Gingy

A Life in Salem - A Fallout RP

Lorelei Jones

Lorelei Jones

Gender: Female

Age: 25

Birthdate: June 30th, 2263

Birthplace: Ruins of Seattle, Washington

Personal Information

Current Occupation: Hunter and scavenger. She has spent most of her life sifting through the ruins of the Old World as well as hunting for game and generally manages to find just enough to make it from day-to-day.

Work Ethic: If you can manage to get Lorelei to be passionate about something, she will pour her entire being into it. If the task at hand is not something that interests her, then she will solely rely on her talent (even if there is none to speak of) to get her through.

Combat Strategy: Lorelei never allows herself to be compromised in close-range. She is at her most comfortable at high ground with a scope, where she can carefully dissect a situation and articulate her plans in a stepwise motion.

Experience: Rumored to have been liable to kill from a half-mile away. Her time spent in the wastes turned her into an excellent survivalist; she understands terrain and traverses it exceptionally well, and has developed a very tough exterior.

Organizations/Affiliations: Independent

Style: Lorelei wears different iterations of the same outfit almost every day. She wears a long hunting coat with many accessories attached – such as extra shells, bear traps, tourniquets, a knife, and a vial of antivenom. Underneath the coat, she usually wears a tee of some sort and a pair of well-worn jeans.

Preferred Weapons: Her father’s scoped bolt-action rifle, which has seen years of use, and a desert eagle pistol with some sort of inscribed sigil on the grip that has been taped over.

Habits and Mannerisms: Lorelei will often hum underneath her breath while idle and is very fidgety; she will always be moving in some way shape or form, whether it be running her fingers through her hair or tapping her hands on a solid object. She will generally smile and chuckle if she runs out of possible options to respond to a situation, even if it is a particularly bad one.

Medical Information

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Blood Type: O-

Preferred Hand: Left-Handed

Eye Color: Hazel

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Hairstyle: Whatever suits her on the current day. Her hair is medium/shoulder-length, but occasionally puts it up into a ponytail or bun to keep from waving into her face.

Skin Tone: Pale.

Complexion: Freckled.

Makeup: Occasionally scrounges some together and puts it on, playing make-believe as one of the leading ladies of the old world, but it never lasts.

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Body Type: Ectomorph

Build: Decent muscle mass considering her small frame, but recent malnourishment has rendered her quite thin.

Height: 5’7”

Weight: 120 lbs.

Cup Size: B

Shoe Size: 7

Birthmarks/scars: One lone distinct scar runs vertically down the right side of her face.

Energy: When in good health, she has exceptional endurance, gained from her cross-country treks with the 80s.

Senses: They are very potent and very accurate, rendering her paranoid of her surroundings on many occasions.

Addictions: None to speak of.

Mental Disorders: Anxiety.

Expressiveness: If one manages to get close to Lorelei, then her faux tough exterior will dissolve and her rather silly, creative nucleus will be apparent. She generally articulates her thoughts and emotions in an enigmatic, riddle-like way, and only those close to her can aptly solve said riddles.

Biography

Lorelei says very little of her old life. She's from a place far west; this much is known. However, the details and the motives are vague, and she intends to keep them that way. There is a layer of shame that clouds her memories, and only the recent days have any sort of articulation...

She spent several years in the Capital Wasteland, living on her own amid the chaos of the wastes and scavenging like a desperate vulture. Lorelei was a nostalgic one; over the years, she'd collected many old world relics and became well read in the texts of the pre-war landscape. It wasn't long before she grew bored of her lifestyle and scenery and moved on, trudging toward the Commonwealth and setting up inside Goodneighbor. There she remained until the word of a peculiar settlement emerged. Lorelei had to see Salem for herself.

A Life in Salem - A Fallout RP

Lorelei Jones

Lorelei Jones

Gender: Female

Age: 27

Birthdate: June 30th, 2263

Birthplace: Woodinville, Washington

Personal Information

Current Occupation: Hunter and scavenger. She has spent most of her life sifting through the ruins of the Old World as well as hunting for game and generally manages to find just enough to make it from day-to-day.

Work Ethic: If you can manage to get Lorelei to be passionate about something, she will pour her entire being into it. If the task at hand is not something that interests her, then she will solely rely on her talent (even if there is none to speak of) to get her through.

Combat Strategy: Lorelei never allows herself to be compromised in close-range. She is at her most comfortable at high ground with a scope, where she can carefully dissect a situation and articulate her plans in a stepwise motion. Her time with the 80s, despite having fled their midst, has altered her reasoning to become very pragmatic and self-serving.

Experience: Former member of the 80s tribe, renowned for her incredible firing accuracy – was rumored to have been liable to kill from a half-mile away. Her time spent with the 80s turned her into an excellent survivalist; she understands terrain and traverses it exceptionally well, and has developed a very tough exterior.

Organizations/Affiliations: Independent ever since her severance from the 80s tribe.

Style: Lorelei wears different iterations of the same outfit almost every day. She wears a long hunting coat with many accessories attached – such as extra shells, bear traps, tourniquets, a knife, and a vial of antivenom. Underneath the coat, she usually wears a tee of some sort and a pair of well-worn jeans.

Preferred Weapons: Her father’s scoped bolt-action rifle, which has seen years of use, and a desert eagle pistol with some sort of inscribed sigil on the grip that has been taped over.

Habits and Mannerisms: Lorelei will often hum underneath her breath while idle and is very fidgety; she will always be moving in some way shape or form, whether it be running her fingers through her hair or tapping her hands on a solid object. She will generally smile and chuckle if she runs out of possible options to respond to a situation, even if it is a particularly bad one.

Medical Information

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Blood Type: O-

Preferred Hand: Left-Handed

Eye Color: Hazel

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Hairstyle: Whatever suits her on the current day. Her hair is medium/shoulder-length, but occasionally puts it up into a ponytail or bun to keep from waving into her face.

Skin Tone: Pale.

Complexion: Freckled.

Makeup: Occasionally scrounges some together and puts it on, playing make-believe as one of the leading ladies of the old world, but it never lasts.

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Body Type: Ectomorph

Build: Decent muscle mass considering her small frame, but recent malnourishment has rendered her quite thin.

Height: 5’7”

Weight: 120 lbs.

Cup Size: B

Shoe Size: 7

Birthmarks/scars: One lone distinct scar runs vertically down the right side of her face.

Energy: When in good health, she has exceptional endurance, gained from her cross-country treks with the 80s.

Senses: They are very potent and very accurate, rendering her paranoid of her surroundings on many occasions.

Addictions: None to speak of.

Mental Disorders: Anxiety.

Expressiveness: If one manages to get close to Lorelei, then her faux tough exterior will dissolve and her rather silly, creative nucleus will be apparent. She generally articulates her thoughts and emotions in an enigmatic, riddle-like way, and only those close to her can aptly solve said riddles.

Biography

Lorelei was born on June 30th, 2263 in Woodinville, Washington – a distant suburb to the sprawling, annihilated skyscape of Seattle. Her mother died in childbirth and her father, Ray, raised her alone. He gave her a shielded life out in the suburban landscape of Woodinville, allowing her to live a relatively carefree albeit hidden existence for the first seventeen years of her life. In this time, she learned many skills that would be considered ‘moot’ in the new world. She developed an interest in film, art, and literature during her youth. These interests manifested themselves into her lonely, but happy life by essentially enacting her to do anything she could to express herself. She’d write on the walls of nearby buildings, create strange sculptures around the house, and scrounge any holotapes she could possibly find.

Unexpectedly, at around age 17, Ray pulled Lorelei out of her shielded prewar-like existence, teaching her important skills, such as maintaining and operating a firearm, foraging for supplies, and other survival skills. She was unaware that his sudden shift in philosophy toward raising his daughter was spurred from a specific motive…Her father had become terminally ill, and kept it hidden from her. He knew very well that he had to prepare Lorelei for life on her own, now that his days were numbered. He continued to train her as well as he could, until he could no longer hide his illness and became bedridden for the next several weeks.

During his time on what would become his deathbed, Ray compiled a massive journal filled with instructions. He had no time left to truly prepare her for what awaited in a life without his protection, so he wrote everything he could – coordinates and directions toward promising homelands that he had heard of through the grapevine, personal anecdotes about the world outside of Woodinville, a handful of personal letters to his daughter, sketches paired with descriptions of various wildlife he had seen in his travels, and a number of blank pages meant for Lorelei herself to finish on her travels. The quality of handwriting and coherence on the later pages declined with Ray’s health, but he kept scribbling in that damned book until he couldn’t any longer.

Ray passed away a week before Lorelei’s 18th birthday. The book, which had turned out to be just short of a godsend, was not enough to pry her away from her home. She buried her father, had her own private funeral, and tried to remain in Woodinville for as long as she could. However, she could not stand to look at the buildings she had walked with him – the streets where they had happily explored, detached from the despair of the rest of the pacific northwest. Ray had left directions and coordinates on how to journey to the city of Las Vegas, where he presumed she would be safe, and she finally decided to follow them. She took his rifle, his pistol, as much food as she could, and headed south. However, she did not traverse the path he had intended, and wound up aimlessly following I-80 as it tossed and turned toward the southwest.

It wasn’t long until Lorelei learned why her father’s journal warned of I-80. She was ambushed and abducted by a group of terrifying-looking raiders inhabiting its surroundings, known as the “80’s”. They originally intended to throw her carcass onto an oven and cook her flesh for their own use, but Lorelei’s rifle caught their eye and for entertainment, they put her up to a vicious test. She would hit directly between the eyes on a mannequin they’d found, or she’d be flayed alive. Fueled by fear, instinct, and her father’s impeccable training, she landed a perfect shot and was inevitably rehabilitated into their ranks.

Lorelei had never intended on leading as evil and degrading a life as she would live; she assumed, from the way her father had made it sound, that raiding and pillaging was simply a staple of life in the wasteland. She became a remarkable fighter over her time with the 80s, integrating their toughness and astute sense of terrain into her own DNA. She could land shots from such an absurd distance that she began to make a name for herself – they began to call her “Blood Raven”.

Despite that Lorelei never truly gained a position of power, she became somewhat of a symbol. Once the 80s became egotistical enough to invade the outskirts of NCR territory, bounties began to pile up with the name “Blood Raven” affixed to them. She had become fully indoctrinated into this life – various artistic etchings had been burned onto her back and she wore fearsome red face paint. She looked the part, and she played it.

During her early adolescence in Washington, Lorelei had never truly learned nor understood the expression of sexuality. She learned quickly of its gravity during her life with the 80s, who turned out to be a rabid and free-spirited bunch, pursuing mindless gratification at any given moment. There was very little social construct – pleasure was pursued through any means, through any gender, and it warped her perspective of sexuality. Throughout her early twenties, she was pulled into this lifestyle of raiding and rampant pursuit of satisfaction, and inevitably, it presented her with an enigma – a child.

When Lorelei became noticeably pregnant, conceived by who-knows-who, the inevitable child began to generate hype among her region of the 80s. But in almost epiphanic-like manner, the prospects of bringing a child into the world she had found for herself flooded her with guilt. She fled her tribe and headed east, hoping to gain a great deal of ground before having her child. She knew very well that the 80s would be able to traverse an impossible amount of territory in very little time.

Lorelei only made it to Colorado before she had her daughter, who she named Rachel. She could not continue to travel with a newborn, so she settled down in a cottage outside the ruins of Silverton. She lived there with Rachel for four years and finally accepted that the 80s had either failed to find her, or neglected to follow her at all. However, she was unfortunately inaccurate. After four years, the reach of the 80s spread into Colorado, north of Legion territory, and they traced her to her home. While Lorelei spent a morning hunting for she and her daughter, a group of her former family set her home ablaze, and returned to the ashes of her life, her daughter burned alive inside. It ruined her attempt at a second life, and after a period of grieving, she continued east and shed off her old identity, going only by “Laura” for an extended period of time. She made it all the way to the Capital Wasteland, where she spent a few years in Canterbury Commons.

However, Lorelei became restless and bored and continued to the northeast, finding herself inside the commonwealth. She had spent a short stint inside Goodneighbor before hearing of a new development inside Salem. She felt that building something new would be her chance to disintegrate her old mistakes and forge a new persona, so she took the opportunity without so much as a second thought.

Carousel

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Morning

"The floor is for rats and dust, you may sleep in the chair." Emerald inhaled abruptly. "It extends, an old bat, but comfy as hell."

Alison frowned and folded her arms, resting them underneath her bosom and lowering her head. She had been grateful for Emerald's help, but she had deteriorated in a matter of days, seemingly not even by events of her own fault. Forces beyond her understanding had thrown away her exciting adventure to New York, and reality had crashed into Club Carousel like a freight train.

"...Thank you. I'll make it up to you somehow. I just don't know how yet...I'll find a job, and I'll help you pay rent until I can find a new place of my own."

War Never Changes

Robert House

Lucky 38 Casino & Hotel

"Mr. House, we're based out of Alaska. Flying vertibirds to and fro is quick to add up in cost. But this airbase offers us a whole new world of possibilities for deployment in the region. In fact, we have men on standby as soon as you give us the greenlight.”

“Very well. The space is yours, so long as you adhere to the F.Z.M’s laws and allow me to keep tabs on what sort of business you are conducting inside my borders. If you have clients that wish to be anonymous, that is your choice. But the decisions I allow you to make within my borders are my responsibility, yes?”

Robert sighed. “With that, I suppose that it is high time we begin the second day of the summit. I suppose that I should be setting everything in order. Was there anything else you wished to speak of? If there are any further formalities, I can forward you a specific document that will simply require your signature.”

Who was the VP of RobCo back in the day....hmmmm..it was a Mr. Milburn right? Thomas Milburn? No, no that's not right..I'm not sure where I pulled that name from to be honest....Bradburton?

…What the fuck?

“Please excuse me, Commander.”

…Thomas Milburne?

House assumed remote control of the securitron in charge of the odd transmission. The policeman’s face still remained vigilant on the screen, but its voice was more disjointed and ‘human’ sounding. “Mr. House…will be willing to meet with you in the Lucky 38 itself.” The securitron produced a key from a compartment in its armor. “Any misbehavior will see you thrown out of the casino. He will be in touch.”

I have not heard that name in centuries.

At that, Robert House took command of the loudspeakers, which were affixed to the interior and exterior of each casino. He produced a generic, digitally-composed voice:

"The second meeting of the New Vegas Convention will begin at 4:30 -- three hours from now."

War Never Changes

Robert House

Lucky 38 Casino & Hotel

When you get time...I recommend you take a good look at that data and then we'll talk about it. I think you'll agree that you don't want them for neighbors." Barnaky then stopped and looked at the picture again. "Also", he asked, "Can I take this thing out of the suite now?"

Mr. House gave an affirming 'hm' in response. "Yes. I have been keeping an eye on that lot ever since they arrived in New Vegas. Do not worry. If we are to write the future together, I will be invested in ensuring that you are not devoured by that 'cult'. There we have it, then. You may establish an embassy inside the FZM and speak with the boomers about joint-access to Nellis. We will discuss the flow of technology that I salvage from the Divide and we will together work as a wall against the NCR's eastward expansion. You will be instrumental in the training of my human military and I will defend you against the Cult or any other nation looking to invade your borders. These terms will be written soon."

Robert paused. "I am afraid that this meeting must come to a close. I am receiving a transmission from Vault 21."

"Let me get right down to brass tacks, sir. I've been instructed to request permission for Arctic Haven to occupy Searchlight Airport, under your auspices of course. The offer stands at 25% of each New Vegas based contract's value halved for you and all contracts not purchased by you in Vegas 25% of its earnings will go to you and Searchlight Airport"

Mr. House curtly replied. "I am pleased by your concise articulation. You don't seem to be hiding behind flowery language like the rest of this rabble. Then good, let us move to business. I will accept your offer under my terms. I will hold you to the monthly inspection -- I do not care to police the private lives of my citizens, but you are a foreign business and thus that has forced my hand. I will send a few of my men each month to view your dealings and production. I agree with the rest of your terms, so long as you do not leave me in the dark. I wish to be aware of your operations and intentions inside the FZM. One question, though, before we get to writing -- why choose my territory for a stronghold?"

RobCo Securitron Mk II

The Strip

"Would it be possible to speak with President Robert House at some point? Perhaps tomorrow, when the summit reconvenes. Privately, of course. Is this something you could relay to him?"

The Securitron's screen fell blank again for a handful of seconds, and then its persona returned. "Yes. You will be able to meet with him. Request transmission via terminal and he shall decide if he has the time or motive to meet with you."

Carousel

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Morning

“This city just won’t let you alone will it?” Emerald moved to stroke some of the hair out of Alison's face as a soothing gesture. “What can I do you for, dear?”

Alison took a minuscule swig of the drink and grimaced. Alcohol had not yet become a passtime of her's and the toxicity of Emerald's gift walloped her taste buds like a freight train. "...What's in this?" She shook her head. "No matter, I suppose. A drink is a drink. T-thank you." She hesitantly let another sip of the drink breach her lips.

After a few moments of shivering silence, Alison shot a nervous glance at 'Emerald'. "My roommate...she was killed. Last night." She took a deep breath and downed some more of the alcohol. "My apartment is a crime scene. They won't let me anywhere near it, now." She frowned. "I have nowhere to stay." She glanced around the massive, desolate club. She had never seen the inside anymore. She'd only constructed fantasies of it within her thoughts. She still had not really witnessed it, yet. This empty shell of a nightclub would not spring to life until the evening.

"...I was wondering...if you had a bit of room on the floor...if you could...maybe..."

Carousel

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Morning

“Get the girl a ride somewhere, she shouldn’t stay here— Make sure those dogs at Homicide don’t take my damn case, and make sure all of this evidence makes it to the station. I have someone I need to see.” And with that, Ashley was out of the apartment in a flurry, headed towards the club and a pair of green eyes that might have seen something that the girl didn’t.

Alison grimaced at the rugged detective's partner, who was unconvincingly straight-edged. The rather unremarkable looking man offered her an apologetic smile. The curvature of his lips was even more insincere than her's; he was doing everything that he could to bring the bloodstained room back to protocol. Poor boy. This "Smith" was as green as a stick of broccoli.

"I'm going to take you to the station," Smith said with a kind, but assertive voice. "Or would you like to stay at my apartment until we can find a new place for you?"

"No."

"No to what?"

"Both."

"You aren't going to stay here, Miss Fitzpatrick."

"I am not going to spend my second night in New York in a...in a police station! I'll---I'll find a place to stay."

Smith frowned. Above all else, he wished the best for this poor naive fairy; this apartment had become cursed. She had to find somewhere. He had seen duplicates of Alison get dissolved by the system dozens of times -- moths, eagerly racing toward the flame. Perhaps this horrible day could set her on the right path. "If you want my advice, miss...Go home."

"You are preaching to the choir," Alison mumbled. "Is it all right if I gather my things?"

"Not until we conclude bagging evidence. I am sorry."

"Right. I'll be back." Alison stumbled out of the room and let her bodyweight momentously drag her down the stairs. She wandered into the subdued realm of the Carousel Club, still wearing the same nightgown as the previous evening. She hadn't even bothered to look down to witness her indecency. That was the least of her worries. She spotted the woman known as "Emerald" on the floor and hoarsely hollered toward her.

"Please help me."

War Never Changes

Robert House - Lucky 38

"It is", Barnaky replied. "Our Staffs will need to meet to work out the details on the size and nature of our Mission to the FZM, of course. It would be helpful to have access to Nellis AFB, and it's military runway and hangar facilities, if that is feasible. We should also exchange Ambassadors, I would be pleased to offer suitable facilities for a Embassy in Omaha. Also, if this is to be a long term Alliance, I think the matter of trade, and establishing reliable rail links between the FZM and the Order's lands should be discussed as well."

"You would have to take that up with the Boomers, who reside there and operate as the only human military component of the FZM thus far. I rule this territory, but I know better than to make promises on their behalf. You will have to coordinate it with them. I would be glad to equip you with an embassy in my territory. Terms will be drafted on paper and sent to your group momentarily."

House paused his speech to ponder Barnaky's final suggestion. "A rail line between our territories would surely bridge the gap between Midwest-and-west. I believe that such a gesture could be a stepping stone toward re-developing the high technology sector. I accept." He pieced together a set of final words. "Before I draw up an official document, is there anything else?"

Securitron Mk. II - New Vegas

"Ahem..well, anyway," Antony said, clearing his throat, "You said you're a security model. However I don't see any form of armament visible on you. Are you armed similarly to the Protectron then?"

"Securitrons have an array of armaments, but they do not resemble the Rob-Co Protectron. Each unit is equipped with a 9mm submachine gun, a rapid-fire G-28 25mm grenade launcher, M-235 missile launchers, and the X-25 Gatling laser system."

"Do you have any other questions?"

Vault 21 - Arctic Haven Quarters

The terminal on the desk inside the Arctic Haven-assigned room began to flash and text would appear on the screen.

President Robert House is open for communication.

Carousel

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, 8:22 AM

The life had been scraped out of Alison's eyes. She could barely keep them open as the detective approached. She had not changed clothes and still stood in her wrinkly nightgown. She smelled like Julia; the grotesque whirlwind of glitter, perfume, sex, and blood had infected the air. Eventually, it would spread. The whole city would reek of it. She had to go home. This was not how it was supposed to go.

“Hello Miss, I’m Detective Gallagher,” The detective paused, giving her an extended moment to take this information in. “What can you tell me about what took place here last night?”

Alison pressed a palm against the side of her forehead. A splitting migraine had cracked her concentration in half and she had hardly been able to comprehend the detective's sentence. "My name..." she sighed, looked down, and pressed harder onto her head. "M-my name is Alison Fitzpatrick." Her mouth started to throb and her eyes began to well up with tears. "I'm sorry...I...I need a moment." She turned away and wiped away the moisture from her face, smearing what was left of yesterday's makeup. She was beyond vanity -- she just needed to help this man so that he could get the fuck out of her apartment. Then she would pack her things and kiss New York goodbye.

After a few moments, Alison turned back around and gave a limp, insincere, but cooperative smile to the detective. "Julie brought a man over and made love to him in her room. It was...it was rather obnoxious. So I left and sat outside for a little while. I returned at...I don't know. Almost three o'clock?" She sniffled. "It wasn't her boyfriend who killed her." She closed her eyes and pointed at the burly corpse of Julia's boy-toy. "He's right there."

Alison took a deep breath. "The door had been kicked open and I found them as you see them now. The fire iron was...it was covered in blood. I can only assume that the killer kicked in the door and bashed them to death with wh-wh-whatever he could find..." She burst into tears again. She felt nothing for her roommate, but death had never spun in the same circles as her before. It had only been a day and New York had already broken her spirit.

Carousel

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, 2:41 AM

Alison rubbed her forehead. “Emerald” had floated away as if she had never sat down on that bench next to her at all. She glanced down the street and saw no sign of the elusive dancer. The past few minutes had been a dream. That was the feeling this entire city had given her; not even a day had elapsed and Alison was already faced with the tedious task of separating dream from reality, if such a thing was even possible. Well, then. If she was going to wade around in this surreal landscape, she could at least enjoy it. That would wait for tomorrow. This thunderstorm had been an exhausting one; she’d lost every ounce of her energy and dignity by now, loitering on this damp bench. She stood and waltzed back into the side-entrance to the Carousel for the night.

Alison reached into her pocket and sifted for her key as she ascended the steps to the top floor of the Carousel. She was too tired to keep her head up, and instead let it loll against her chest as she hobbled toward her room. She reached out toward the door of apartment 15, pointing her key against the lock, until she realized that it was not necessary. The door was acutely opened, and it had not been done so organically. Shards of wood stuck out of the hinge and tiny rustic pieces of the door’s lock rested on the ground. It had been forced open.

Nervously, Alison shuffled into the apartment. She had already formulated a best-case-scenario – Julia (and/or) her boy-toy had locked themselves out and their drunken stupor had incited their primal instincts when it came to getting the door open. “…Julia?”

No answer. Alison began to shiver. If Julia wasn’t here, then they’d been robbed. “Julia? Are you here?”

Nothing.

Alison turned on the light, which revealed itself to a lone, weak bulb dangling from the entryway to the living room. The television still produced faint jazz. A vast majority of the visibility was still owed to the natural lighting—if you could call it that—provided by the neon outside the windows. A sickening array of orange and red radiance plundered the living room, providing enough light for Alison to distinguish the silhouettes of the living room’s objects. A crumpled shape rested next to the couch – Alison must have thrown her blanket onto the ground before leaving.

Alison slowly made her way toward the couch when she realized that the shape was something else. She shoved the mass of fabric and it rolled over. The fabric was a dress. The shape it contained was a human. It wasn’t quite possible to measure the decibel of the screech she produced at that instant, but it could be heard by everyone within decent vicinity. A girl lifelessly rested inside – her roommate. Julia. The apartment’s fire iron rested on the ground next to Julia’s lifeless form. Alison bent down to observe her face. Part of it was gone; bone, skin, and all had been bashed-in.

It had to have been the man Julia had brought. He had spent the night with her. Alison sputtered around to find that another crumpled form rested on the other side of the couch, previously hidden by the television. A man’s corpse lay there, blood and brain coalesced into his wavy brown hair.

Alison was alone. It was best, and yet it was absolutely not. She screeched and sprinted out of the apartment. “Somebody! Help!”