#threading.

were it colder, greyer, bleaker and more suffocating,  Lampkin Lane might have reminded him of Ormond. There is little of Ormond that Frank misses — though a 7/11 would not have gone amiss — and it’s a small blessing that the woods around the resort will never lead him back into town. It’s with the reassurance that the rest of Ormond  ( save for that which Legion have made their home )  has been discarded by the Entity that he wanders into the midst of the trees and into the thickening fog that swallows him within a minute’s foray into the woodland. When the fog at last parts, he’s greeted by a sign that welcomes him not to the town that houses Mount Ormond Resort, thankfully ...  but instead to Haddonfield. 

An unfamiliar name and an unfamiliar realm, filled with little houses lining narrow streets. It might have been comfortable. Peaceful, even ...  had he not been vaguely aware that it’s a mere recreation pieced haphazardly together by a creature with little understanding of the living world it attempts to reconstruct — had it not been so desolate. He shuffles through windows and through doors left adjacent, wandering until he finds himself a  pleasant perch: level roof outside a window that grants him a pretty view above the streets Lampkin Lane. And so he settles down  ( stretches himself flat on his stomach across dark roofing with veneer pliant enough to give way to the light scratching of a knife’s point )  and waits, all the while etching lines and vague semblances of pictures into the tiling.

Eventual shuffling draws curious eyes up from his scratches; sure enough, there lumbers the Shape in the distance, drifting between houses across the street and down the block. He doesn’t budge as Myers comes closer. No doubt that he’s already long been spotted, though hopefully his vandalising hasn’t. Frank lays his knife flat beside the mess he’s made, brushing the debris aside and off of the stark lettering he’s drawn into the roof. Well, if Myers hadn’t known that  ‘ Legion was here, ’  he certainly will now.

“ dope stuff. ”  the slaughter is sweet...  especially with the vantage point of a luxury seat. It's not so bad atop the walls drawn up by the Entity as it, too, watches the massacre it has so neatly framed for Frank to spectate. And what a show it is: the chosen survivors its players, the thick of the maize its stage. Like insects they cling to the corn as if it were a promise of life, every few moments or so daring again to shift, crawling along the ground and rustling the thicket in their boldness. Listless, yet painfully hesitant — until the caw of a crow, the distant crunch of dried twig beneath step, halts them once again in their step. It’s an excruciating song and dance. They must be new; their fear is tangible to the point of near-infuriation. 

Frank doesn’t think he would be so interested were it not for the new variable tossed into the midst of the trial. His eyes are not so much for trembling survivors. They’re searching, instead, for the trace of clever footstep and the glint of metal blade. In the murkiness, it is difficult to tell who is killer and who is the hunted — just as he suspects is how their newest intends to play it out...  until, there !  Frank catches it at last, looming in the corn behind a girl who’s made an unfortunate decision to hide, unawares that her trial was over from the moment it began. It already had its eyes on her.

The hunted scatter in all directions, frenzied panic palpable as their first falls with an ear-piercing scream. It's quickly muffled, thankfully, by the blood flooding her mouth. The hunt is over as soon as it began, though artfully prolonged  ( with the air of a cat tossing its food about )  by the hunter. It’s no less entertaining for Frank’s quick conclusion, though. It’s with mild intrigue that he watches, chin cradled in palms and elbows planted on crossed legs as one survivor after the other is felled.

The Ghost Face. A strange one, that’s for sure. Spectre, spotlight, and spectator all in one ...  an expert actor toting camera to his own enthused and bloody performance. 

Frank waits, silent, for the final click of the camera to seal the trial’s end. And like the scattering of roaches, the fog disperses. The darkness rises, and Frank leans forward on his brick pillar, the whiteness of his mask grinning chesire-like through the murk of night.  

“ Not bad, new guy. Though I expected a lil’ bit of buildup. Not even gonna ask them out before you give them the scare of their lives — you are the Ghost Face, ain’tcha? Y’know, like in the movie? I liked that one. ”  He would have ditched class to see it in cinema; unfortunate that school had permanently let him go long before then. Nothing is nearly so satisfying without the added sting of blatant defiance to authority.  

administration is a double - edged blade of sorts ;  Frank has never been fond of authority.  Needless to say,  ‘ Administration ’  leaves a sour taste on his tongue, the sort of dreadful, musky bitterness that festers with the clustering of mothballs. That — and the fact that he thinks he might gag every time he catches sight of the bright purple each of their employees are clad in, head to toe. He doesn’t follow uniform policy, of course. He didn’t read the contract either; but if he had, he’s sure he would be capable of adamantly arguing nullification of dress policy in regards to third party hires.

If it weren’t for the generous pay and the less than orthodox work, Frank would have been long gone.

“ As I was saying ...  kid. Ditch the company purple. You wear this shit willingly ? ”  He makes a playful jab towards her hair, hanging purple over cheeks and ears. Careful not to touch, however; he knows the force behind those little teeth. Word of mouth doesn’t travel commonly throughout Administration, if at all. It would be contradictory to their speciality, which is to keep mouths shut — even if it takes six feet of soil above a chatty liability — but the Legion are more than adept at digging long-cold rumours out of the dirt. It’s no wonder She saw Frank’s value, and no wonder that She allows them yet to remain.  

“ Who the fuck chose these colours? Oh, c’mon, tell me you don’t. Wear this willingly, that is. ”  He plucks at the front of his own jacket, peering down at it in horror. Imagining, no doubt, how repulsive it would be in the company’s choice of bright lavender. The despair that would have been evident on his face can be communicated only through the cringing of shoulders so overplayed that he’s nearly doubled over, folded in half. He takes advantage of the position to tug mask down before her, revealing the glint of narrowed eyes beneath the edge of his hood.

"----I still don't trust him, Hayley. I don't     give a damn if it's for your packs benefit     if any harm comes to our daughter because     your decision, Jackson will cease to exist."