́͝͠c̸̯͂̈́̉̋̉̉̄̐͘i̵͎͈͚̙̤̟̦̦̜̾̍a̴̢̛͖̩̱͓̯̰͖͛̎̈͜l̶̡̖̲͍̺̃͒̎ ̸͇̱͚̪̬͇͒́̅̇̔̚t̴͖̮̜̦̄͂̀͂͊̆͗̓ơ̷̠͋̍̑̄͆̌ ̵̢͕̤̣̺̮͖̜̣̒̆̇͊͂͆̈́h̴̙̟́̏͝į̴̛͍͔͓̮̦͚̱͔̿́́m̴̧̜̻͎̎̃̀̐͒̄̈́.̷̼̬͈̅̃͝ ̴̧̗̣̗̰͙̭͎͊ ̵̼̩̯̓̆̅̂A̷̲̠̼̓͂̓̋̀͝͝ņ̴͇̥̫̹̜̭͙̀̓ͅḑ̸̙̻̘̙͙̼̂̑̃͗̓̈́̔̕͜͠ ̷͖̙͇͖̟͉͎͐͘Ã̷̤̖͓̻̤̜̠̒͐d̵̜͌̄͜r̷̥͚̔i̸͈̻̠̩̠̲͆̽e̴̢̧̗̺̞͖̯̳̓ǹ̶̨̙̠̝͔̘͙̏̅͒ ̷̧̨͎̳̥͕̒̐̋̒͆̈́͝w̵̨̱̞̭̳̯͙͇͌̑͗a̵̠͎͍̤͉͉͍̭͛̿̆͒̀͜s̴̨̭̹͈̼̬̐̚͝ͅ ̵̨̡̹̥͉̈́̒̆̑̃͠d̵̞͋̇r̴̦͕͚͙͖̈́͜a̸͇͎͍̦̣̼̮͑͐̀̕̕͝g̶̦̥͙̞̩͍̰̓͂̂g̷̻͇̺̀̂̓̌͆i̵̛̞̙̘͆̐̈́̔͗̂͑͋n̸̝̮̯̟͓̉̄̂͒ǵ̷̢͔̫ͅ ̵̥̗̙̤͈͉͍̰̘̏̊͛̀̊̑͝ḧ̶̝́̂ĩ̸̻̭̦͇̈́̈͊͘͘m̸̨̠̦̮̭̖̺͛̋̅̚ ̷̧̬͎̦̫͌̈́a̴̡̛̭̫̱͎͔͙͔̙̓͒w̶̨̡̛̮͚̝͗̂̑̍̚a̸̢̰͋̀̂̕̕̚͘͝y̷̧̭̭̩͈͔͖͍̋ ̴̨̢̲͇̳̩̗͓͐͂̕f̸͉̗͒͝r̸̨͕̟̒̃̽͌̽̉͌̂̃o̸̳͍̭͂̎̉̈́̚͘͠m̸̟̖̆̐̑͐ ̸̝̱͓̣̮̬͛̀t̵͈͚͂́h̶͚̊̅͐̕͠͝͠e̴̠͕̜͊͑̈̈̑̾̆̏͝ ̶̫͎̑̑͋̃̂́̿̋g̶̢̨̘̠̮̰̳̹̑̒̌̇͝ͅr̵̨̢͍̰̠̖͌̅̌̃̈́̉i̸̪̘̙̳̖̠̅̓͜s̸̢̳̰͈̭̘̬͉̀̔́̂̌̃͜l̴͕̈́̑̆̋̈́̐̃̍ẙ̶̤͇̠͙͎̗ ̵̣͆́̒̾̀̚͘s̵͓̻̗̠͖͔̣̤̚c̴̙͐̆̓̓̽̚͝e̶̼̒̆́ṋ̴̨̅̂́͌̆͒̋͠e̵̡̛̝͇̾͂͊͋̄͑̎.̵̨͙͌̽̒ ̷̼̖͊̅͛̽̋̀̽̀ ̷̳̅͋͌̉̽C̵̢̢̗̼̼̜͛͑̓̕͜o̷͙͉̓̄̈́͑̑u̷̡̝̜͔̥̒̒̍̒͌̏̃̐̋l̷̝̖̙̰̝̟͔̺̅̏̎̈́̀͋̋d̷̲̱̒̍ͅ ̵̩͓͇̇͛̔̆͒̎͗̅̄c̵̡̞͔̑̎ǒ̷̢̨̰̬̖̘̝̞͆̐̇͆r̴͇̠̫̜̂̏̒̕͘a̴̡̧͇̣͇͕̜̋l̸̠̞̱̰̼͚͈̈́̊̓̈̃̋͘î̶̪̫̻̠͈̞̜̊̄͋̋͒̚e̴̯̹̗͉̱̒͒̇̋͊͋͋͘ ̴̮͔͍̮̘͉͇͔̉͐̽̿͐̀͜h̷̠̥͕̺̩̼̗͕̦͂͋͌͋̀͆ą̷̧̻̪̱̭͙̼̅́͊͌̊́́̑̕v̵̡̲̠̣͈͍̦̯̌̄̔͝é̸̢̧̛̛̦̰̩͕͉̫̙̈́̎̐̕ ̴̧̼͎̟͚͌͌̅̕k̵̼͙͈̱̬͛̾͒͐̐͋́i̴̲̲̗̠̭͔̪͙̳̒̈́̕͠͠l̶̟̟̰͎͊͌̊l̴̛͙̙͔̪̇͒͝e̶̮̯̙̣͐̄̂̂̀͊d̵̼̦̤̠̮̲͛̆͊͑̿͜ ̵̢̛͕̠̜͚̍͊͐̔̀͘ṯ̵̨̨̪̺͉̩̠̈̒̅͋̈́̊̚͠ḩ̴͖͖̲͇̿ͅȩ̸͖̮́̆̓̋̽̉̇̕ ̴̼͛̍̿̚̕b̵̛͖̒̏͌o̵̡̞͇̳̼̻̻̊͆̏y̴̧̛̛̱͖̥̟̝̥̹̟̆̀̄̂͑s̶̢̬̯̻̻̞̘͙̻͐̍̕ ̵͕̞̳͈̖̝̾͑̃̾̇͜͝ͅt̸̯͎͗ͅơ̵͔̆̕ȏ̶̦̳͖̟̦͓̬͊̌͒̐̃̍?̶̘̩͖͎͈̄͐͊̀̿̋ͅ ̷̞͙̭̤̟̱̖͇̺̊́̆̓ ̴̦͠H̶̬̠͑͐̅e̶̅̑̈́͜ ̵͍̲̳̽̽̑͒̐w̸̪̮̘̝͛͛͝a̶̪͍͊̓̾s̸̬̜̪̆͋̒ ̸̧̧̩̠̙͇͕͛̈́̾̿͌̆͜m̷͔̜̽̎i̶̻̠̠̇͒̾̾̒̕ş̷̟͇̳̻̲̂̽̇̈̔͐͊̚͝s̷̢̝̩̉̔i̸̢̗͓̙͕̠̠̰̐̊̉̚͝͠ǹ̸̲̔̌̅̈́̚͝ͅg̴̰̽͛̔̈́͐͐ ̸̨̖̰̤̬̀̚͜s̸͓͈͓͈̤̳̈́̌̀̀̈̌̾̎͝ô̶̢̩̳͇͖̳̈́̊͊͌m̸͙̞̜̖͔̘̻͈̈́̚ẻ̴̞̲̿̃̅̇͝t̷̡̪͚̣̻̤̳͐͗͆͌̀̇̈́͜͠ͅĥ̷͉̹͖̉͆̋͒́͘i̸̢̢̙̫̳̪̯̐̾͑ń̵̤̞͙̤̃͐̂̍ĝ̷̲̥̯̖͙̝̎̿̎̃̔͊́.̸͙̟̬̲̐͒͋̊ ̸̨̜͇͙̩͑ ̵̘̞̩̙̩̪̑́̒͋̀̏̚S̶̛̼̎ö̴͙́̓̓͐̓́́͘͝m̸̢̧̫̠̰̻̗̫̺̅e̸̥͓̿͆̀t̴̢͔͊̎̐̑ḫ̸̛̠͎̥̅̈́̿i̵̳̯̼̲̖̠͚͂̊̉̓̑̿̀̚͜ͅn̷̨̨͍͕̬͚̘͂͑̄̈́́͘̚ģ̸̞̝̑͐́̈́̀ ̵͚̠͔̭̳̩̉͑̅̇̕̕ͅͅÍ̵̡̡̙̝̬̺̯m̴͚̩̒̽͐͑͑̋́p̶͚͉̲̬̤̹̼̏̉͑̋̿̌͝͝͝ö̴͈̜̬̫̯͈͕͕́͒̉͆̌͘r̴͙̭̊̀̍̑͆͋̀̔͘ͅt̸̬̙͍̟̣̆̈́ȃ̵̬̳͎̥̓̈́̐̐̍́̑͝n̴̦̝̩̮̑́̉̾͂̚̕t̷̳͕̳͚̠̗̭̠͚̾̾͆̚.̶̧̹̼̮̊́̍̊̔͆̾͘͝ ̷̨̲͕̼̿͌̊́͘͘͝B̸͇̽u̸̬̟̜̺̪͒̂t̵̨̿̀ ̵̰̗̿̓̍̑͛͑́w̶͚̯̖̟̥̥̳̬̩̾̔͘͠ḧ̴͎͉̠̭́̕̕ͅa̷̢̧͍̮̣͍̓t̷̙̖̓̈?̶̫̄̈̓̍̎̀!̷̘͍̥̭͉̽̇̈́̐͆̚ ̶̬̖̣̙̣̮̟͑̏̉̇͑͆̉
̵̬̼̀̏̊͒̀͑͝͠
̸̢̧͚̥̓͆͊͒̚͜͜͜"̸̧̲͍͈̤͛͘͜ͅI̶̫͈͔͌͐ ̸̺̻̘͌̓̍̅c̷̠͎̱̪̫̼̼̞̽͂̾̆̚a̴̡̨̮͙͈͍͖͂̀ǹ̶̙̝̳̋̉̎̓͂͘͘͝'̵̧̡͓̲̜̲̳̼̊̓̈̀͗̒̀t̵̡̖̙̥̦̙͗̀̏́̔̓̂̀͠ͅ ̸̡̛̖̮̫͙̽̉̍̿͠͠i̴̛͚̲̙͎̩̗̪̒̿͊̀̉͂̓͝ͅm̴̡̌͆̾̌̊̉a̷̢̝̻̠̹͓̮̙͈̾̔̕͝͠g̵̢͕̜͍̫̪̤̽̾͑̈́̏̊ͅi̷̡͚͍͎̿ņ̷͉̫̬͑ͅȩ̸̯̤͕̼̤̱̘̎̃̔̾ ̵̨̬̟̪̆̾̂͛̚h̴̤͉̟͇̻͇̗̫͌͝͝ợ̴̌̿́ẘ̵̼ͅ ̷̼͚̫̩̣͕̜̟̭̔͑͑̒́͑̑̚͘y̴̨̭̦̺͔̗̞̯̍̎̈́͊̕ó̷̻̟̾̉̚̚͝ư̶̯̦̻̲͚̱̟͕̽͗̅̎̋͝͠ ̶̻̙͔͈͚̼͓̈͐̀́̂̕͝f̴͈̬͍͉̮͋̍̈̇̽͆̾ͅͅḙ̷̛̭͈͙̼̤̟̖̈́̽̋͑͗͛̓̚ę̸̨̠͈̩̳̭̘̈̈͗̄l̶̡̛̪̳͈̗̥̹̇̈́͒̇̀̑̎̚,̵̛̯͕̼̯́̍̀͠͝ ̵̢̦͎͚̘̳̾A̷̡̡̞̱̯͐d̸̖̱̼̮̗̈̈́ŕ̸͚́̎̈́́͗i̵̡̩̖̦̤̗̔́̒̏̄̉̏̕͜ȩ̸͉͍͗̓̓̑͜n̷͙͋̏̐͌̕͘,̶̤̘͙͙̇͂̈́͠ ̶̗͔̳͊͠I̵̤͕͇̺͓̅̆̽̌̆̀̈̒́-̶̡̛̛̬̤̺͙̝̘͈͑̓͜"̴̡̞͉̦̰̒͛͊
̶̩̤̻̉̀
̸̡̛̯̝̭̺́͌́͘͜"̷̡̛͈̥͕̳̔͗͐͜D̸̡̮͓̮͇̏̈͋́͗̒̇͠ŏ̶̡̖̞̭́͂́̔̾̃͜͠ṅ̸̢̻̳̠̗͎̞̖͔͐͋͊'̴̢͚̹͕̰͈̖̗̹͑̈́̏͒̚t̵̢͇͔̯͇̝̱̖͚̒́̅̈́̍̔́̿̄.̶̥̩̬͓̦͇͎̳̺̿́͂"̸̜͔̓̆̂͆̆̈́͑ ̴̡̮̬̼͎̿̽h̸̡͓̞͖̬͎̳̪̪̒i̶̗͋̽̾̊̉̈́͛͝s̷̳̪̭̩̀͊͌̈̆̌ ̷̢̱͖͈̞̗̂̄́̎͝͝f̸̽̎̉̂͒͘͝ͅr̷͙̻̩͈̟̠͓̈́̋i̴͖̟̬̿͆̈e̸̱̬̓͗̈͊̈́̀n̶̗̫̙̺̗̬̯̒̏̓͛̒̔d̴̟̻͒͌͂͋̏̕͜͝͝ ̵̧͓̝̣̳̳͔̲̚r̵̡͔̤̭̗̜̦̃̀̾̃̎́è̸̢̺̱̙͕̦͔̗̐́͘ͅp̷̙̬̥͎̹̰̰̆̔̍̆̆̑̽̚ḽ̶̛̘͉̫̜̝̥̀̔͒̅í̸̢͉͚͍̘̩̮̟͐͘͠ͅē̵̹͍̻̂̀̏̐͠d̷̛͍͉̦͋̽̀͑̓̕̕.̷͓͇̀̑͋̓̾̾̉͠


Indigo came around with a start. This wasn’t the first time he’d lapsed into unconsciousness and he knew he had. It felt different when waking up from slumber. That, and while he had a habit of falling asleep in odd positions, he couldn’t remember anything to do with a chair. Or being tied up. Where was Adrien? Hadn’t he just been talking to Adrien?

“There’s a word for this, but I can’t think of it right now. Why does my vocabulary always fail me at times like this? Kinky? Is this kinky? No, that’s not it. Terrifying, yes, yes that’s the one.” He said aloud, frantically struggling back and forth for a minute, testing the bonds. They were curtain tie-backs, those tasseled furnishings that held back expensive heavy drapes to let the sun in.

They were holding his feet and chest in place and although he couldn’t see behind him he was fairly certain there was another one keeping his hands bound. He stared at his lap.

“I’ve had a dream like this, I think. Only I had to give a speech and I wasn’t wearing pants.”

Alright, think. Think you idiot!

He had been taken. The killer or killers had hidden him somewhere in the house. But why? Was he to be the next victim? Or were they saving him for later? Was he close to figuring them out, and thus he needed to be removed so they could freely murder everyone else? Where was Adrien?! In the confusion and panic following Coralie murdering two of their own he...

Oh.

Poppy and Amrin were dead.

Indigo could feel tears brimming in his eyes. Poor Adrien. Poppy may not have been the most pleasant person to be around, but she had been a bright, shining star with raw magnetism. But as sad as that made him, Amrin's passing upset him for two major reasons.

The first was that Amrin was the only one he felt he could connect with an intellectual level. She was the one that had convinced him to toughen up a little for the competition. She wasn't a friend like Adrien, but he had cared for her in his own way.

The other was that he had had her pegged as the murderer. She was dead. Which meant that he was dead wrong. Which meant Fiora was probably right about this atrocity being a personal vendetta and not about the money. Oh, he hated being wrong. Especially in public. Public. The others. Had he heard a noise?

He looked up.

His senses were still dulled and he had a sense that he should be feeling more panicked than he was, but...there was a table in front of him with a concerning amount of tools and weapons.
And beyond that…

“Oh, hello Whitney. Did you say something? I don't think I was listening.”

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

W H I T N E Y L E B L A N C

I THROW MY DEMONS AWAY

I think I may have been screaming.

Was I? Can someone tell me? Was that all in my head?

For a moment, all I can remember clearly is darkness, an inky sort of blackness that I can almost still feel drowning me. It feels strangely like coming out of a deep sleep.

In my nightmare, I can see Poppy's blood, crimson on my hands. In my nightmare, I can feel her blood all over my clothes, and see the wound where Coralie dug a fucking nail file into my best friend. Even now, halfway between conscious and unconscious, I can feel every muscle in my body contract at the sight, at the feeling of her blood all over me, hot and sticky and dripping down my forearm. I hear Amrin shouting in confusion, in anger, trying to stop Coralie from killing the girl I'm pretty sure I'm in love with. I think, maybe, that's when I screamed the first time, when I watched as my roommate fell—got pushed? the memory is fuzzy on the edges—into the hard line of the marble sink, skull bashed.

I open my eyes, and remember my nightmare is real, and taste iron on my tongue.

It's then I hear a voice for the first time, and I will my eyes to truly open, to see where I am, to see what's happened. Where I will myself to break out of my nightmare, real or not.

"Indy?" I ask, my eyebrows furrowed. If I'm being honest, I think that my vision is a little bit blurring, like my body is starting to give up on me, like slowly but surely, I am just falling apart piece by piece. I swallow, clench my jaw.

Good, I think to myself. Put the pieces back together and make yourself stronger than before.

"Where are we?" I ask, disoriented and confused to be waking up somewhere I did not fall asleep, but I have to close my eyes again before I can look around to try and answer the question myself. There's a throbbing at the back of my head, a kind of pounding that I think might be in time with my heartbeat, but I don't have the sharpness of mind to try and properly see if the pounding in my head is in sync with my heart. I instinctively go to lift my hand to touch where the pain is, but it's a moment later when I realize that my hand hasn't moved. I pry my eyes open and it's then that I realize my hand is zip tied behind my back.

There's an ache in my shoulder, now I've noticed. I wonder, would I have realized if I'd kept my eyes closed?

I shutter them again, let my head tip back until it's resting on what I assume is the back of the chair.

"What the fuck," I breathe, air coming in short, heavy gasps. "What the fuck, what the fuck," I say again, completely unable to form a coherent string of thoughts. Where was I again? Oh, right—Indigo. I flash my eyes open again, stare down the bidge of my nose at the body across the table from me. For a half-second, I wonder if he's the killer and he's just watching me, amused and entertained, glad to see what he has done to me. Was he bound as well? I force my eyes to trail down him, and think I almost exhale in relief when I see the binding around his chest.

I'm not alone.

Did you say something? he asked me, I'm pretty sure, and I feel my eyebrows furrow again. I swallow, try to ignore the nausea building in my stomach. "Did I?" I ask him back, the opposite of helpful. "I—" I begin again, willing myself to come to proper consciousness.

You're not alone, I remind myself. Get the both of you out of here.

AND KEEP MY PAIN ON MY SIDE

[charade]

Disorientation was natural, he thought as Whitney stumbled over her words. Had she been knocked in the head too? Or had the killer used some sort of sedative? Indigo smiled faintly, recalling a happy memory of the two of them hanging out in his room. Him without pants, her taking some of his fries. Good times. But the good times were over. Ever since Malcolm Nox had been murdered.

It crossed his mind to scream for help, but he had no idea where they were. It wasn’t a part of the mansion he’d been in before. Hollering might bring aid, but there was a good chance it would bring the killer back to them first. He wiggled again, and focused on the table full of implements.

Mostly from the kitchen was his guess, though a few stuck out to him. There was an expensive looking knife, a length of lead pipe, a wrench and a length of rope fashioned into a noose arranged around a heavy brass candlestick in the center.

“Getting ahold of that knife would help,” he mused aloud. But the table was at a terrible angle. Even if he could scoot himself backwards, his hands would be under the table, and there was no way for him to lean forward and grab it with his teeth. The hilt was too large for that anyway.

Fuck, he thought.

He supposed that meant that the killer was wanting to get creative about their murders. Mocking them. Was that in of itself a clue? He reviewed the remaining people living in the house. Adrien and Fiora were too morally upstanding to be the killer. That much he was certain of. Whitney was currently trussed up a few feet away from him, so it wasn’t her either.

For a moment he entertained the idea that Violet, Harvey and Beryl were working together to kill everyone else, as he was unconvinced any of the three could pull this off by themselves. Unless one of them was only pretending to be dumb.

Hmm.

That left Coralie, who had definitely stabbed Poppy in the throat. Indigo wracked his brain for anything linking Coralie to the other murder scenes. The small redhead had certainly proven herself able to kill in the heat of the moment, but was it simply her fear getting the better of her? Or pre-meditated? Indigo cursed under his breath. He had a feeling he had all the puzzle pieces he needed, but was putting them together incorrectly.

Then it hit him. The thing he'd forgotten between the panic and the weed.  Whitney and Violet had found Blaine’s body. But no one had actually seen Adam’s. They just assumed he was dead because he hadn’t turned up yet. He could not be ruled out as a suspect just yet.

And then there was what Adrien had done. Poor, distraught Adrien, who only wanted to protect him. He’d pulled Indigo away from the grisly scene so quickly that he hadn’t thought to protest. Not being in control of his mental faculties hadn’t helped much either. If there had been a place to look for clues, to cross-examine people, that was it.

Examine—

There was no chance of Poppy surviving a sharp object to the throat like that. But had anyone been certain that Amrin had expired? Had her fall crushed or split her skull? Head injuries bled profusely whether they were serious or not and tributes in The Hunger Games had survived deep gashes to the back of the head before—

Could he have been right after all?

“They’ll come for us,” He stated, renewing his struggle against his bonds. “I have the utmost confidence in Adrien and Fiora. They’ll be the ones to find us,” he said, surprising himself. He supposed that meant he considered Fiora a friend too. When had that happened? Wait, he thought, the fragments of the last few hours coming back to him. It was rude of him not to take Whitney’s emotions into account. What must she be feeling at a time like this?

“I’m sorry about Poppy.” He said quietly. “I knew Coralie had a complex, but I never thought…”

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

W H I T N E Y L E B L A N C

I THROW MY DEMONS AWAY

Indi says a whole lot of things that I have trouble keeping track of.

I can't really blame him for that though, so I just do everything in my power not to close my eyes again, much as every single nerve in my body feels like its shouting at me to do as much. I don't want to see what's in front of me, swallow when Indi mentions the knife and wish that I could ignore the clenching in my jaw when I think about the last sharp object I'd seen clearly intended as a weapon. He's quiet for a long moment after that, probably thinking through everything in front of him, reasoning out what had happened and what would happen as a result of it, trying to figure out who had put them here and why.

I didn't want to think about it.

I didn't want to close my eyes either though because every time I did I saw myself betraying Poppy in her last seconds, see myself looking at her with doubt in my eyes, a question on my tongue. Poppy and Adam locked me in the bathroom, I hear in the back of my head, Violet's voice frantic and desperate and wanting to put knowledge to the things that had happened to her, even if it was the wrong information.

I see Amrin falling into that sink, blood soaking into the grout.

I swallow, blink a second longer than is necessary, and when I open my eyes I try to stop the ringing in my ears and push away the dark spots collecting across my vision.

I try and collect the Indi's words in the forefront of my mind, have to think so hard through the ringing in my head that it hurts almost as much as it did when I got knocked out. "I wished I shared your confidence in Adrien," I say, but I taste something bitter on my tongue and can't help but acknowledge to myself that the only thing I've ever had against Adrien is that he got to be with Poppy when I never got the chance.

Then Indi says her name, and it's all I can do not to fall apart.

"Why the fuck did they leave us here?" I ask, half-shed tears collecting in my eyes as a shudder rolls through my spine. Tension manifests in anger and I feel myself struggle against my bindings, shake and tremble with my whole body until the ache in my shoulders is twofold. I refuse to let the tears fall, but I can't help it when I sniffle through my angry outburst. There's something sharp prickling behind my eyes, and I just try and feel the spaces between each of my vertebra, strengthen and steel them so that I don't crumble into myself.

I have a bad habit of running away from things when they get hard. I don't have that option here.

"What's the point?" I ask, looking around the barren, non-descript room. I don't want to look at the weapon on the table. A dark thought passes through my mind, and I say it before thinking about it too hard, grief an ugly thing in my chest. "Maybe they want us to kill each other. Whichever of us kills the other gets to keep playing their game." My mouth is bitter again, but it's not jealousy anymore. "Here I was thinking I finally aged out of the games."

AND KEEP MY PAIN ON MY SIDE

[charade]

All the skulking around in the dark, stabbing people. It was highly inefficient. If he had intended to kill a house full of people, he would have laced one of the evening meals with a slow-acting poison and gotten rid of everyone at once.

Frankly, he found the killer’s ineptitude insulting to his intelligence. How did they intend on getting away with this?

Whitney teared up, demanding to know why they had left them in the room. Whether the they in question was their fellow interns or the killer, he wasn't entirely sure of. That was the problem with brain fog.

Maybe they want us to kill each other. Her words cut through the fog like a knife through skin, or another, more apt metaphor.

Indigo paused in his struggling to turn the idea over in his head. The killer was playing mind games. He was certain of that. Why else abduct two people and force them to face one another, powerless to do anything to help?? He hazarded a guess that one of them was meant to watch the other die. Which meant that the other one might get a chance to escape after that.

If they weren’t killed immediately afterward.

He chuckled weakly. “Ha! Can you imagine us in the arena? I guarantee I would have pissed off the wrong person and gotten eviscerated on the first day.” Now there was a pleasant thought. But to follow Whitney’s train of thought, did he think her capable of killing him? 

“You were my second suspect, you know,” he said, shrugging as well as he was able to. “I reasoned that if someone pushed enough of your buttons, backed you into enough corners, you’d snap.” He paused for a moment and thought about what he’d just said. “No offense,” he added hastily. “From my observations over the months, you think with your heart. An admirable trait, but a weakness in the competition.”

He sucked at his teeth. “I’m still coming off my high. Sorry. I think my tongue is a little loose right now.” He laughed helplessly, an odd strangled sound. “I considered Adam and Beryl too, one for his antisocial tendencies and the other for his narcissism. The two are a match made in hell." Not that that information was particularly relevant, but he decided it was time to lay out his investigation to the one other person who was certainly not the killer.   

"I’m off on a tangent now, but to answer your question, I don’t think they intend for us to kill each other. More than likely, they plan to murder one of us while the other watches helplessly.” It was a morbid, dark thought, but it made the most sense to him. Why else keep them bound with no way of freeing themselves? If that was the case, they each had a 50/50 chance.

“Whitney, if you make it and I don’t—“

If there was anything he was certain about in his possibly soon to be ending life, it was that while he had talked quite a lot over the course of the competition, he hadn’t said a whole lot that meant anything.

“—tell Adrien I said that it wasn’t his fault alright? None of it. Not me, not Poppy or Malcolm. He’s going to blame himself. Probably already is.“

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

W H I T N E Y L E B L A N C

I THROW MY DEMONS AWAY

I can't help it.

I begin to laugh.

It's— It's not manciacal, but it's something in that vein that I can't quite put my finger on. The noise rattles through my chest, somehow full and hollow all in one moment, and I'm honestly scared that it's going to send me spinning out, that my bones are just going to give up and give out, collapse until I'm a pile of ash on the floor, still laughing.

I think the word I'm looking for is hysterical.

"You could always take your bowl as your token," I say, feeling like a girl on the edge. I don't know what to do don't know what to think don't know what to say or what to do I just—my hysterical smile stays, and so do the unshed tears. "Maybe Patricia could have found a way to sponsor you some pot." I shake my head, unable to clear the fuzz from my brain. "Call it medicine."

But now isn't a moment for jokes, as much as every fiber of my being is doing what it can to run away from the situation while being literally fucking ziptied in place. I can feel better now the plastic rubbing into my wrists as I slowly continue to come back to myself. Indi keeps talking though, and I stop my mental check in with the rest of my body and its state of distress.

I probably won't get out of here anyway, so what's the point of knowing exactly how damaged I am?

It's not so hard to ignore the feeling of blood crusted onto the back of my neck.

You were my second suspect, he says, and it's like all the fight just bleeds out of my, leaves my body and all I feel is bone-deep weary. I let him keep going, but I can't bring myself to reply to the hardest of his words first, can't bring myself to go right for the throat of it."No offense taken," I say quietly, something hysteric still in my chest, but I think it's settling itself. That's almost as scary, if I'm being honest. The idea that I am accepting this reality. "I don't know that I wouldn't snap if someone pushed the right button, but Nox's competition was never something I was honestly worried about. I—" I swallow. "This place wasn't something I was running towards, just a place to land when I was running away."

My mouth twists, a shiver runs down my spine.

I have to pause half a second because I know myself, as much as I sometimes wish that I didn't, and I know that I'm exactly the kind of person to hold my heartbreak against Adrien for the rest of my life, that I'm exactly the kind of person that will put all of her mistakes onto someone else so that I can run away from them. But this—my friends dead, Poppy dead, I can't run from this. I can't. I won't.

"I'll tell him if it comes to that, but I doubt it will." My mouth is a wry kind of smile, and the hysterical thing bubbles again in my chest. I think when I go on, I must sound a little manic. "It'll probably be me, if the killer decides to kill either of us, so you can tell him that it's not his fault yourself." I look down at my lap, but it pulls something sharp in my neck and I have to look back up. "After all, I found Blaine's body, saw the basement. I think it's where they must be operating, using the trap doors to get around."

Another half pause.

"I think it's Coralie." I shudder. "She—she never struck me as an out of control kind of person, and she went for Poppy's throat so fast. My head still hurts, but I doubt I could make sense of it even with my head screwed on right."

AND KEEP MY PAIN ON MY SIDE

[charade]

A bowl in the games. Fantastic idea. Indigo didn’t know much about Patricia, but the victor had always come off as aloof and unfun to him. It would have been a gas to pull off though. He felt bad after registering her face fall. There were some thing he should have kept to himself, but his mind was racing. Ever since the first murder things had been progressing so quickly, that he hadn’t really had time to sit down and process it all.
Arrange his thoughts and figure the damn thing out.

There was still a concern in the back of his mind that he should have inspected Poppy and Amrin’s bodies, just in case, but he pushed the thought away and focused on what Whitney was saying. She wasn’t offended, though he thought she might be hurt. She admitted that she was running from something and Indigo was reminded that he’d not taken the time to really find out about anyone’s home life. Too focused on the game for silly little things like that. They didn’t seem so unimportant now.

Trap doors, though? Fascinating. It explained why the killer was able to move around so quickly. Did any of the others have an architectural background? Or had they just stumbled upon the inner workings of the mansion early into the competition? That piece of information meant that this had been planned for some time. Indigo wracked his brain, trying to think of anyone that had spent an extended period of time wandering the house. Violet had, but that was because she was always getting lost.

He supposed he’d have to bump her up his list up suspects account of half of them dying. Coralie. He’d considered that, toyed with the idea that the rich girl had gotten bored and decided to kill all the poor people. She had been his fifth most likely suspect, if only because she didn’t strike him as the type to get her hands dirty.

Well, even if she hadn’t murdered everyone, she’d killed two people, so she was still a killer. Unfortunate that he’d rated her so low. Indigo nodded as best he could as Whitney concluded her thoughts about the redhead. He wasn't sure how to feel about her confidence that she would die before him, so he only nodded when she brought it up.

“You’re right. Coralie doesn’t make much sense. Honestly, after Malcom turned up dead, I had my money on Amrin. But well—“he left the rest unsaid, now was not the time to dwell on the grisly scene in the bathroom. He started laughing again, partly out of fear and partly because he didn’t know what else to do. Whitney was having a heart to heart with him, this wasn’t his area of expertise. He shied away from it. “God, Whitney. Running? “I’ve always run away from myself—I don’t— I’ve never connected easily.” If his hands weren’t bound, he would have held his face in his hands.

“The competition. Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore, but I wanted to win so bad. I was ecstatic when I got my letter. Finally, I thought. Some recognition. A chance to match wits with the district’s best and brightest.” He chuckled, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“After the first challenge, I was certain I’d win the whole thing. I had it all figured out, you see. I didn’t even care for the prize. I just wanted to be somebody in the district. You know, I told myself that when I took control of the company, I’d find a way to hire everyone else? Fiora in human resources. You in advertising. I’d make Adrien the majority shareholder.”

He was surprised to find himself crying.

“I just wanted to make some friends,” he said sadly. “I should have burned that letter and gotten high off the ashes.”

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

W H I T N E Y L E B L A N C

I THROW MY DEMONS AWAY

Indi doesn't have to keep talking for me to feel his words hit me like a bag of gaddamned bricks. I had my money on Amrin. But well... he trails off, and I have to grind my teeth together to try and stop tears from coming to my eyes again. I—fuck, I'd spent so long hating Amrin for no real reason other than she'd been cold and unkind on that first day. It had left a sour taste in my mouth that I'd done literally nothing to try and tamp down, nothing to get rid of.

I knew the way that she sounded when she slept, what the pattern of her breathing was like when she was at peace and when she was stressed out, and still. I resented the space she took up. Behind my eyes, I can still see her head cracking into the marble, see her falling to the floor as a pool of blood collected around her head. The memory almost makes me balk, and I'm surprised by how it tears at the shreds left of my broken heart.

After all, we'd taken a turn towards friends, towards trust, but. But something. If I were thinking clearly, I'd probably shy away from the thought more viscerally, but—but I'd believed she could be capable of the murder.

Indi laughs, and I can hear the grit and fear boiling in the noise. I can hear the shake of his voice, the way his breathing changes when it turns to talking about himself, about his feelings.

Not like I can blame him.

I'd been running from my fears for years.

At first, I don't have any words for the things that he admits, the dreams that he shares with me. In so many ways, they touch my soul, my heart, make me feel like I could shatter into a million pieces and put myself back together into something new, something better, something unrecognizable from the girl I'd been my entire life.

"Not that it helps, but I pegged you for the winner, too." I give him a half-grimace half-smile, my eyes kind and soft as they can be in the situation that we're in. "You just," I shake my head, swallow. "You seemed like you could figure out anything, make anything go your way. As goofy as you were—are" I correct myself quickly, tripping over my tongue.

We're still alive. We're still alive. We're still alive.
We're going to make it out of this.

"As goofy as you are, you've got a charm to match your brain. Like, just, a wholesome realness that makes me believe anything you say." I shake my head. "I wish I had dreams like that," I go on. "Wish that I was the kind of person who thought that far ahead and thought about others at the same time. I'm so—" my lower lip quivers, and I have to look away. The tears in Indi's eyes are sharp in my chest, and I can't see them and stop my own at the same time. I'm so goddamned selfish, I think. "You know Malcolm recruited me because he said I was 'passionate'? Not because he thought I was smart or because I'm kind of charming or whatever else the others were recruited for. He liked me because I didn't care about anything but what I wanted, what I loved." I can feel a tear escape as I go on. "He liked that I didn't care about what happened to others if I got my way."

"All my worst personality traits—that's what he liked most about me." I scoff. "Karma clearly bit me in the ass for that one."

AND KEEP MY PAIN ON MY SIDE

[charade]

Whitney talked, and he listened, wishing he could wipe the tears away from his face. It was nice to hear a compliment or two. He didn’t get them very often. But she was wrong on one point; if he could figure out anything, then he wouldn’t be in his current predicament. He’d have found, accused and stopped the killer after Malcom had turned up dead, and everyone else would still be alive. The problem was that his mind never stopped going, never stopped searching for patterns, even when his initial hypothesis was wrong. The details never stopped calling to him. It was why he had become reliant on being high to slow him down.

She mentioned what she wanted and loved, and he caught the hitch in her chest, the tear rolling down her cheek and he knew. You’d have had to been blind not to see the eyes Whitney was always making at Poppy. And to witness it? It was a thousand times worse than finding Blaine’s body. Or Adam’s. Although, no one actually had yet. But Indigo doubted he was alive. If he was, he was the killer. There was no other reason to disappear at this point unless you were guilty, dead or kidnapped, and there was certainly no Adam in the room.

There was an elephant though, and that was that Whitney believed her passion selfish. That Malcolm had only picked her for her worst traits. Indigo didn’t put much stock in the concept of Karma, or the man that had invited them here would have gotten what he deserved years ago, when he had abdicated the responsibility of caring for Adrien, but he could understand the sentiment. He let her finish before interjecting.

“You know; I knew Adam before all this? We weren’t friends or anything, but I bought weed from him a couple times. I suppose he’s—“ Indigo chewed his lip thoughtfully.

They hadn’t really gotten along, and Indigo was eighty percent certain that it was Adam that had kept misplacing his underwear in strange places around the mansion, but that didn’t mean he wanted him dead. “Haven’t seen him in a couple hours. He didn’t come to the bathroom to investigate with the rest of us. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make.” Once again, his train of thought had hopped to another track, but he steered it back. The fog was lifting from his brain.

“People are a mix of good and bad choices. My bad choices include deciding to get high to calm down instead of putting my considerable brainpower towards identifying the killer.” Had he not been high, he might have heard someone creeping up behind him and wouldn’t be tied to a chair, but helping Adrien search for clues instead. “Malcolm was an idiot. He said he invited us all here to find a worthy heir. I initially thought he took us from different backgrounds, different personalities because he wanted to see how we worked in a diversified environment.“

It’s what Indigo would have done at any rate, and he had thought Malcolm saw a little of himself in each of the interns.

“After getting to know him a little, I know he simply relished the drama. I don’t think he cared who won or what anyone did to win as long it was entertaining for him. And what do you know? Someone leapt off the deep end before the competition was over.” Possibly more than one. He supposed he should have spent even more time observing everyone than he had, because there was something he’d missed.

The key to this whole puzzle.

Indigo slipped into professor mode, as if he were standing in a classroom and giving a lecture. “But you are not defined by your flaws; merely the sum of your actions.” He sniffed, finding clarity. “Passion can be defined as a strong or barely controllable emotion, outbursts of emotion or intense desire. Whitney, this does not make you selfish. What is admirable about you is your drive. Your willpower. You don’t give up when there’s something you want. I don’t give up until I’ve solved the problem in front of me.” He laughed weakly, tears at the corner of his eyes, he was rambling again, but he often did that.

“Right now, your desire and my problem are the same thing. Getting out of this alive.”

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

W H I T N E Y L E B L A N C

I THROW MY DEMONS AWAY

I—I actually think that I smile when Indi stats talking about how he knew Adam before all of this started, before we ate fries together on his bed and before I met Poppy and before Blaine was killed and before I found his body and before I got lost in the dark with Violet and before I ran away from Margot while she lay dying in her own bed and—

Before.

Just, before sounds nice. It's enough to make me smile all by itself.

Whitney doesn't miss the strangle of Indi's thoughts though when he mentions that Adam hadn't come back in a few hours, and as much as she doesn't want to question it, her own head latches onto the idea that maybe he's fucking dead too and ohmygodevenadamisdead and—Indi is still talking Whitney, shut the fuck up.

I think, honestly, that my brain isn't doing so great with the whole wound to the back of the head thing, or the whole being dragged through the house whilst unconscious thing, or the whole being tied to a chair and given no medical attention except for a nice little therapy session with a boy I had something of an inferiority complex regarding. He's—oh wait, he's still talking I need to really get my shit together because he's talking about Malcolm and even though we've been living with that guy for months now, I still have no idea what he's even really like.

Watching Indi find his clarity did something for me, I suppose, if at the very least helped me to find my own by way of making me feel like I was being weak for being emotional. Like we were in this fucking hell-hole together, and it was only together that we'd be able to make it out. "Do you think that we can?" I ask him, my spine shivering uncomfortably. It really is something kind of awful to have your body want so desperately to move when you're locked into place. "I mean, we can guess all we want, but we don't really know what's happening. For fuck's sake, maybe Malcolm has another bastard kid that snuck onto the island and killed his dad and is now just toying with us for a bit of fun." I shake my head, looking down at all the gruesome weapons displayed on the table in front of us. "They're taunting us with this," I go on. "Whoever is doing this, they've totally fucking lost it."

I'm about to go on when suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, I hear it.

Someone is shouting, banging—it's muffled, like it's coming through a heavy metal wall, but it's there. I'm absolutely sure of it, and before I do anything, I look at Indi, desperate, needing guidance. "We should shout, right?" I'm trembling all over, terrified that it's the killer playing with us again, and terrified that it's not, that it's one of our friends come to save us.

AND KEEP MY PAIN ON MY SIDE

[charade]

Blaine was dead. Poppy was dead. Amrin was probably dead. Adam was missing.

Whitney was sitting across from him.

Coralie was a killer, but not the killer. It didn’t fit. A herring the same shade as her hair.

Adrien was not.

That left Beryl, Violet and Fiora and Harvey.

He once again dismissed Fiora out of hand. It was not in her nature. Unless she’d been extremely good at hiding her true nature. Hmm. He filed her under dark horse and went back to his thoughts. Harvey seemed unlikely as well. It could be Beryl. He was Indigo’s fourth highest suspect after all. Third maybe, now that Whitney was no longer number two. But still, he doubted Beryl’s desire to do anything resembling work, and this—

All of this required a lot of work.

Oh, he was going to be sorely disappointed if Adam stalked into the room to murder them. If the drug-dealing criminal was, well, the criminal, it would just be so, so…ordinary. It lacked a certain je ne se quoi. But it made sense, and Indigo moved him from being the third suspect to being the second. Amrin was still number one until he got a chance to check her pulse himself. Lastly, there was Violet. He’d discounted her before, but hadn’t she always been wandering around the house, looking for that damn cat?

She could have found any number of hidden passageways.

Was her ditzy nature an act?

Indigo sighed and moved her up to being the fourth most likely murderer. And then a thought struck him. There was a pattern there after all. Blaine had become fast friends with Whitney. Adam too. Poppy had been her crush. Amrin her roommate. If all of the dead actually were dead, they’d all been relatively closer to Whitney than the survivors. Almost like someone was trying to get closer to Whitney by removing everyone in her circle.
Fiora had said this looked personal after all.

If that theory was correct, then it meant that the next most likely victim was Harvey or well—
himself.

Hmm.

Indigo stuck his tongue in his cheek and mulled it over.

Theory one. The killings were personal and financial. Amrin was taking the opportunity to pretend to be dead, but had planned this out for months. Always with her notebook wasn’t she? She’d told him to toughen up for the competition. But when they weren’t in a challenge, what exactly had she been taking notes on? Why had her face appeared flushed, shortly after Blaine’s disappearance? She’d been the one standing closest to the door after all.

Theory two. The killings were financially motivated. If so, the killer was Adam or Beryl. Indigo knew right off the bat that Adam lived in a crappy part of the district, and it wasn’t as though dealers were rolling in cash. Beryl came from a rich family, but in Indigo’s experience, many of the rich were never satisfied with what they had. But then, why not mess with the will? Writing one’s name in the will would all but ensure the cash went to them.

Theory three. The killings were of a more personal nature. If so, the killer was probably Violet. Was it possible that Violet was unstable? Had she latched onto Whitney like a drowning man clutching at a broken reed and decided the only way to keep her friend was to murder anyone that could take her place? Was it as personal as Fiora seemed to think? Why hadn’t she freaked about her cat a single time since the murders started? Hadn’t she been lost with Whitney, found Blaine with Whitney? Hmm.

Personal. Knives were pretty personal, especially if the intended victim didn’t see it coming. True enough, the first killing had been Malcolm, not Blaine. And the killing blow suggested that he hadn’t been expecting it. No defensive wounds on his hands or arms.

Hmm.

Could it be?

Was he onto something, or were the dots connected incorrectly?

He hated those games. There was more than one image that could be formed by a connect the dot puzzle when the dots weren’t all numbered. It was a crazy thought, but he felt the need to voice it. Theory four, though he needed more time to decide who fit it best. That, and he needed to get everyone in the same room for at least five minutes so that he could compare Adrien's face to the rest of them.

"Yes, I want to believe we can get out of this, but Whitney, tell me something. Do you think—“Indigo paused, slackjawed that she’d just taken the words out of his mouth. It was rare that someone was on the same wavelength as him and for a minute he didn't know what to do.

“Y-yes,” he said after a moment, “That is one possibility, but if that theory is correct, I don’t think they snuck in, I think they would have been invited. One of our fellow—“

He was interrupted by a sudden thumping. Whitney went white as a sheet. With those wild-eyes, she may not have been processing his tsunami of words anyhow. Few people did.

“We should shout right?"

Indigo tilted his head to the side, and tried to pick out any words or voices. There were at least two, but there was a certain timbre he recognized from one. 

“Bartender, I don’t recall ordering a Harvey Wallbanger.” He deadpanned, laughing internally at his own joke. Truth was, he could really go for some vodka and orange juice. But he couldn’t remember if he’d seen any Galliano in the bar. But to answer her question, he didn't know. It was possible that the people on the other side couldn't hear them. It was also possible that the murderer could.

But if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he was close to cracking the case. And judging by Whiteny's trembling, she was close to cracking. 

"IN HERE! WE'RE IN HERE!"

[cluekiller]

tw: torture, murder

It’s time to play.

I enter the room slowly, my eyes trained on the two I tied up just a short time ago, looking on happily at the girl with chestnut hair and tears streaming down her face and the shivering boy with beads of sweat along his forehead, and a childish delight runs through me. This is my favorite part not including the chase, but these two were kind enough, or stupid enough, to bring themselves right to my feet. What was I supposed to do, not have a little bit of fun?

They’ve made it so damn easy. Mice in a maze of my own invention, toys for me to use until they are all broken and I have no need for them.

It pains me greatly to not be able to speak, but giving away who I truly am is not part of tonight’s plan; the power is all mine. But there's always that chance of something unexpected. Making them suffer, however, is a part of the plan. All of them. And to do so to the sweet symphony of their screams and whimpers will have to do. I run my glove encased finger along the shoulders of the boy, walking wide around him and around the table littered with implements of mass torture to better survey the scene; a nice, picturesque view of the scene—my scene, one I’ve laid out perfectly and of which I am in complete control.

Eeny, meeny…

I raise my right arm and extend a finger out toward the girl first, pointing for a moment as I tilt my masked face a bit to the side, a half-cocked grin invisible to her glittering away from view. She's so afraid. If only she could see the absolute pleasure taking over my features as I choose which one of them will go first. Trust me, it’ll be fun, I think quietly, trying not to let out any noises of glee, and it is perhaps the hardest thing I’ve ever done. At least for me.

Miney, mo…

Much to my dismay, but perhaps to the girl’s relief, this little song ends with my hand pointed in the direction of the boy and while neither of them can see it, I smile wide. The truth is I would have been happy with either of them, but something tells me killing her will be much more satisfying, especially if I make this one—and I quickly boop the boy on the nose—watch. But first, a little pain for him before I crush his spirit, too.

My gaze travels back down to the table, eyes glancing across every implement, the decision almost far too great a one for me to make alone. But then the boy begins to talk. You don’t have to do th—

SMACK!

Before he can even finish his plea, I lift the solid, wooden stick on the edge of the table up and grasp it tightly within my palm, rearing back as quick as I can before whipping it hard across his face. Not enough to knock him unconscious, I want him to watch what is to come, but with enough force that he knows its a warning. He cries out, blood now flowing from a split of my own design across his forehead.

I'll leave my mark on all of you in time, I think.

I decide to make it quick. Quick. Not painless. Still enjoyable.

First, I heft up a hammer and a nail, test the weight of them both in my hands as I make my way to the girl. I bet, I think as I near her, now is when you'd be sprinting in the other direction. Pity that I am so talented at tying knots.

I put the pointy end of the nail on the top of her hand and glance at the boy, whose eyes are squeezed shut. I grit my teeth, closing the distance to him in a matter of only a couple strides. I pry his eyes open and shake a finger at him.

You've paid good money for the show, I think, glancing at the blood trickling down his face, Don't go nodding off before I say to.

Finally, I make it back to the girl, picking the nail back up and returning to the same position as before. I count to three in my head and slam down on it hard.

Her screams confirm my handiwork.

I clap.

On the other edge of the table lies a large metal linked chain, at least three feet in length, and looks like it would wrap perfectly around a neck. I gather it up in one hand and point to the eyes of my mask, then point back at the boy. You’re right, I want to say back to him, I don’t have to do this.

But oh, how I want to.

In but a few quick footsteps, I place myself directly behind the whimpering girl and take a deep breath, staring beneath my mask directly into the eyes of the one I’ve chosen to spare. He should consider himself lucky; he gets to live, for now, with but a scar. But her- it’s her turn to die now. And he gets the privilege of watching before he follows her into the afterlife. I grab either end of the chain and lift it up and over the girl’s head, wrapping it loosely around her neck. Like I said, he should consider himself lucky. This is my masterpiece and he has a front row seat. He better be watching carefully.

I pull it taught with all my might, loosening it only when her last breath is exhaled and she moves no more.

I stand there unmoving, chest rising and falling in mockery because the girl's doesn't anymore. My eyes never leave the boy.

You're next, I think. I take a single step before I hear a noise at one of the doors. Someone fumbling with the lock. I scoff, disappearing within the very door I'd come in before the party-ruiner even knows I was there.

[charade]

When the door opened, Indigo’s brief feeling of relief was replaced with one of fear and frustration. There was still thumping sounds coming from the walls. But not the wall that the killer had just come through. And it was the killer of course, dressed all in black and with a mask covering their face. A coward, Indigo thought to himself. A coward without the decency to look someone in the eyes when they killed them.

Oh, right.

The murdering.

The meaning of the presence of the vulture in the abattoir caught up to his beleaguered brain as the killer paced around him like a cat, sliding a gloved hand across his shoulder. The closets. Why hadn’t he checked the closets? The clothing and the gloves he could understand, but who the hell had packed a mask in their luggage? How long had they been planning this?

Think, goddammit. Who was the most feline like of the interns? Coralie? Amrin? Fiora?

The sweat was rolling down his forehead now, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. They were playing a silent game of eenie-minie-mo with their fingers. Indigo took a deep breath. Who liked games? Who had spent the most time in the game room? Harvey? The finger stopped on him. Tapped him playfully on the nose. Who was playful? Beryl?

Indigo gulped. Well, at least Whitney might get a chance to relay my wishes to Adrien. But no, mustn't think like that. Stall, stall for time. Someone else is still trying to get into the room. Stall while the killer is figuring out how best to murder you. You might stall long enough to save Whitney.

“You don’t have to do th-“

Pain exploded in Indigo’s head, stars danced in his vision as he was unable to keep from crying out. There was a wetness on face, and Indigo knew the killer had drawn blood. So it was to be slow and painful. Who was the most patient? Amrin? Adam? What was that they were picking up? A hammer? Nail? Indigo struggled against his bonds. Was it to be the tap to the temple? He’d read that in a book once.

At least he wouldn’t feel it after the first strike. He closed his eyes.

Which were then pried open.

Indigo shuddered. And then his heart leapt up into his mouth when the killer stepped towards Whitney instead.

“No, wait—“

Whitney’s shriek of pain tore at Indigo’s ears, at his brain, at his heart. A chain was grabbed next and Indigo realized what was about to happen just as the killer stepped behind her.

“NO! WHITNEY! NOO! STOP!” He struggled frantically and fruitlessly against his bonds. “WHITNEY! WHITNEY LOOK AT ME! DON’T DO THIS—” he cried, the tears streaming down his face.

But they do it. And they pull and pull until the light leaves Whitney’s eyes. They pull until the artist has become a still life. The words he’d said only a few minutes ago came back to haunt him. No, no but I said she'd make it out of this. I promised. Indigo’s shoulders sagged, a sob hitched in his chest. This was it then.

The killer took a step towards him and then paused, and Indigo looked up balefully. He’d heard it too. A lock. They left the way they’d come, leaving Indigo to stare at Whitney’s unmoving form, the chain wrapped around her neck. They left Indigo weeping at his inability to do anything other than cry.

A different door opened, and Indigo sobbed. He’d never been so happy to see someone.  Someone else he could cross off his list of suspects. 

“V-violet? Is that you?”

[✨ zozo.]

The door swings open with a deafening creak and an echo of a sob.

I hold my breath, suddenly hesitant to dive back into the darkness. Half of the challenge had been finding a door that opened, but now I stare into the dark hollows of the house and can only think of Blaine's dead body. Rats squeaking around his shredded clothes, his beautiful face rotted and decaying, the single drop of blood we had found on the floor and the ever-present thought in my head: I'm going to die in there.

"H-?" I breathe in, as if to call out, but my fingertips catch at my lips and hold in the question. The sound of the secret door opening still rattles in my rib cage, unsettling and draining my anger. I was so desperate to get out the last time, to haul Whitney out of the basement and to safety, that now my chest fills with anxiety just looking back into the dark. 

I am scared. Breathless, tiny and fragile. No longer angry Violet pummeling the floor, no longer silly Violet running through the hallways with papers in her hands and Beryl in tow, no longer confident Violet strolling into Mr. Nox's office with three names on my tongue. I am alone, and I am fearful, and I want to live more than I want to be brave.

But someone cries out from the darkness and their voice grasps at my heartstrings, gently tugging me into the dark. "V-violet?" it asks as I shuffle forward subconsciously, the air warped with a musky smell and a gentle sob.

"Indigo?" I'd recognise his voice anywhere.

"Is that you?"

"Indigo!" I cry out as I plunge forward without a second thought. Silly, impulsive Violet who acts on a whim without thinking. So relieved I am to hear his voice, to not be alone, that I don't stop to think if it's a trap or ask who was crying. But I don't need to ask: as my eyes adjust to the darkness, aided only by the dimly lit light in the room I just crawled from, I find Indigo bruised, bleeding and imprisoned to a chair.

"Oh my-" and I trip over a gasp, "Indi, thank god. Oh Indigo - here, let me help you, oh my god," my hands find his face, his wounds, a rapid pulse at his neck. 

I scramble over to the chair and work at the knots around his wrists, wondering how many hours it had been since he'd first been bound up. "Coralie, she went mad, in the bathroom, us girls," I chatter in the dark, mind racing too fast for my words to keep up. "She attacked Poppy, and I think something happened to Amrin, oh my god, we've got to get out of here. I went looking, found a key, but the room, wrong room, but then, three times, I think, I opened, Indigo --  who did this to you? Here, let me help you-"

In my chaos I pull and tug at the ropes, freeing his worn wrists, and stand to catch his attention. Never have I seen him so broken, so worried, so frantic - just like me. "Come on, get up, let's go, we have to find Whitne-" and as I scoop my arm around his shoulder and heave his sobbing frame up my eyes catch the colour of white

and I scream, and scream, and scream.

Whitney, my Whitney, is dead.

"NO!" I cry, hot tears spilling down my face as I let go of Indigo and an axe slams into my chest over and over and over again.

"No, no, no, no, NO!"

I do not bleed, but she does. A chain sits wrapped around her lolling neck, eyes bloodshot and deathly still, skin red and white and blotchy in the dim light. No matter how loudly I scream she does not stir, and as I collapse to the floor and claw my fingers over her skin and beg her to wake up she just sits there, unmoving, with no sign of a pulse in her wrists.

"I can't," gasp, no air, no air, can't breathe, can't, Whitney - "n-no, it's a trick, Indi... please,"

I look to my friend, beg for an answer, but I can see on his face she's...

"NO!" a fist slamming on the floor like a child, "I just, we were just in the... the bathroom, she's not.. she's not dead! NOT HER! NOT HER YOU BASTARDS!"

I can feel the ghost of her touch in the dark, tight in my palm, wrapping herself around my terrified shoulders - "I'm so glad it's you," she had breathed into my neck. She saved me. She found me just in time. And I had failed her. I wasn't quick enough. Smart enough. Wasn't enough.

I couldn't save her. Now she is dead, and I will sit in the dark forever if it means I never forget how her hands, now cold and flaccid, held mine.

How she pulled her hand away,
and I let her,
and I will never forgive myself for it.

"Who did this?" I croak from the ground, craning my neck to look at Indigo. "Who killed her, Indi?"

[charade]

Of all the people he’d expected to see come through that door, Violet had been rather near the bottom of the list. He was worried for a moment about Adrien's well-being, but squashed it when he reminded himself that the killer had been in here with him, and not out there. Oh, Violet. He knew know he’d misjudged her severely and told himself that if he survived this, he would not immediately judge people by their perceived intelligence. There were other metrics to measure a person’s capabilities by.

The words spilled out of her, rehashing what Whitney (a sob there, as he thought of her) and he had discussed, and things they hadn’t, a rapid fire delivery of information. Keys and multiple rooms with hidden panels.

It was good to know, even though he could hardly focus on it with Whitney staring accusingly at him from across the little table. It wasn’t right, that an artist so vibrant should look so colorless. Violet untied him in short order, and he found that he barely had the strength to stand; his knees felt weak. Violet helped him up, offering a shoulder as he tried to stem the flow from his eyes. He shook his leg, getting the blood circulating as Violet finally noticed Whitney and began to wail, a high pitched babble of screams that seemed to rise in volume with each passing second.

Indigo sniffled as he rubbed at his wrists.

“No trick.” He responded, stifling a sob and taking a knee by her corpse. He swept a hand over her face and closed her unseeing eyes. “Who killed her, Indi?” Tears streaming down his face, he spoke. “I promised her Violet. I told her she’d make it out of this.” He said in anguish. “The killer— “he continued listlessly as he pushed his despondency away. “The coward wore a mask. Black gloves to leave no fingerprints. The clothing was shapeless.” He thought he might be able to match their height to someone, but he would need to get everyone in the same room first. And where exactly was Adam? He was the only one Indigo had lost track of before the bathroom incident.

“I—I don’t know who it was,” he said helplessly, wringing his hands. “I—I have suspects, but without more concrete evidence; I don’t—don’t want to cause a repeat of what happened in the bathroom.” Indigo sniffed and did his best to wipe off his face of the tears, blood and mucus. And there it was. Theory number one raising its hand again. He stood.

“Oh, Violet it was horrible,” he said, his hands shaking. "They played mind games with us. Like a cat toying with mice. They drove a nail into her before strangling her and they made me watch.” Indigo clenched his fists, his voice breaking on the last word as the sorrow and horror curdled in his chest. It was unreal. He had never felt so helpless in his life, watching a friend die—no, a friend be murdered not three feet away. And by someone whose body language said they enjoyed every moment of it. If he were as smart as he claimed to be, he could have stopped this. He hadn't done enough, and that was the truth of it.

Not one more. No more running around like headless chickens every time the lights cut out. This problem needed to be solved. “I need to go to the bathroom.” He stated, “I’ll—I’ll know which theory to follow after that.” He shuddered, his mouth crinkling into a frown as he stared at Whitney. “Do you know where any of the others are?”