#sadspeaks

The trial had hardly just begun, but still, it seems quiet. Too quiet.

It’s part of MacMillan’s realm––Frank never bothered to learn all names. He knows it wouldn’t take long, and he is stuck here for all eternity with little else to do between trials, but even still. It’s more out of spite that he won’t bother with it, even though the others know them all by heart.

These darker ones have never been his favorite, too difficult to spot that first survivor and start his frenzy. But once he gets started, nothing can slow him down.

Grass stalks bend and twigs snap beneath him as he trudges straight for the furthest generator he can make out. It’s always where they start. Each step seems to echo, and the air feels still, even more so than usual. There is no wind here.

Frank hears the rattle of the gen before he sees it, and it sounds like it’s moving fast. He digs in his heel on the next step, takes a deep breath, muscles tensing, then rushes forward in a sprint. They don’t react fast enough, likely hoping if they just hold out they’ll get the thing fully repaired. Frank hits one, a girl maybe, but he’s moving on in an instant to the next one. Two hits down and the survivors scatter, abandoning their work. Frank’s pulse is in his ears, his chest light and full of adrenaline.

Number three is a short sprint away, through the trees, coming off another gen. It’s an easy hit. Number four is caught trying to return to the first gen, and Frank gives it a good kick while he can. Number five gives him a bit more trouble, hanging around a pallet once he’s been spotted.

It’s a game Frank has played many times. Fake out once, maybe twice, make them throw it, then vault and swing. As he moves in, he just barely registers the booming sound indicating someone being hooked. That little presence in his mind he has come to understand as The Entity tells him it is one of the girls he had hit first. He had almost forgotten there was another killer altogether.

He fakes out the pallet, but the survivor doesn’t throw it. Another boom echoes, and Frank knows that another one of his injured survivors has been hooked. He fakes again, and the survivor flinches, but doesn’t throw. Frank can feel the adrenaline fading from his veins, and inhales through the flicker of dread, and he knows he shouldn’t, but he goes for the hit.

Maybe the bigger killers get used to the crushing weight of a pallet bearing down on them, but Frank never has. With the searing pain comes the devastating loss of his frenzied state, like the worst post-high come down. Frank reels, wincing through the ache in his shoulder as he regains his composure just in time to watch the survivor fleeing on the other side. Frank makes quick work of crushing the splintering wood beneath his shoe, rage reigniting to a new level as he pursues the man who bettered him. His power is gone, but he doesn’t care. He’ll hit this guy once, hit him twice, chase him until he’s down and out. No one gets away with making a fool out of him.

But this one is no newbie, and he finds every opportunity to vault away, every tree and boulder to loop, making sudden turns that Frank can hardly keep up with. He knows he’s wasting time, but he can’t get himself to quit. Somewhere in the distance a generator pops. Fuck. He’s closing in, but the survivor is still entirely unscathed, and more than ready to drag this out.

But now there’s a dead zone ahead, nowhere for the idiot to run, and Frank is closing in. Then, just as he’s winding up to take a swing, a loud sound rings out, and with it a glow emanates from the survivor ahead of him. Red, splintered beams spreading outward. Frank swings, feels his blade cut into flesh, and the survivor drops to the ground.