killer's choice | {zeke/parker/killer}

[cluekiller]

I have accepted who I am now.

A killer, a monster, a psychotic maniac. I have my reasons, but that does not change my identity or how the world sees me. Nobody cares about my justification. Unfortunately for them, I stopped caring about what people think of me a long time ago. There is a vacant space where that conscience once resided. Dead space. I was supposed to replace it with positive outlooks and healthy coping mechanisms. Now I only feel restlessness and bloodlust. Waiting to play another game made my skin itch.

They think their rules will stop me. The buddy system, what a joke. I will prove to them how determined I am. A bull in a china shop, I'll break every last one of them.

I eagerly wait for the two to open their eyes. They will find themselves strapped to wooden chairs, hands and feet bound by chains, facing one another as Naomi and Cleo once did. A familiar rush of giddiness consumes me. It makes my heart feel light as a feather, yet it pounds like a drum in my ears. I have learned to crave this feeling over time. I know it won't last forever.

There is an end to this story, but it is not tonight.

"Your expressions never get old. So confused and scared," I mock, grabbing a tool from the table behind me. I turn to let them see it, gently tapping the head of the hammer against my gloved palm. I am weary of building contraptions, tying ropes, and lifting heavy objects. Tonight will be some good old fashioned brute force. Simple, yet effective.

"This is where Cleo died. She was hanging from a noose right over there." I point to the other side of the room. This time I scrubbed the floor clean, though the only blood to be found was Naomi's. I had sewn her lips shut to show the world that it wouldn't make a difference.

My eyes bounce between them, but they cannot see it behind my mask. To them, I stand completely still for a moment before I point to Zeke. "We're going to play a game, and you get to go first. Think hard about what you want," I say, pacing in front of them. "I'm going to break Parker's bones. Should I break her hand, or break her foot? Choose wisely. You have thirty seconds."

I fold my hands behind my back and stand in front of Zeke. "If you choose nothing, then I'll break one of yours. My choice."

[arx!!]

They've got a special name.  Dishes that are made with only the freshest of ingredients, plated with the most artful hands, cooked by a professional who wears a tall, pleated hat and shiny, black buttons—they're perfect dishes, food made into art, delicacies fit for gods.  But it's not what the customer ordered.  And so it sits in the window, growing colder and colder and colder until it's unrecognizable, lifeless, rotting, tossed away without ceremony- a 'dead plate.'

That's where his thoughts start.  After he blinks the haze of unconsciousness from his eyes, after he dazedly croaks—"Parker?"—at the blurry figure sitting across from him, after a voice produced by a box exclaims with gloved hands and theatrical hood that this was where Cleo- this is- Naomi was here, and Cassius, that's- they're all- it's all-

The sticky notes and polaroids taped to his wall suddenly felt very real. More real even than when the names belonged to a person instead of a corpse.

It's the fear of slowly growing cold, of achieving perfection only to sit pretty, of being thrown in the fucking trash and left for the insects and molds and decay—its claws raking deep and hot and fast over his pride that makes him thrash against the chains and scream. His muscles twisted themselves into knots, bones bowing as his breathing quickened- panic, he's panicking, useless, a dead fucking plate.

A game. "You can't make me, prick." His voice is loud, spit and sweat mixing on his upper lip as he continues to struggle against his bindings—a stubborn boy too stupid to see how blinding rage can be. What's a piece of fancy ceramic matter to a bull standing in line at the slaughterhouse?

"One."

The word was barely audible through his grit teeth.

"Two. Three. Four," he growls, muscles screeching for a moment of rest. "Five, six."

His vision was red as he began to count louder and louder until he was screaming with everything he had left.

Would someone hear?

Was anyone listening?

"Eleven, twelve!"

He'd lost sight of Parker behind the monster standing in front of him, lost sight of wanting anything but the feeling of his fists turning this piece of shit's skull into a bowl of bloody, brain pudding. His mind was on a raging auto-pilot, blinders up and adrenaline running the show.

He'd never wanted to kill someone before.

"Thirteen, fourteen- come on, hit me then!"

He hated that his voice broke. He hated that there were tears at the corners of his eyes when he looked into the shrouded gaze of the dark figure standing over him. He hated that he couldn't get out of the chains, that he was tired, that if this game kept going he'd have to ask Parker which she preferred—a hand or a foot?

"Choose!"

[Tom]

The body takes fifteen minutes to fully wake up.

In the state of grogginess she's in, there's a memory of Cleo. Two girls in the center of a field, edging closer to a flower, butterfly striking a soft fluttering of wings. A sereneness surrounding them, until the sky goes gray and the thunder echoes with a loud sound. A crescendo of rain as a storm echoes across the field, drenching the memory in a cold harsh reality. Parker's eyes widening at the scene before her. Zeke. Bindings. An unreachable camera. A single noose. Pyschopath.

Processing the scene before her, she can't hear anything for a moment. The grogginess of her memory fading from her head. Sneaking out to get away from the fashionista, Ally, it was only meant to be for a little bit. Enough to have a smoke and come back feeling less stressed out about Grady's pathetic ass coming back to school, still with no response. Bloody hands coated in Cleo's blood, eyes that echo through her chest as she could remember the way she stared at the ashes of what was supposedly Cleo Burns. The girl who had made Parker Gautier fight for the first time. The girl who broke her heart and sent Parker into a bitterness that she never quite recovered from.

Death follows her.

It was only a matter of time before Grady struck.

Too bad, he'll be too late.

Parker Gautier had already set a plan into motion. "Your expressions never get old. So confused and scared," Fear palpitates in her heart, fingers gripped tightly to the chains holding her down into the chair. No words escape her lips as the game has finally gotten too real for her. Typically, she's the one with all the control in the world. The person to be able to stand up tall and fake confidence in her mindset, but staring at a masked man, she can feel her heart in her throat, fingers gripped tightly to metal and pulling roughly on them to see if she can manage any freedom from them. "This is where Cleo died. She was hanging from a noose right over there."

The noose burns into her retinas; confusion ripping through her chest at the thought of what the killer must have done to Cleo. The brain dies without oxygen after six excruciating minutes. Did the killer laugh the entire time? Did Naomi cry the whole time? Did Cleo regret what happened to them? Parker wouldn't ever know. That's what makes everything worse as she pulls harder on the chains, making the metal clunk against the floor. A pattern of her anger and fear pulling hard at the wrists and ankles. The feeling of her own heart echoing through her chest.

"We're going to play a game, and you get to go first. Think hard about what you want," Grady Sullivan was the psychopath here. Standing before Zeke and her as if they didn't already know it was him beneath the mask. Playing games with them; a deadly game of cat and mouse. Parker might have been a rat, but Grady would always be a snake for thinking he could get away with this. "I'm going to break Parker's bones. Should I break her hand, or break her foot? Choose wisely. You have thirty seconds."

An eye for an eye.

A hand for a foot.

Thirty seconds wouldn't be enough. Parker had to lean into the trust of Zeke Provence. Her hands had always been apart of her work, steady and careful, able to make the most precise movements to get the right shot. Photography was all she had left in this world. Grady Sullivan had taken everything else. Zeke Provence could take the last piece of her. Her eyes follow the killer across the way to Zeke, staring at him while her heart suffocated her words. Fear bubbling with anger. A mixture of emotions that don't quite slot together right.

"Z-Zeke."

Choked words barely reaching the air before she can see him thrashing against the chains. Chained to the chair, she no longer fights them. There's no escape here. Nothing can come across her mind as she's frozen for a moment. "You can't make me, prick." Zeke Provence is full of fire. Anger that burns against metal, the kind that she's seen come from pans and pots too hot left on the stove. Zeke Provence must have been used to that fire, but she's never been. The sereneness of taking photos and avoiding standing out was where she fit in the best, but she can barely move.

"One."

The countdown begins as she's stuck. Mind jumbled up in the grogginess that's quickly faded into fear, but she closes her eyes, pretends she's not in the den of a monster. It was only Grady Sullivan behind the mask. She's faced him since she was a freshman. Parker could do this. If not for herself, for Cleo Burns' memory. The countdown reaches a certain point and she can barely hear her own thoughts, staring into the eyes of the mask, focusing back to Zeke. Out of everyone, the killer picked them. Were they getting to close to the mark? Had they already figured it out? Red string and polaroids on a tack board, the killer had to have been watching them.

"Choose!"

Gritting her teeth, she can feel the word fly from her lips faster than before.

"Foot!"

Psychopath.

Isn't it what the school already thought of her?

A glare comes forward from her eyes, motioned towards the masked man. If the masked man truly was Grady Sullivan, she'd break him the only way she knew how. Fingers gripping the chains tightly and the arm of the chair, knowing her life may depend on it. Feet planted to the ground as she stares in the direction of the killer. Information would come with pain. If she was going to die here, she was going to die knowing who the killer was. Whether she had to break the chains bounding her to the chair herself or not, she would find out who killed Cleo Burns and make them regret it.

"You won't get away with this, Grady."

Psychopath is what they called her.

Her eyes follow the killer steadily, wanting to see if there's any reaction.

"Your little game is psychotic."

They called her a psychopath.

Maybe she was one.

"C'mon, Grady, just do it already."

Aiming in the direction of the killer, she spits.

Parker Gautier had decided one thing, right here and now.

She wasn't going to go down.

Not without a fight.

[cluekiller]

I enjoy the thrill of the unexpected.

Naomi fed me with helpless tears. Cleo bargained. Now Zeke sits before me, an unbottled tempest of rage. He wrestles against his chains and screams to take back control. He does have some semblance of a choice. His decision to refuse is part of the game. I have them chained up like animals, it is only natural for one of them to snap at me with bared teeth.

He counts aloud and I count silently in my head. Parker attempts to steal his decision, and I hiss over my shoulder, "It's not your turn."

When I reach thirty, I raise my hammer to shoulder level. Parker continues to speak out of turn, and it is music to my ears. I pivot to face her only for a moment, "You think you know everything, do you?"

I pause.

I tilt my head.

I turn around and smash the bones in Zeke's right hand with one swift motion. There is a crunch that reminds me of my own teeth grinding in the middle of the night, how it scratches the insides of my skull. For good measure, I swing the hammer down a second time on the same hand. There needs to be pain, and it needs to last. Every time he looks at his cast, he will remember me.

He will remember this decision.

"I may have forgotten to mention one of the caveats," I say, turning to face Parker. Staring down at the floor, I remember removing their shoes for good measure. No need to break a sweat if I can avoid it.

"Foot, you said? I can arrange that."

I chose for Zeke, and now the opposite will happen to her. Kneeling, I channel the force through my body and bring the hammer down like it is the world's pendulum. It feels lighter than it should in this position, and crashes against the metatarsals of her foot. She won't be needing those, right?

There is a wonderful advantage to this already, and I realize it as I rise to standing position. There is no blood to clean up. Only transparent teardrops and screams that will fall to nobody's ears but mine and theirs.

"Your turn, Parker. Should I break Zeke's other hand, or his foot? Choose wisely."

[arx!!]

His mouth was sweating, vision blurred and dark at the edges, ears ringing, and teeth stained red. He'd bit his tongue trying not to scream, saliva and blood dripping slowly into his lap as his head hung heavy and the world shifted beneath him.  But that was only for a few moments.

Pain made him whimper and groan.  His ears were still ringing—or maybe Parker was screaming?—but his lips moved anyway, his throat straining to capture the right notes as the words burned on vocal cords his screams had shredded to pieces when the hammer had come down a second time.

He swallowed hard when he lifted his head, gaze drifting to his hand.  More than one of his fingers had curled and twisted at sharp angles under others, knuckles misaligned or bashed so flat they looked like they'd disappeared.  He tried wiggling his fingers; only his thumb twitched.  He blinked his tears away and bit his lip to keep it from quivering as another soft whimper escaped when he went to take a breath.

"Luh-" he croaks. "Llllll," -fucking hell, why won't his mouth work? "Leave 'er-" and his lungs won't hold more than a few words worth of air? "Alone."

He grumbles angrily through grit teeth, swallowing nausea along with the lump in his throat as their murderer kneels in his frame of vision for just a moment longer before the same choice is offered to Parker. 

"S'okay," he breathes, eyes locked on her as he nods slowly.  It's a sort of silent plea.  That it didn't matter which she picked as long as she did choose.

And they say chivalry is dead.

"I got this, mm-mi-ne," he grins, laughs, grimaces, makes his thumb twitch a fraction of an inch. "Ain't shit. See? Th-thumb still works, heh-" he moves his thumb around in wider circles when he tilts his head toward the masked figured. "Fuckin' mi-missed one, piece of shit."

Fear is easy enough to hear in his words, to see in the teardrops staining his cheeks and the sweat making his clothes stick to his back, his chest, his shoulders—adrenaline, delirium, and shock sure make a brave boy out of a coward.

"Y'know it'll- be me, yeah?"

He rattles the chains at his feet, gaze fixed on a gloved hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of a hammer. "I won't forget," he kicks and pulls at his binds again just to prove he still can.

"It'll be me who fucking kills you!"

[Tom]

Parker Gautier wasn't superhuman.

Despite what she wanted everyone to believe, she was still just as human as the rest of the populace. On the outside, she wanted them all to see her as she wanted to be; put together, organized, knows how to deal with every situation. Parker's never felt as lost as she does right now, standing before someone who truly was the psychopath here, despite what Grady Sullivan may believe. The hammer in their hand shadowed by the darkness of this torture chamber, a reminder of what is to come. The killer's voice isn't normal. A mangled sound that doesn't quite fit with any of the students. Sounds that'll surely whisper to her in nightmares if Zeke and her make it out alive.

"It's not your turn."

She's staring a Zeke, eyes widening for a moment. They're getting under the killer's skin. It's a weapon in their arsenal. A weapon she never considered, but then, she can see the hammer at shoulder level, ready to leave a broken mess below. A face stares at her, hollow eyes hiding a mystery beneath it all. The lack of silence disappearing as she stares back, heart hammering in her chest, fingers desperately trying at the chains around her wrist once more. Rubbing the skin raw there, feeling her heart stay in her throat. A single phrase of words crashing over her like a premonition.

"You think you know everything, do you?"

The psychopath's head tilts.

Her worlds tilts with it, until a crash of broken bones echoes through her ears. A cracking sound of broken bones that'll no longer create the dishes she could remember from times spent with Zeke. Eyes glancing to him and back to the psycho, the sound of crunching continues as the hammer comes down once more. Her voice tries to escape her throat, but the only thing that comes up is silence- pure fucking silence. Parker's supposed to have this all figured out. A motive, multiple deaths, and a solution to this problem, but she's lost. She's lost in her own head, given a moment to let herself get lost in those words of a psychopath before she can see Zeke finally. Fingers mangled, setting her heart into an ache of worry.

Pathetic.

It's what Cleo would have said.

Pathetic because Parker actually cared.

"I may have forgotten to mention one of the caveats,"

Hollow eyes centered on her cold feet, fear growing in her chest, but Parker's stronger than that. Hidden fear swallowed into the depths of her stomach as she stares back at the psychopath, knowing there's no use in accepting anything. They were the psychopath's play things this time. Toys to be broken and lost. A bitter feeling rising through her chest as she watches the psycho.

"Foot, you said? I can arrange that."

Fire. Her foot is on fire with a white hot pain. A scream echoes past her lips, but she doesn't care if the killer hears her scream. Parker Gautier wasn't going to be afraid. The psychopath picked the wrong fucker to kidnap. The sound of bones crunching with the pain that blossoms almost immediately as she squeezes the bindings around her wrists, letting the scream subside, staring into the hollow eyes of the mask. The killer goes to rise once more, but Parker's had it. The pain still burns white hot, but she's had enough of this psychopath with god complexes.

"Luh-" Zeke croaks through the pain. "Llllll," Part of her knows, she wouldn't be able to speak for a moment. The pain still grimacing across her features, white hot and filled with a pain she's never experienced before. "Leave 'er-" Her eyes follow him, raising with the realization that Zeke Provence is trying to protect her. "Alone." At this point, Zeke looks worse than her. Two hits compared to her one, but she stares at him and the killer who rises, hollow eyes still looking to her. The option thrown her way already. Her fingers turning white from the grip she has to the arms of the chair, eyes boring holes into the killer's mask.

"Your turn, Parker. Should I break Zeke's other hand, or his foot? Choose wisely."

Their eyes meet; a burning determination brewing behind them. A plea for her to do the one thing she's told, her fingers tightening around the bindings as she desperately yanks once more, feeling the air grow heavy once more. The pain still searing itself in her own foot and Zeke's mangled fingers. "S'okay," None of it was okay. Zeke continues with that determination, burning with both fear and anger. A thumb still working and antagonizing the killer despite all of the pain that must be flowing through his body.

"Y'know it'll- be me, yeah?" Chains rattling with every movement of Zeke Provence. A realization setting in through her at the surprise she feels. Masking it behind a scowl towards the killer, she can see Zeke's fear, but the anger that echoes behind his façade. "I won't forget," She's always been wrong about him. In school, she always thought he couldn't harm a fly. Figured Zeke Provence was like his sister, snarky and having a complex the size of all of Panem. Except, she's watching him rebel in a way she should have been doing.

Pathetic.

It's what Grady would think.

She thinks it's brave.

"It'll be me who fucking kills you!"

Zeke Provence was psychotic. Her fingers gripping tighter once more, staring into the hollow eyes of the mask. The sound of the killer's voice filling her head. Parker Gautier is afraid. She's afraid of them. Strapped to a chair, staring into the mask of the person who killed her ex-best friend. You think you know everything, do you? Parker Gautier wasn't superhuman. She's never known everything in life, but she tries to fake it. Confidence is all she's ever needed and it's gotten her this far through life. If there's one thing she knows better than anyone else, it's not fitting in to the same confines as others.

Parker Gautier was a rebel.

A psychopath as other students would say.

"Fuck you!"

Leaning forward, as close to the killer as she can get, she spits in their face. Eyes burning holes where she can, fingers tightening around the binding and the burning sensation of metal against her ankles and the top of her foot. Broken bones that'll take time to heal, but the killer wouldn't allow that. No, they were either to die here or be a message for the rest of them. Cleo had been the first message. A warning that someone was still lurking beneath the shadows, ready to take students out. Parker spits once more, staring as if the person behind the mask is beneath her. In a way, they were.

Anyone who takes a life for the fun of it was beneath her.

They weren't human anymore.

"Fuck you and your stupid fucking games, Stella."

A reaction is all she wanted.

A glare and a laugh fit for a psychopath dripping from her lips. Grady Sullivan believed she was a rat. A creature that's always considered a pest, lurking in the farthest corners until they're trapped by a mousetrap. The killer's got her cornered. Pain blossoming from her foot, but she doesn't give a shit. Cleo is dead. Cassius is dead. Zeke is in pain. If she's going to die, she's going to out the way her mother and father raised her.

Fighting until the last breath.

"You want to play this game, Elaina? You really think I'm just going to play along with you?"

Psychotic.

Parker was psychotic.

"Tell me, Benji. What do you want with us?"

Her own eyes reach Zeke's before she shakes her head. A frown on her lips as she grips the arms of the chair tighter, fingers going white once more. If only she had a camera, she could study the masked figure more, read what she didn't have time to take in. Zeke Provence didn't need to fight her battles. Parker Gautier was capable of fighting her own. Parker stood up to Stella Provence. Parker blackmailed Grady. Hell, she's even been a friend to Cleo Burns, despite all of the animosity over the last few years.

"Fuck you and this game, Clara."

Pulling on the chains once more, eyes on fire.

Parker Gautier didn't need anyone to fight her battles.

The choice is obvious.

"I choose neither."

The only way to play the game is to break the rules of said game.

"Go fuck yourself, Maverick."

[cluekiller]

There are different categories of pain. Physical creates sound, screams that wrap around insulated grey walls. They are in a void I created, and nobody in the outside world can hear them. That takes calculated scheming. How else would I be getting away with so much bullshit? I fear I may be creating more psychos with my little games, but mental pain and emotional pain are two other categories I must consider.

They deserve every color of the pain spectrum. I cannot say they are only canvases to me, because there is more to this than they can possibly imagine. The more they scream at me, the more I realize how clueless and selfish they are.

I ignore Zeke's display of bravery. I don't care how sturdy any of them are. Pain is pain, and by the end of the evening, they will both be as useless as Naomi.

He says he will not forget. "Good." Every night I wait for a knock at my door, expecting one of them to connect the pieces and put a bullet through my puzzle. Will it be Zeke in my future?

Not if I break both of his hands.

"I'll be waiting for you then."

Promise?

I turn back to Parker and her halfway broken foot. Admittedly, I did not channel as much force into my swing compared to Zeke. How unfair of me. I play by my own rules, however, and sometimes that involves lying, tricking, and hypocrisy.

She spits in my face. Fake venom drips at the end of my mask, and I don't move. I wonder how much of a show this is versus true desperation. They have no idea if they will leave this room alive. They play their cards without knowing my hand, and it tells me a lot about their true character. It means nothing in the end if there is no self-reflection.

Stella. Elaina. Benji. Clara. Maverick.

Parker. Zeke.

Scum.

"I didn't know we were playing a game of Guess Who," I say, failing to stifle a laugh, "In that case, let me try. Does your person deserve to die?"

Without warning, I strike the hammer against her knuckles. Twice again to mirror Zeke's mangled fingers.

I once cringed at the idea of hurting someone.

Bones breaking and blood spilling is strange to grow familiar with. There is a small part of my mind that still recoils when I create such violence. It is not who I was, nor what I planned to be until pain rotted my brain from the inside out. If I used my words, this could all end so quickly.

I am the judge, the jury, and executioner. The punishment was decided long ago, and I am far too deep into the game to change my own mind. I will not go back on my promises. What is decided will become law.

"Sorry, that was a trick question." I scoff at her pain. There will be more bravado to come, I'm sure.

When I turn to Zeke again, I run my gloved fingers across the hammer's edge. "Back to my game!"

It comes crashing down against his foot.

[arx!!]

It was as if that gloved hand had found the thread of life that'd been spun just for him and yanked until it'd snapped and frayed at the base of his skull.  He wanted to scream—the pain was excruciating, the muscles in his legs and feet were cramping, and his heart was so full of panic he knew it would tear itself apart soon if he didn't find some semblance of calm—but all he could do was choke on air.

It was one thing to watch as a big, scary monster gnawed and gnashed with sharp, jagged teeth upon a string so fragile.  But it was another to stare into eye's of glass and watch as your own dark reflection tethered that fragile, life-thread to a killer's before turning silently away and smashing the bones in Parker's hand.

She sure was a hell of a lot stronger than he was.

Powerlessness.  He was so fucking tired.  He was so fucking sorry—why, for what?  Was it because even now- even right. fucking. now. -as Parker poked and prodded a beast, wielding familiar names as weapons- Zeke still couldn't imagine someone he knew hidden behind the mask.  Why couldn't he just accept what was right in front of him?

"Stop, stop- hey!" He felt small.  He sounded small. "Just- please-" He swallows a lump that had formed in his throat. "There's mm-more to this- game -of yours, y-yeah?  Spit it out then."

It was despair that pulled the words out of him.  They'd let Cleo go once, and Naomi was- alive, so, the chances of getting out of here existed, surely- right? Right? Right? Right?

A gloved hand performs a tap dance across the head of the hammer as fear sends him into a terrified scramble against his chains.

"Nonononono, wait-wait!"

But the hammer comes down on his foot all the same, bones snapping and splintering into nearby blood vessels as his screams only managed to echo around the room they were in.  He cursed, dominant hand instinctively reaching for what he was certain must be a railroad spike sticking from his foot. He made a strangled, gargling noise when the bones in his hand jolted and fell into different positions. He fought through the momentary blindness.

He fell back in the chair, but kept his nostrils flared and jaw clenched despite the way his face twisted in agony each time his body involuntarily shivered. 

"Come onnnn," it's supposed to be laughter, but it's more of a whimper through his teeth. "Plea-" And he's thankful the word is lost in the pain. He huffs, glancing at Parker again and forcing himself to sit up just a little bit taller.

"Just- what'sit this time?  I'm li-listening," At least until my brain decides the pain is too much to handle. "Promise."

He wanted nothing more than to tuck away the fingers on his left hand and offer a pinky, but he didn't have the strength.

And he was scared.

He was so fucking scared.

"Let us go. Y-you want to, don't you?"

Games couldn't be much fun without any players... yeah?

[Tom]

"I didn't know we were playing a game of Guess Who," The words ooze out of the mask, with an amusement tone to set her head on fire, the blinding pain in her foot catching up to her. "In that case, let me try. Does your person deserve to die?" Die. Die. She wants whoever's behind the mask to die. The realization hits her with the blinding white pain of her foot as she stares wide eyed into the masked face, until there's a frozen fraction of time. Parker's eyes watching the mask and the hammer, focused on the words die and deserve; as if she had a choice in who deserved to live or die. Not even a killer had that choice, but she could hear it. The power over them this person held; from stifled laughter and amusement in their voice. All of it was always going to be a game for them.

Parker is what she always was to everyone.

Just another pawn to be toyed with.

Everything starts and ends with a bang. The silence never stays silent for long. A crescendo of her scream echoes as the hammer breaks bones, cracking and popping of what was her right hand filling the air as her scream escapes her lips and slight tears she can't keep under control fall. Powerless to this masked man's plans. Vision fading into twisted sense of what is consciousness and unconsciousness. She's certain if she looks at the damage done, she'll feint from the sight of it. Blood and mangled features have never bothered her before, but the difference between seeing a dead person mangled up to yourself is a different image entirely.

"S-S-Shit!"

Blinding white pain shooting up through her arm, to her heart and all the way to her head. A broken sob escaping her throat as her scream dies down. Her head lolls forward; pain making her eyes shut close and she can't move her fingers, even when she tries to now. Pain shoots up at every try, mangled and swelling up already. Photography was her life. Holding a camera was her dream, but here she was with a broken hand and a broken foot. Fingers with no function. No way out of the killer's dungeon. They were trapped. A game of blood and bone and psychopaths to fill the space. Small painful tears escaping her eyelids, despite her trying to be strong. Despite all of the effort she's using to try and stifle herself and seem strong.

Parker Gautier has never been strong.

She's only been tough.

While girls cried, she swallowed those emotions. Holding on to what she knows and staying steady with her beliefs and words, but in the silence of her own room, where the world couldn't watch. That's when Parker would break. Over and over again. Tears spilt because she wasn't good enough. She wasn't popular enough. She didn't fit in. She would always be a rat, a psycho, and beneath everyone else. The killer's words breaks her trance, fingers mangled and the blinding pain still ever present. The will to fight already feeling broken, but she's tougher than she looks.

Parker's lost enough already.

If her life is already meaningless to everyone else anyways, why not give them something that'd bring meaning?

"Sorry, that was a trick question."

Her consciousness was fading. There's a blinding pain in her hand and foot that's desperately trying to make her forget about them. A body's response to trauma, fingers mangled, foot swollen, her body was trying to save her. Parker already knew there was no saving herself. Zeke Provence could be saved, but who cared about Parker Gautier? She's only a smoking buddy for Maverick. Presley only pities her. Benji would hate her for what she's got planned for Grady. Ally is just her roommate for now. Stella and Grady were too popular to care. Zeke wanted to live. Elaina was too much of a lackey. Clara had already suffered enough. Naomi would move on.

Her family would mourn, but they would be fine.

Isn't it funny?

A girl who was never apart of anything wanted to snapshot everyone else's friendships, but she had none of her own. Polaroids of strangers who look at her with respect, but also only want what's on the surface level. It's a lonely world she lives in, but it's always been her own. Zeke's speaking somewhere in front of her, but she can't focus on what's happening. The room is spinning and she's feeling sick again. School had no meaning to her other than a means to find a place in the world afterwards. Friends aren't something she had much of. As she sits in the chair, chained up staring across the way at Zeke saying something and hearing the crack of a hammer crashing down into his foot.

Zeke could have been her friend.

Zeke could still be her friend.

"Come onnnn," It's hard to hear him with the blood rushing in her ears, her focus of the hammer in the killer's hands distracting her. "Plea-" The killer is breaking them. Metaphorically and literately, they are being broken with hit after hit. Broken bones and broken anger mixing into a pot of frustration. She's always been quick to anger, always toying with people, and seeing how far she could push people. Hit all of the right buttons to see what she could get away with, but when it came to this killer. The buttons pushed only added to their fun. The amusement of the painful game seemed to continue the whole game.

It's sickening.

It's frustrating.

It's annoying.

"Just- what'sit this time? I'm li-listening," Listening. They were supposed to be listening to them, but Parker's always hated rules. From her time being friends with Cleo to enemies, rules never fit Parker. Every rule was always against her. Cleo would win games, but Parker had to break the rules, bend them without being caught to even stand a chance. "Promise." Her vision is spinning, but she's pulling still at the bindings holding her down. The sound of metal creaking next to her as she pulls and pulls to no avail. Pain blossoming with blinding hot white pain that never quite leaves her vision. Black dots spurring at the corners of her eyes as she can hear Zeke.

Fear.

She can hear it in his words.

"Let us go. Y-you want to, don't you?"

Parker couldn't give up on him. The feeling of fainting was still spurring around her vision, but she ignores the feeling and refocuses herself. Jaw taut with the pain of her hand, mangled and surely broken in multiple places. Parker lifts herself up, staring ahead to catch Zeke's eyes once more. Her eyes trying to send over a message of reassurance, but she can't tell if her body is reacting to her. Parker's always had control, but right now, she was losing control. Everything was falling out of place. If Grady is beneath the mask, he'd surely be happy about this. The determination she once had was fading fast, but looking at Zeke, she knew she had to do something.

Parker Gautier had to get them out.

"S'okay, Z-Zeke."

Her eyes focusing on the hammer and back to Zeke. There's a feeling of pain that'll never quite leave. There's fear in her heart as she can remember Naomi escaping the last time the killer kidnapped two people. Eyes following the hammer and then looking around the room for any other hints. The noose hanging limply. Memories of a friend who used to ask about the photos she's taken. Photos shared like collectibles; always something new and different. The memory of showing her own mother the first photo she got of a butterfly with her new camera. Wings slowed down to see the beauty of it finally, a clear picture with a clear focus.

Nothing was clear here.

Zeke and Parker only had one thing in common.

They've been hunting down the killer.

Either they've gotten too close or the killer wants them off their trail.

Ashes. That's what was left of Cleo. Guess Who. Games. There hadn't been a body, but ashes left behind. Cass' body hadn't been found. A sick feeling falls through her chest. Her mind racing at hundreds of miles per an hour as she stares at the noose. The room continued to spin, but Parker's face stays neutral with only pain present. They've never found anyone's body, despite being at Cleo's funeral. There hadn't been a body. Only ashes of a supposed person, but isn't it weird. Wouldn't Cleo want to be worshipped as the one on top?

It's a sick feeling that falls in her chest as she stares at the killer, wondering if it's possible for Cass or Cleo to be behind the mask.

"Cleo will let one of us go."

A painful laughter comes from her chest as she stares at Zeke with reassuring eyes.

"Someone has to send a message to the others."

No one would listen to her.

She's nothing more than a rat to the rest of the school.

Just another girl who was only good for one thing.

Capturing their moments for the future.

"No one will listen to me."

A painful laugh echoes from her chest as she pulls painfully once more at her chains, ignoring her own sinking feeling. her eyes following the hammer as she can feel the fear bubble up in her chest. If one of them was going to die, Parker couldn't spread the message like Zeke Provence could. A warning to the others, just like Cleo was meant to be. A sickening feeling builds in her chest, but she stares with dead eyes to the hammer and back to Zeke.

Parker Gautier had always been tough. Fighting against the world's societal values when they didn't make sense. Standing up to assholes and smoking away the anxieties she's felt for years. Always showing sides of people who couldn't find them. A photo tells a lot about a person, but Parker Gautier wasn't able to capture herself. No one knew what her heart was like. No one knew that everyone's words tear at her heart or the frustration she felt towards immature games of popularity and the folly of teenagers. Parker was tough, but she's always been human. Broken pieces of a girl who's been shoved down one too many times. Staring death in the face, she knew there was no hope for her.

She could make her death worth it.

Wouldn't it be great to finally be recognized for something of value?

"Why'd you take us, Cass? What'd we ever do to you?"

Tough.

Parker needed to be tough.

"J-Just tell us what we did."

Parker's lost enough.

The game wasn't over for her.

The rules of the game just have changed once again.

[cluekiller]

They scatter pleas among their screams. Tears decorate their pathetic faces, and it is a moment worthy of a photo. They want me to release them back into the world like the little rats they are, and claim to know my desires. The moment I captured them was the moment I decided how tonight would end. They are in my hands, at my mercy. Words change nothing. They rarely do.

Zeke waits for his turn like a good sport, but I wonder what Parker expects from me. Am I supposed to flinch when I hear one of the names? She calls me Cleo, and the memories flood. The blonde princess hangs from her noose like a ragdoll, swaying gently from the force of her own struggling. Her pretty face turned pale and grey from the lack of oxygen. When I cut her down, she was dead weight. A useless trinket. Naomi was forced to watch because its what she knew how to do.

The name 'Cass' brings me back. Sentencing him upon his bloody throne felt like a distant memory, but it was not long ago. I felt sloppy back then. I was taxed easily from dragging his body and meticulously re-tying his bounds over and over again. I was paranoid he would escape and ruin everything. The time we spent together was brief, messy. It was the two of us and my rusty tools.

"You want to know why you're here?" I ask, as if knowledge will grant them leverage. It won't.

I lean to catch her at eye-level. "Because you deserve it."

The hammer is my gavel, and it turns to face Zeke once more. I smile at his perseverance. "Looks like Parker has a hand and a foot left. Which one should I break next?" I exude exaggerated delight to mock them. The game isn't over yet, and they have both failed to play along so far. "Does she get to walk, or does she get to feed herself? You may not want to leave that decision up to me."

[arx!!]

He can hear the smile behind the mask, the joy in their voice crackling like an old record beneath a needle.  He shakes his head, throat swelling closed as he tries to squirm away from demons come to life.  At least, that's what it felt like as they leaned in close and asked him to play their absolutely, fucking psychotic as shit game again.  But all Zeke wants is to go home.

He wants to say all the things he said before.  He wants to be brave and strong and not so fucking scared that he's whimpering like a puppy that'd been kicked too many times.  He wishes he could force words to his lips that were as loud and angry as before, wishes he could grin alongside a fucking killer instead of struggling to keep his head above water in the pool of hopelessness that this absolute cunt had been filling since before he and Parker were stuck in these damn chairs.

Deserve it, deserve it, deserve it.

The words are ringing in his ears, the rallying cry of crows gathering to watch as he was murdered.  Ha. Maybe Ally had been right after all.  Maybe this was just all about Scarlet Hyde and that dumb prank from last year. Or something else completely.  Seriously, how important could that bitch be anyway? She'd fucked with his family and he'd hung up a picture.  So, what?

Not like she hadn't deserved it.

Fucking shit, did he really want to take a grudge he held against a dead girl to his own fucking grave?  Was it worth it? What the hell was wrong with him?

"Ffff-" he shudders as he takes an unsteady breath. "Ff-fuuhh-" he twists in agony, cries out as he curls in on himself.  Small.  So small.

He's trying to say, 'fuck you.'  But there's a rot creeping slowly up his limbs, bones cracked open and seeping something sinister into his veins.  He was cold, shivering—drowning—just like at the lake the day he'd asked Parker for a camera.  Only this time there was no shore, no safety, nowhere to swim except- her.

He needs air, he needs to breathe, his lungs are going to burst, he doesn't want to die, he doesn't want to die-he'ssdyinghe's-goingtofuckingdie, pleasefuck no, nonono-

He doesn't look at her when he pulls her under.  He can't.  Coward.

"Foot."

But when he finally takes the breath he'd been scrambling for he finds only poison in the air. It burns his lungs, stings in his eyes, and latches onto his heart with claws dug in deep.  It's guilt that he is gasping on, surviving on.  It was guilt that was pumping through his system, leaking from his bones, rotting him from the inside out.

He leans hard into his shackles, letting them carve deeper, darker bruises into his skin. He shakes his head slowly, lips moving but making no sound.  And then he starts to cry, head hung low and a thousand hollow apologies whispered in Parker's direction falling from his lips.

Maybe he did deserve this.

[Tom]

"You want to know why you're here?" Yes. Parker Gautier wanted to know. Loss of control sending her spiraling down through the hopelessness of nothing left for her. She wanted answers. She wanted clues. She wanted to uncover the mask and ask them why. The control over them wasn't what she wanted. Parker had only wanted to be in control, to be able to breathe, and to be able to put a face to Cleo's death. Ashes to ashes. They all fall down. Middle schoolers playing silly playground games with laughter upon their lips and camera flashes of a butterfly. A single flap of a wing can create a tornado, sweeping them all away in this death game. A game which Parker refused to lose; bending the rules was the only way. An eye for an eye; staring through the mask for too long. Fading consciousnesses and bloodied fingers; they stare as predator and prey. The words sending a chill down her spine as she stares open eyed and afraid, but playing tough. The only way she knew how to be when panic sets in.

"Because you deserve it."

Parker deserved it.

The pain.

The game.

The loss.

Death.

She deserved it. All of the mangled fingers and anger filled taunts she's thrown their way. A psychopath. A killer. The biggest asshole in all of Six. None of them deserved death or pain, but isn't that what she had done to Scarlet. Pulled a prank to destroy her reputation in order to take another person at the top down. Isn't it what she's been planning to do to Grady and Benji? Isn't it what she wanted to do to Stella? Tear down the social hierarchy of Salvatore Boarding School. Leave nothing but the ashes of what once was in the dirt until everyone looked at her the same way they looked at everyone else.

Does that make her any different from this psychopath?

No.

"Looks like Parker has a hand and a foot left. Which one should I break next?"

Her eyes track the hammer, not even daring to speak anymore. Thoughts fumbling together in a mixture of her own deductions of the masked individual. Who's behind the mask? Cleo. Clara. Ally. Cass. Elaina. Naomi. Maverick. Stella. Benji. Grady. Presley. If they deserved this, was it because of the Scarlet Hyde prank and if so, did that make it one of them for certain. Her eyes follow the hammer until they don't. Mangled fingers testing their strength as white blinding pain fills her vision, until she can see Zeke avoiding her gaze.

"Does she get to walk, or does she get to feed herself? You may not want to leave that decision up to me."

In his eyes, she can see the drowning. The lack of oxygen to his lungs. The feeling of water blocking all the sounds. She can see the panic in his eyes, but Parker knew he would always make a choice in the end. Zeke Provence isn't always easy to read, but he cares for others in ways other students don't. His hands were meant to feed; build extravagant dishes with skill and precise measurements. A prodigy in culinary arts, but here he was, panicking over deciding if she could take photos or escape the dungeon they're stuck in later.

A broken hand meant she'd have nothing left to her name.

A broken foot meant she was going to be weakened in the killer's presence.

Unable to escape when opportunity struck.

"Foot."

For a moment, she stares at him, open mouthed and full of fear. Tears falling from his eyes, brokenness in his voice. Parker's seen her brother cry too much. Tears mixing with loud sobs until her ears feel like they're burning with guilt or the need to stop them. Softly, she can hear him whispering apologies to her. Words meant to reassure her, but Parker's lost in this moment. Fingers broken, foot already swelling around the bindings, she can feel her heart beating in her chest. Eyes glancing from Zeke to the hammer before she gives a weak smile to him.

Broken girls don't get to be tough girls.

Broken bones would heal.

Their minds wouldn't.

"S'okay, Zeke."

Eyes staring back up to the hammer before she continues.

"Pain is temporary. Fear is temporary."

Pulling on her bindings loudly, yanking as hard as possible feeling her vision going black with pain, but she tries over and over again. The sound of metal clanging against the ground as it swishes with her pulling. Parker Gautier was a tough girl. She's always been tough for her family. She's built walls where her heart is, but in the end, all of these emotions were temporary. Death is permanent and she wasn't going to let this fucker break her. She wasn't going to be apart of this game. She was going to bend the rules in the only way she knew how.

No one can say they deserve this.

Not even Scarlet Hyde could.

"We don't deserve any of this. This fucker is a dumbass."

She glares to the mask, smiling in a delusional pain.

White hot flashes running through her foot and hand before she continues.

"What's wrong? Getting too close to the truth? Upset about Scarlet Hyde?"

Parker Gautier never wanted to be like Stella Provence or Clara Burns, but she could feel the anger of the last year flashing back into her mind. The way she hadn't hesitated to make the banner and watch the explosion go. High school was the time where everyone was dumb. Mistakes were meant to be made, but this killer, this psychopath said they deserved the pain they got. The only thing Parker knew she had done within the time the killer has appear is ruin Scarlet Hyde's reputation and joining Zeke's killer hunt. A flash of blood on her fingers that had smeared up her arms catches her eyes before she keeps yanking, pulling herself as forward as possible to the killer.

"You're going to lose, Scarlet. Your game is going to end in tragedy."

Psychopath.

Grady wasn't wrong.

Parker's always been a psychopath.

"But you already know that, don't you?"

A person dies every seven seconds.

Parker wasn't going to let it be one of them.

"We're going to find you."

A burning anger burns through her as she stares dead eyed at the killer.

"Next time, we'll be the ones breaking you, fucker."

[cluekiller]

Zeke speaks his wish, and I smile broadly behind mystery. "See, that wasn't so hard was it? Now you get a reward. I won't break your other hand unless Parker tells me to."

The game is about choices.

What are they willing to sacrifice? What will be the long-term consequences of those sacrifices? For every action, there is a reaction. Cause and effect. Our smallest contribution can expand into a decade domino effect. By the end of it, we have forgotten who or what started it. I give them truth, and they spit it back in my face. They challenge their own choices while making countless more, and they don't know how many are important. I will make sure their choices catch up to them.

She says pain is temporary, but scars are forever. Scars remind us of the pain and hinder us from forgetting. I could not escape my own pain, and neither will she. She does not comprehend the impact I will have on her life, and if it doesn't hurt enough, I will come for her again, and again.

I will take them all down with me.

Parker becomes a fireball of her own. The pain must be devouring her sanity, or showing me what lies beyond the façade. Scarlet's name oozes from her lips like pus from an infection. I am tempted to recoil, but I stand my ground. There are so many assumptions she has made about me, and so few of them are the truth.

Her threats are as empty as Zeke's. When she finishes her tirade, I slam my foot against her throat. I press the boot into her windpipe, pinning her neck against the chair. Tonight, Parker will not die, but I will not tolerate interruptions.

"The game started with tragedy," I say, and ice drips from every word, "You can't make it much worse."

When I remove my foot, I want her gasps to falter into screams. She gets a beating I hope she will not forget, the head of my hammer bashing every inch of her foot until I swear I see a bone peeking through flesh. My breaths are heavy when I stand up straight again and shake off the remaining fragments of my rage. Who said this couldn't be my own personal therapy?

"Same question, Parker. Does Zeke get to walk, or cook his precious meals? Choose wisely."

[Tom]

"See, that wasn't so hard was it? Now you get a reward. I won't break your other hand unless Parker tells me to." A reward for playing the game where no one wins. A game of blood and bone; breaking girls and boys with the sight of a sinister mask and the amusement of a killer. Mangled hands and broken metatarsals; an end to the means of an unknown person. Echoes of death ringing in the chains attached to them, a figurehead of Cleo and Cass and Scarlet's deaths coated in blood in those hollow eyes with no answers. Parker wants to scream. Break the sound of the room, until her voice breaks just like her head already has. Losing things is what she's good at. Cleo. Friendship. Popularity. Photography. Wit's end has already came and gone, but she can see his eyes; the tears falling with drips of a scared boy.

Knowledge held power.

Parker had none.

She's louder than she expected with her words. Pain echoing like a white lightning rushing through her skin into her neck and through her brain; a shattering of what's left, until there's a sudden pressure at her throat. Dirty boots and the feeling of choking on her words bubbling up. Cleo had felt the same fear before death. The same noose hanging in sight as the air from her lungs starts to disappear. If she was going to die, at least she'd have followed Cleo. Knowing she would have saved Zeke would have been enough to accept it. A devastating cough coming from her throat with the rattling of chains and the poisonous words of a killer hanging in the air.

"The game started with tragedy," A tragedy meant to change the flow of high school. A banner hanging from the ceiling, picture plastered across the front with her own hands. They were coated in blood, Scarlet's own blood, a signal of their own to a game they never wanted to play. A game gone too far with no turning back, all of them were at fault, but one of them took it too far. Everything's gone too far. "You can't make it much worse." The boot lifted with the relief of air; death no longer clawing at her lungs, ripping and shredding what's been left behind. Parker Gautier couldn't make things much worse. Threats hanging heavy in the air. A poison to weaken her. Chains tugging at her wrists where blinding white pain rushes again with a lightning strike to her brain. A headache from the lack of oxygen catching up to her senses.

The hammer crashes with broken bones and a scream echoing from her throat. The sound bouncing along the walls with the pain of screaming limbs. Mangled fingers and white bone protruding slightly from her foot; echoes of pain shattering through her body. Tragedy had already started to set in, but Parker's not the same girl she was in the past two years. Sitting silently by, watching everyone play pretend with dances and relationships and bullshit popularity as if any of it mattered. The scream of her pain filling the room with the memory of the pain in her heart when everything ends. She's lost so much just from existing in this world. She didn't need to lose anymore.

"Same question, Parker. Does Zeke get to walk, or cook his precious meals? Choose wisely."

Shaky breaths and hollow eyes; a whisper of a choice echoing in her mind. A game of blood and bone; a game of pain and tragedy; a game of choice. Isn't it a pity Parker's never been good at games. Laying on the floor in the living room of her childhood home where her brothers and parents play cards, losing to every hand her father had. A game of chess at a table with her mother who didn't smile as bright as she used to. Cleo and her playing playground games on asphalt and woodchips. All of them, she lost. Every single game ended in frustration, but this one she couldn't even have a chance to win. The irony of it all as the blood drips from her fingers and feet makes her insane.

Parker Gautier's choice.

Ruin Zeke's future or let him never escape.

"Foot."

Hollow eyes and broken bones; they'll find this killer. Together or apart; they'll make it out alive and take down Cleo's killer. Eyes glancing back to the hammer and to Zeke, she can feel her heart pulsing in her fingers and feet. A moment to stare at those hollow eyes as she spits to the side, feeling the pain scatter with movement as she pulls hard on the chains at her wrists. Rubbing the skin raw red, until she can feel herself scream under her breath. A cough racking through her body with a raw feeling of what little strength she has left. Words falling from her lips with a chill; something she's never felt before.

"You don't know what I could do, Empty Eyes."

A frustrated scream comes from her throat as she pulls herself forward, feeling the crush of a boot no longer there.

"Y'know what they say about me."

Her eyes follow Zeke, fear no longer there, but worry for him.

"I'm a rat. The rock bottom of Salvatore."

A psychopath. A rat. Bottom of the food chain. A useless girl with a camera.

Better off dead.

Their eyes tell it all.

"I've got nothing left to lose, but I'm sure you do."

Dead eyes meet dead eyes.

"I'll find it. I'll find you."

Broken fingers, broken metatarsals, and an empty smile.

"I'll make everything worse. Just for you, Empty Eyes."

[cluekiller]

hey should be grateful I'm not a competitive person.

I could outperform myself, raise the torture and the stakes every time. It is impressive, what I have accomplished so far. Not because I think of myself as a God, but because of how I managed it. I have maimed and killed and I did it all without an ounce of hesitation in my judgment. Not once did I pause or falter, not once did I consider if I was doing the wrong deed for my conscience. I thought I might at least second guess myself. Murder shouldn't be easy, right?

It's actually easier than I thought it would be, and that idea used to scare me. Now, as I admire the crooked bones in Parker's appendages, I feel no sense of remorse or regret. Her screams are judgment bells ringing in my ears. Just as Zeke did, she decides to answer me. When the game is almost over, when she has almost lost, she finally cooperates. They always resist and make it worse for themselves. I count on it

She calls me 'empty eyes', and I consider the nickname. If she wants to coin me as an infamous serial killer with a cheeky name, so be it. Fame is not what I desire. The District can choose to care or not.

The rat continues to squeak. She can call herself that, her personal problems are not my problems. Her threats I care even less about. Empty words, empty eyes. "You'll find me and do what, exactly? Break my arm? Hurt my family?" I challenge her, shaking my head. My tone is purposely condescending, and it bleeds through the leather of my mask.

"Please, justify my actions. Give me more reasons to hurt you. Are you confessing your true colors?"

It's all an act, I think. I'm sure I would be upset if someone broke my bones, but I would eagerly accept that over what happened to me.

"It doesn't really matter. If I do let you go, I have plenty of time to prepare for your copycat revenge story. I mean, you won't be doing much with those mangled feet," I chuckle.

She has successfully distracted me, but I never forget the game. I am nothing if not focused.

"Anyway, back to Zeke's punishment. Looks like both of you won't be walking anytime soon."

Like rainfall, my hammer crashes against his bones. Once again, I do not hesitate.