Twitching Nerves and Blistering Knuckles

[Mickee]

A revival of the once great gladiator games was being performed, formed by the Colonel himself and attended by all of his followers. The contestants? Private First Class Jameson Williams, Corporal Steven Jagovich, and Gunnery Sergeant Kinslee Summers. The words were still seared into the trio as the private drew first blood within the engagement. A pipe, thrown in by a desperate, bloody-thirsty man, is picked up and struck across Kinslee's temple. Her form stumbled back into the bickering and screeching crowd, hands groping at her uniform as if to hold her still for a potential kill shot. One that never seemed to come, especially as the private first class turned his gaze towards the corporal, who was sobbing uncontrollably at a nearby locked door.

Her breathing launched the blood from her nose. A rabid animal slowly awakening as the group began to claw and smack at her form, egging her on into the rage they could all see boiling. She came to a head, a gigantic gash painted across the right side of her temple with blonde hair sticking towards the fresh bleeding wound. Jameson hit the corporal over the shoulder, causing a sickening crack that made the crowd all wince in unison. The private kept launching attacks on that broken shoulder, with Steven screeching for help and begging for his mother all the while... Summer's blood simmered, the temperature rising within as her chest began to pump faster and faster, eyes growing steadily wider despite the scorching pain of the wound being manipulated with her facial movement. She was quite literally seeing red, blood pooling in her right eye as her feet brought her forward.


She didn't feel the contact. The pole slamming against her right forearm... She couldn't feel anything. Like a draining bathtub, everything rushed from her; her baggage was left with the screaming crowd behind her. The private was becoming tired already, their weeks of travel proving to be far too much on the trio already as Steven weakly shoved at him to get away, his shoulder crackling loudly and earning a soft slap from a crowd member directly to it. The poor man whimpered, still fighting to get to his feet. They were tired physically and mentally, sweat already caking them... But they didn't have what Kinslee had in this moment. The advantage of endless rage. All the stress, frustration, violence, and hunger boiled up into a chaotic boiling mess as the Gunnery Sergeant stripped the pole from his grip and launched the poor man back the way she came!

She came thundering back over, the corporal thanking her from behind all the while, and slammed her boot onto the private's exposed throat. There was no show to it... Not a voice in her head begging her to stop. Silence sat within her brain, as if her conscience was begging for this to be let out. She applied more pressure, her mouth opening in an involuntary grin as blood and sweat mingled to drip down onto the squirming Private, whose hands weakly beat against the shins of the towering female... She pressed more, groaning softly as her weight was shoved down and then some. His voice went from a shrill squeak to a whimpering gurgle, eyes bulging as oxygen was robbed from his brain. The corporal was begging her to stop now despite the private's actions.

Gunnery Sergeant Kinslee Summers didn't listen.

Private First Class Jameson Williams' neck snapped. A sickening crack echoed out above the chorus of the song. The corporal stumbled back onto his ass, scoffing as the gunnery sergeant's attention finally turned to him. There was no sign of mercy in her gaze, nor in her body. Jameson was not dead, still gurgling and staring vacantly ahead as Kinslee rapidly jumped over to descend upon Steven...her friend. Her friend of years that was using her nickname now—not King... No. He was calling her Lee. That only seemed to make the punishment worse.

Kinslee's fist rocketed into the nose of Steven. His head rocketed, allowing Kinslee to mount the man, almost hugging him as her hand came to grab onto his collar and yank him back up. Another fist came down, his front tooth chipping. Another fist. Another. Another. With every connection the crowd seemed to grow louder, and Steven's use of that stupid nickname seemed to grow more and more infrequent. His hands came to claw and dig into Kinslee's side, eyes still showing a begging expression despite their inability to stare at anything but the unfamiliar and rage-filled face of Kinslee Summers.

She connected again, his jaw growing loose as she dislodged it. His whines and words turned into incoherent whines and gurgles as she kept going. Every hit further turned that broken jaw into mush as her knuckles split. His hand came up, grabbing the side of her face and jamming his thumb into her left eye, robbing her of any clarity of vision. She turned to grab around his throat; the hand trying to gouge an eye was taken and slammed roughly against the concrete as she lifted him up, body still trapped beneath her own weight, and slammed him roughly back down.

She did this for a bit. Far longer than expected, and far past the expiration date of Corporal Steven Jagovich. His skull fracturing, neck snapping, and body breaking. By the time Kinslee finally crawled off of her close friend, she was nothing more than a panting and unrecognizable husk of a human being. No better than the infected, she grew so fond of these past two weeks. The crowd finally went back to screaming, clear joy on their faces as they celebrated the brutal murder of two—no...of THREE innocent Americans.


'King'

'King'

'King'

'King!'

'King!'

'King!'

Kinslee did not smile as the gladiators of past would have. Her knees buckled, darkness washing over her, as she fell roughly onto the concrete floor of the nuclear refuge bunker.


They did not stop chanting, as they had a new champion! And a new member of their society...Afterall, she was fighting just to enter their group.​