#macmillanminer

Though the last one didn't matter. As he always said, he didn't need to be fast, since they were just speeding right into his traps anyways. But it was still another bruise to his ego. As was every survivor that escaped. Every pallet stun. Every flashlight save. Every time he stepped in his own traps like an utter boob.

And with this event? It was happening so much more often. And the only thing he got to counteract the survivors' new abilities were... poison bottles. Like fucking Kenneth's. How insulting was that?

And he did understand. He understood that the survivors got these abilities to boost morale, give them some small shreds of hope so they don't go completely numb and Void themselves, but with this shit? Evan seriously wondered how the fuck he hadn't been voided yet.

His anger, like the kind gradually growing inside him as he went through these trials - back-to-back ones - was probably the answer.

With every failure, his blood boiled in his veins, until he was sure he had to be hot even to the touch. He started to get more aggressive, less patient, spending less time setting up and more time carving flesh with a rusted cleaver and feeling the familiar heat of blood spatter across his crusted skin.

Whenever someone got caught in his trap, he didn't just lift them out like he normally did - he instead ripped them out, the meat of their ankle sliding off of the bone as the serrated teeth dug in and tore. Their screams were satisfying sounds, as was the squelch of flesh as he carelessly tossed them onto the hooks.

He didn't get many kills that way either, but it was at least cathartic.

But even his anger didn't carry him very far. Not anymore. And especially not when The Entity was just throwing him into trial after trial after trial. He'd come out of one just to get tossed into another. Hours after hours spent walking around, spilling blood, with no moment to just rest. He hadn't stopped moving in what felt like forever.

He was starting to get worn down, exhaustion wearing at his already fucked bones. Jesus H. Christ, can't he just sit down for a moment? Murder is taxing, you know.

It did know.

So, eventually, it decided he'd finally done enough, and when the Fog enveloped him after one trial, he braced to be dumped into another, but wasn't. It looked the same as every fucking thing, just another forest, but he could feel that this wasn't a trial anymore.

Evan let out a loud groan, head tipping back in weary relief. A hand still drenched in blood rose to his face and dragged tiredly down the new horned mask he'd been given, along with a whole new outfit, for the event. He wasn't sure if the blood he'd just smeared on it was even visible, blood-red as it already was.

He wasn't quite sure what to think of said new outfit - it was very flashy compared to his usual - but he did like the mask, even if it wasn't his typical style.

But that didn't matter right now. What did matter was sitting the fuck down.

Lumbering through the muggy woods until he found a good, thick tree to rest by, he lowered himself to the dirt, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, setting his cleaver in the grass beside him. He leaned forward so his back didn't really touch the tree, because having things touch the hooks and rebar embedded in the skin of his back and shoulders was very much not fun, he'd learned.

Raising a hand to prop his chin up, he let out a deep, heavy sigh, and shut his eyes - just sitting there, enjoying the rare quiet, and the gentle brush of a soft, cool breeze against his bared skin.

Finally, he could breathe.