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[right][b]Interactions:[/b] JESUS FUCKING CHRIST EVERYBODY ANYBODY PLEASE
[code]Warehouse[/code][/right][hr]

The banshee wails had shifted into uncontrollable blubbering as Vicky pressed herself up against the bathroom stall, her feet kicking at the ground in a fruitless attempt to scoot herself even further away from the danger, her hands feverishly wiping tears and snot and blood from her face. Her eyes dared not to look away from the door, terrified that what had chopped up Chef and had tried to strike her would barge through it at any second. She didn’t understand how that nightmare creature hadn’t taken off her arm. She didn’t care. She was alive and that was all that mattered. She was covered in gore, sore all over, so traumatized that she was hallucinating, and (worst of all) single, but she was alive.

Vicky stopped trying to burrow herself into the wall for safety. The blubbering became little more than a whimper. Slowly and with some difficulty she pushed herself upright, although she couldn’t quite stand without leaning against the stall, for as sobering as watching someone get ripped in half was it didn’t change the fact that she was still quite drunk. Actually, considering how drunk she was and what she had just witnessed, it was a downright miracle that Vicky hadn’t committed a major party foul like—oh god, [i]NO NOT NOW![/i] Vicky lurched, retched, closed her eyes, and collapsed against the toilet, an awful noise echoing out of the bowl that sounded eerily like Chef’s guts spilling onto the floor of the warehouse.

He had died for her. How romantic. Everyone would be so jealous. Only except he hadn’t. Chef didn’t see it coming. She had. So really, he had died because of her. Fine, that was fine. Not her fault. No way could that be considered her fault. It was just, it was just, it was just if anybody had seen it, if anybody had paid attention, would they have noticed? Would they tell other people? Would a giant big fucking red flag be forever waving above her head so that everyone would know that she didn’t even try to save him? Would they then be able to correctly assume that she didn’t try to save her brother, either? That she had just stared, mouth agape, watching the blood pool around his head until their mother had shoved her out of the way?

Did any of that matter as long as she remained popular? What was more important: what people thought about her, or that people thought about her? 

[color=32cd32]“Whatthefuck!”[/color] cried out Vicky in disgust and confusion as she spat into the toilet bowl.

Why was she thinking about any of this shit? She had to get out, now! Unaware that the mixture of her fear, selfishness, and doubt had been part of the secret handshake needed to let her ancestors know that she should be let into their special little clubhouse, Vicky stumbled up to her feet, took a few tentative steps, and tripped over something as she fell. Her eyes caught sight of the culprit, Chef’s crumpled up letterman jacket, as she tumbled through the air. She felt the jolt of energy course through her body as her Lux crackled to life, ready to protect her, before it was pulled back by incorporeal onlookers as the first thought that had entered her mind, even as she let out a muted [color=32cd32]“Whatthefuck!”[/color], was not of protecting herself but of how she should’ve protected Chef. 

The protective weave around Vicky snapped and her head thunked hard against the bathroom sink. A swift and sudden pain shot through her skull.The world around her went black as Vicky crumpled to the dirty, bloody floor of the bathroom. It was a harsh lesson, perhaps, or maybe a warning from her ancestors: there was no room for guilt in their circle. If Vicky wanted to be a survivor like them she’d have to wise up to that fact. She was out cold for a few heartbeats, but it felt longer. She opened her eyes with a start, let out a pained cry that morphed into a [color=32cd32]“whatthefuck”[/color], scrambled to her feet, caught herself as she nearly fell over again, and paused as she listened at the door. Heavy bass interrupted by heavy footfalls, shouts, and screams. 

The monster was still out there, but so were people who could distract it. Good. Vicky felt a little spark inside of her as she touched the door handle. It flattened as she looked back at Chef’s jacket into a low hum, the buzz of Lux briefly dying as she reached down to grab his coat. She felt a shock go through her hand as she touched it, a little warning zap from those beyond to let it go and get out, yet she still grabbed it. Stubbornness. A trait that, while sometimes admirable when it was mistaken for integrity, easily got people killed. Dragging his jacket behind her like a security blanket, Vicky quietly opened the bathroom door and poked her bloodsoaked head out

Vicky had no idea as to what she had expected to see, but it was not this: the bestial monster, no longer wreathed in darkness, whose attention was being diverted by Ella and Nora. Both of them looked gross as hell, and Vicky considered her earlier upchuck to have been a blessing in disguise because otherwise she would’ve done it right here. It was uncertain what Vicky found more visually upsetting: the creepy ass blood stems blossoming out of Nora’s arms or the fact that Ella was cosplaying in public. No, actually, the cosplay was worse. Ew.

[color=32cd32]“Whatthefuck,”[/color] scoffed Vicky quietly as she crept out of the bathroom. 

In hindsight, she had been too harsh on Ella or Ella’s friend, which was really the only name Vicky knew for Nora. Regardless, thank god for these nerds. The obvious exits were all jammed up by teens pushing and shoving, but she would use their distraction to find some other exit and sneak out.  Two dorks dying so one Vicky could live was a crazy good trade; Vicky was probably worth the lives of the entire AV Club, marching band, and student government combined. They were so fucking dead. She felt that mysterious buzz of energy swell up in her again as stalked with her back against the wall away from the crowd and the chaos, her ancestors seemingly pleased that she didn’t do anything stupid to try and save them. 

Kinda sucks about Ella, though. Her friend, ehhhh, not so much, the last thing the world needed was another awful thespian, but Ella? She was a good slugger. Vicky would have to work twice as hard to make sure the softball team were champs this year without her offense. The electricity inside of her stilled, annoyed, as if to chastise her for worrying about the wrong things, telling her to press on. Vicky did for a moment, then she paused and turned to look back at Ella. Perhaps she was going to give a wave, or a nod, an acknowledgment of her bravery and sacrifice, but instead there was only just a loud, singular laugh-like wheeze of shock as the duo were dropped immediately by the monster. Vicky didn’t mean to be cruel, but after all that pageantry she had just thought there would’ve—HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT WAS COMING FOR HER! 

It was the wheezelaugh. The wheezelaugh had given her away! Oh, fuck, just run, run, [i]ruuuuuuuuuun[/i] and she tripped, Chef’s stupid jacket wrapping itself around her legs like a hunter’s bola, some kind of sick act of revenge from the grave for getting him killed. IT WASN’T HER FAULT! She hit the ground hard on her knees and elbows, sending tingles through her body that wasn’t the Lux. As for her magic it wasn’t cooperating, as if her jackass forefathers had thrown their hands up and said, “Welp, this is what you get for ignoring us” after offering no help whatsoever. Pops of Yellow Lux sparked and flickered around her like a dying lighter as the monster got closer and closer. 

She found herself yet again with her back up against the wall, her feet kicking helplessly at the ground, as she screamed at her ancestors, at her classmates, fuck it, even at god. Like what was the point of going to those camps if she couldn’t even cash in a divine favor or something? She hadn’t meant to laugh. It wasn’t funny. Just surprising. An honest, unintended reaction. C’mon, she didn’t deserve to die here like some loser!

[color=32cd32]“HELP! [i]HELP! [b]HELP ME![/b][/i]”[/color] screamed Vicky, sucking in a deep breath, and then releasing, with her best pep rally projection, loud enough to be heard over the bass and the shouts and the heavy stomps of rapidly approaching doom, one final, desperate plea as the monster raised it hand to rip her in two:

[i][center][h1][color=32cd32]“[b]HELP ME! YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER! 
HELP ME![/b]”[/color][/h1][/center][/i]