literature

Stalked: Games We Play P9

Deviation Actions

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Literature Text

You begin by propping your feet up and anxiously examining them. The initial impact of the masked man's car did the most immediate and noticeable damage; stumps of shattered bone visibly protrude out from the intersecting lines of scabs and scars. Of course, the numerous direct and indirect injuries your trials have inflicted, combined with the general stress of constant crawling, have done them no favors. This would be a difficult operation even with mildly adequate supplies. Unfortunately for you, it's your only choice.
Preparing for the immeasurable pain this will surely cause, you pack the ice axe wound with gauze and fabric and secure it with some of the carpet string. That takes care of the most pressing problem, leaving you free to concentrate on the task before you.
And so it begins.
You first tie the tourniquet tubing (alliteration helps ease the stress) around your right foot. This one is in slightly better condition, so it should be a simpler task and acclimate you to the operation. You then lower your hatchet's blade to the flesh of your dorsum, gripping the handle as though your life depends on it (IT DOES)... and slice inside.
It's... actually not that bad, considering all you've been through. It hurts like hell, but then, so did crawling through a razor tunnel.
This feeling remains in you until the time comes to set and patch the bones. THAT is all that you've been dreading and more. Every minute movement is like your individual nerve cells are being put through their own torture courses, and the procedure requires a towering number of such movements.
But you keep going. You keep gripping the bones beneath your fingers and grinding them back into place, even as blood starts to flow out from the mess. You keep pulling severed tendons together, fighting the urge to tear them loose altogether upon feeling them slide grotesquely beneath your skin, and patching them together with lengths of string. You keep jamming fabric and gauze into positions never meant to accommodate them as this sad mockery of a medical operation begins to draw closer to vague success.
Finally, after nearly fainting from shock and blood loss several times, you stare down at your handiwork. Most of the bones have been splinted in place, the muscles are contracting as normal, and the veins should be working and ready to circulate again.
Before you stitch up, however, one last step remains: disinfection.
Refusing to let yourself think on what is about to happen, you heave the bleach container up into your lap and open it up. You dip a bunched-up mound of fabric and string inside, and it comes up thoroughly soaked in the acrid chemical. Every rational part of your brain is urging you to drop it, but instead, you carefully press it into the operation site.
And you thought setting the bones was bad. No human tongue could describe the suffering you experience as you relentlessly scrub the bloodied opening clean, perhaps the reason why you instead choose to gutturally scream your lungs out. This detergent was never intended for human injuries; it is slowly eating away at all of your hard work, but at least you stand a lower chance of infection. If that still matters.
Once everything is sufficiently cleansed, you gently wipe your foot clean with another swatch of fabric. As the pain starts to subside, you loop another length of string through your glass shard and start using it as a makeshift needle to close the wound. This is surprisingly the least painful part, though you must move slowly and gingerly for fear of it shattering.
At last, the operation is completed... on this foot, at least. You press your newly-rejuvinated limb down to the floor, and even though it is very sore, you can tell that it will support your weight.
Success.
And now for the next foot...

***

You're walking.
You don't know how you managed it, but you're walking. Your feet are no longer shattered messes incapable of supporting you; this should make the course a hell of a lot easier, and greatly increase your chances of catching the men who imprisoned you here.
Confident, you slowly walk up to the door your masked assailant entered and exited through. It leads to another dimly-lit passageway, but unlike the others, you can make your way through this one at a quick pace. You hope the man on the phones can see you now, and that he's slowly realizing that you cannot be brought down.
Through the door at the end, you find a large circular room similar to that where you nearly drowned. You search for any signs of a new hazard, and aside from the expected desk upon which the phone rests, you see a package around the size of an average laptop computer resting on the floor. Wary of more pain, you answer the phone as it starts to ring.
"That... I... I watched that whole ridiculous thing you pulled back there. I hope it hurt, I really do. You're... even more persistent than I would've expected. But that's good, if you think about it. It means you'll get to see the last few trials I set for you before finally dying a fittingly slow death. Hopefully, however you leave this plane of existence, you'll be howling until your motherfucking vocal cords rot.
"The objective here? The whole ceiling of that room is wired with explosives. The little object you see is sending a signal up to them, and it's what you'll use to disarm them. If you can figure it out before you're buried alive, the key to move on will drop out of the device, but if you try to break it open early, the signal will skip and I can say good riddance. Oh, and you have a guest coming down to visit, so try to play nice while you take care of the bombs. So long..."
You leave no time to ponder the meaning of 'guest,' instead opening up the package and pulling out a mechanism of glass and plastic. A number of wires intermingle their way around it, and on the very top sits an LCD screen. There are a couple of sliding access ports into the wiring system, but you do not want to chance them just yet.
Accessing the screen, you find a jumbled cluster of options constantly rotating and scrolling past you. If you are doing this correctly, one or two of them should enable you to defuse the explosives.
Then you hear footsteps.
Pivoting from the device towards the intrusion, you see...
No.
"You have a guest coming down to visit."
No. Fucking. Way.
A woman stands in the room with you, pacing silently forward. She is dressed casually, exactly as she was the last time you laid eyes on her. Her eyes are bloodshot, and the skin around them rubbed painfully raw. Despite this, she smiles as she sees you -- judging from the way she is holding the nail-covered baseball bat she carries, it is not a welcoming or even recognizing one.
Her name is Stephanie, and she is one of the friends who was with you before the police car struck you down.
How in the hell are you going to get out of this one?

- Attack Stephanie with your slightly dulled hatchet.
- Attack Stephanie with your shard of glass.
- Break Stephanie's limbs to incapacitate her.
- Try to talk Stephanie down.

- Use the access ports to rewire the explosive signal.
- Click through the options until you find a disarming command.
- Ignore the device and search for the entrance Stephanie used.
Nearing the tail end of this journey, folks, and here's a curveball for you. Not only is there... THAT... but you also have A COMBINATION CHOICE!!!!!!!!!!!!
Last time I used these was in Containment Breached. Wow, that was a long time ago. In case you don't know how these work, just pick one from each selection of choices and list them both in your comment. Whatever options win out, those will be combined to form the path of the next entry. Happy disarming!
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StitchedSmile1's avatar
STAB THAT BITCH! xD