Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-06-22 11:22 am
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-06-22 11:22 am
There was a sword in a barrel. A fucking sword. Fuck yes.
Having time off because he’d requested it was an odd experience, and Wilford didn’t know what to do with himself as a result. Usually time off happened because of programming, or strikes, or fuckery with the network. Knowing that things were going on without him was surprisingly uncomfortable. Wilford didn’t want to have time off while everyone else kept working. What if they got his show cancelled? What if they got better ratings than he did?
Wilford usually took a few days around his birthday off, but in the past it had been different. It either hadn’t been his show, or the whole show went dark. This was different and weird, and the drive up to Mt Chiliad was the most uncomfortable drive in a while.
These places were always the same. Minimal luggage. Empty inventory. And a lot of security. It had been Billy’s treat every year, since they’d known one another, but this was the first time Wilford wasn’t completely looking forward to it. He wasn’t not looking forward to it. But a little part of him wanted to be back in Los Santos more than it wanted to be out at a ranch.
Checking in was always an ordeal. Luggage was limited to a single backpack per person, which was thoroughly searched at the door. There were also body searches to prevent people from smuggling anything in. No booze. No drugs. No weapons. The machine beeped loudly as Wilford stepped through it, just like it did every year. The security guard stopped him, using his entire body to block the way forward as Wilford sighed and reached into his inventory, where he kept his journal. Something about the binding, or the clasp, or the pen he kept with it set the damn detector off every time. And every time, the guard took a minute step back and nodded, suddenly uncomfortably with what he was being shown. This time was no exception. Wilford put his journal back where it belonged and stepped through to claim his bag full of clothes.
Billy stepped through the machine without a single blip. He used an old Gameboy for his save log, and that damn thing never set anything off. Wilford didn’t understand it. He never would.
The lodge was several times bigger than the one they used to go to back east. This was a 5,000 acre ranch at the foot of Mt Chiliad, bought by some tech millionaire in the 90s and converted to a series of arenas and race tracks. Billy and Wilford shared a private room, just like every year. This particular lodge seemed to favour private rooms over barracks, but the walk from the front door to the stairs quickly cleared up why. The clientele was much different than what they were used to, for one. Back east, it had been common for Wilford to have been the only recognisable face present. This time, Wilford recognised most of the people they passed on the way to their room, and a good number of them were A-listers.
Wilford loved that about Los Santos. People recognised him, but there was always someone more recognisable somewhere nearby.
The room was charming and comfortable. They’d kept the ranch theme with the western decor, while updating security through the entire building. The windows had all been reinforced, with bars on the outside. In the distance, beyond the little field with a few horses to further keep up the theme, they could see one of the arenas. Wilford could see a car kicking up a cloud of dust in the distance, but it was too far away to hear any of the explosions or gunfire.
The first night, they always relaxed. They ate at the restaurant, made friends with some of the other folks there for the weekend, and planned out their schedule.
Death runs always sounded like a fun idea until they go there. Every single time. There were only about ten people doing the run, which made it even more of a challenge to get through alive. Wilford got through the disappearing floor, and the spike wall, and even managed to avoid the gas chamber. It was the fucking water that got him every time. He could never make the jump.
Being electrocuted was never fun. But it did mean he got to spend the rest of the run up on the observation deck with everyone else who sucked at these things. It was much more entertaining up on the observation deck. Between everyone shouting bad advice up in the observation deck, and people shouting down below through their headsets, the entire arena was chaos. One guy managed to find a little perch in between traps and refused to get down, while everyone else tried to conga line their way through the remaining traps, hoping there would be more runners than traps.
Of course there weren’t, and before long, everyone wound up on the observation deck, screaming at the coward to get out of the vent. When he continued to refuse, someone with more power than the rest of them gassed him out to end everyone’s misery.
The truck they found had a flat tire and the worst suspension in the world. Every bump and pocket they hit rattled through Wilford’s spine and threatened to knock out all of his teeth before the surgeon could. Billy took a corner too fast, and the truck rolled off the road, down an embankment, and into an unseen river. Somehow, they managed to get out without drowning, only to be met with gunfire at the surface. The river was wide, but they were able to get to the other side without being too badly shot. Wilford’s shoulder was on fire, but he pushed through it, trying to find cover on the wrong side of the arena.
There was a little shed that they were able to duck behind to catch their breath. Billy tossed him a couple of energy drinks and a first aid kit, each of them taking turns patching themselves up while the other kept an eye out for danger.
They were about as good as they were going to get when gunfire started ringing out nearby. Wilford got up and checked around the corner of the shed. He couldn’t see anybody, but he could hear them.
He heard them right behind him, along with the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. Wilford turned and shot the woman behind him. Billy was beyond saving, so Wilford ran toward where the woman had come from, finding a few of her buddies and shooting at all of them until he ran out of ammo.
He’d never once won a battle arena for some reason, and seemed to be continuing that streak.
There was a sword in a barrel. A fucking sword. Fuck yes. Wilford wanted that. And the boots. The boots were too big, but it was better than being barefoot out in the scrub. He and Billy ran back to their hastily built shack and locked the door beside them. They had some deer meat in a cooler, which Billy threw onto the fire while Wilford went through their loot. Ammo for guns they hadn’t found or built yet, three pairs of shoes that were too small for either of them, and a straw hat that Wilford decided he wanted to wear. A lot of garbage, really.
And a sword. The sword was awesome.
They were both completely unsurprised to realise they’d been followed. They heard the footsteps and whispers outside their awful little shack, and both got ready to bust out fighting. Billy killed the fire before one of them stepped in it by accident, plunging them into relative darkness. About five seconds later, someone outside started shooting through the walls with a much better gun than either of them had. Attempting to go with the element of surprise, Wilford burst through the door with his sword. He’d managed to take one of the guys down before the other one shot him in the face.
Fuck. He liked that sword.
“Fuck you! It’s not me!” he shouted through his headset.
“Well it’s not me, is it? So it must be you!”
He didn’t know where the other guy was. He checked his watch again. They were the only two left. It had to be the other guy, because the screen on Wilford’s watch was green. He decided to get out of his spot and find somewhere more secure, ignoring the other guy ranting about how he was apparently innocent, and it had to be Wilford who was hunting him. He found a little supply closet and locked himself in, ready to just camp out the timer.
“Oh fuck!” the other guy shouted suddenly.
Wilford stayed quiet for a few moments, knowing he was being baited.
“Where’d you go, pal?” he asked.
Nothing.
“Don’t do this. It’s not cute,” he said.
Still nothing. Fuck. What game was being played now?
“Hey, Wil. Where you at?”
It was Billy. Billy had been confirmed dead five minutes ago.
“Oh, fuck you!” Wilford shouted. “You filthy fucking cheat!”
Billy cackled on the other end of the line. Wilford was pretty sure he could hear it on the other side of the door. Right before it exploded.
Wilford usually took a few days around his birthday off, but in the past it had been different. It either hadn’t been his show, or the whole show went dark. This was different and weird, and the drive up to Mt Chiliad was the most uncomfortable drive in a while.
These places were always the same. Minimal luggage. Empty inventory. And a lot of security. It had been Billy’s treat every year, since they’d known one another, but this was the first time Wilford wasn’t completely looking forward to it. He wasn’t not looking forward to it. But a little part of him wanted to be back in Los Santos more than it wanted to be out at a ranch.
Checking in was always an ordeal. Luggage was limited to a single backpack per person, which was thoroughly searched at the door. There were also body searches to prevent people from smuggling anything in. No booze. No drugs. No weapons. The machine beeped loudly as Wilford stepped through it, just like it did every year. The security guard stopped him, using his entire body to block the way forward as Wilford sighed and reached into his inventory, where he kept his journal. Something about the binding, or the clasp, or the pen he kept with it set the damn detector off every time. And every time, the guard took a minute step back and nodded, suddenly uncomfortably with what he was being shown. This time was no exception. Wilford put his journal back where it belonged and stepped through to claim his bag full of clothes.
Billy stepped through the machine without a single blip. He used an old Gameboy for his save log, and that damn thing never set anything off. Wilford didn’t understand it. He never would.
The lodge was several times bigger than the one they used to go to back east. This was a 5,000 acre ranch at the foot of Mt Chiliad, bought by some tech millionaire in the 90s and converted to a series of arenas and race tracks. Billy and Wilford shared a private room, just like every year. This particular lodge seemed to favour private rooms over barracks, but the walk from the front door to the stairs quickly cleared up why. The clientele was much different than what they were used to, for one. Back east, it had been common for Wilford to have been the only recognisable face present. This time, Wilford recognised most of the people they passed on the way to their room, and a good number of them were A-listers.
Wilford loved that about Los Santos. People recognised him, but there was always someone more recognisable somewhere nearby.
The room was charming and comfortable. They’d kept the ranch theme with the western decor, while updating security through the entire building. The windows had all been reinforced, with bars on the outside. In the distance, beyond the little field with a few horses to further keep up the theme, they could see one of the arenas. Wilford could see a car kicking up a cloud of dust in the distance, but it was too far away to hear any of the explosions or gunfire.
The first night, they always relaxed. They ate at the restaurant, made friends with some of the other folks there for the weekend, and planned out their schedule.
Death runs always sounded like a fun idea until they go there. Every single time. There were only about ten people doing the run, which made it even more of a challenge to get through alive. Wilford got through the disappearing floor, and the spike wall, and even managed to avoid the gas chamber. It was the fucking water that got him every time. He could never make the jump.
Being electrocuted was never fun. But it did mean he got to spend the rest of the run up on the observation deck with everyone else who sucked at these things. It was much more entertaining up on the observation deck. Between everyone shouting bad advice up in the observation deck, and people shouting down below through their headsets, the entire arena was chaos. One guy managed to find a little perch in between traps and refused to get down, while everyone else tried to conga line their way through the remaining traps, hoping there would be more runners than traps.
Of course there weren’t, and before long, everyone wound up on the observation deck, screaming at the coward to get out of the vent. When he continued to refuse, someone with more power than the rest of them gassed him out to end everyone’s misery.
The truck they found had a flat tire and the worst suspension in the world. Every bump and pocket they hit rattled through Wilford’s spine and threatened to knock out all of his teeth before the surgeon could. Billy took a corner too fast, and the truck rolled off the road, down an embankment, and into an unseen river. Somehow, they managed to get out without drowning, only to be met with gunfire at the surface. The river was wide, but they were able to get to the other side without being too badly shot. Wilford’s shoulder was on fire, but he pushed through it, trying to find cover on the wrong side of the arena.
There was a little shed that they were able to duck behind to catch their breath. Billy tossed him a couple of energy drinks and a first aid kit, each of them taking turns patching themselves up while the other kept an eye out for danger.
They were about as good as they were going to get when gunfire started ringing out nearby. Wilford got up and checked around the corner of the shed. He couldn’t see anybody, but he could hear them.
He heard them right behind him, along with the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. Wilford turned and shot the woman behind him. Billy was beyond saving, so Wilford ran toward where the woman had come from, finding a few of her buddies and shooting at all of them until he ran out of ammo.
He’d never once won a battle arena for some reason, and seemed to be continuing that streak.
There was a sword in a barrel. A fucking sword. Fuck yes. Wilford wanted that. And the boots. The boots were too big, but it was better than being barefoot out in the scrub. He and Billy ran back to their hastily built shack and locked the door beside them. They had some deer meat in a cooler, which Billy threw onto the fire while Wilford went through their loot. Ammo for guns they hadn’t found or built yet, three pairs of shoes that were too small for either of them, and a straw hat that Wilford decided he wanted to wear. A lot of garbage, really.
And a sword. The sword was awesome.
They were both completely unsurprised to realise they’d been followed. They heard the footsteps and whispers outside their awful little shack, and both got ready to bust out fighting. Billy killed the fire before one of them stepped in it by accident, plunging them into relative darkness. About five seconds later, someone outside started shooting through the walls with a much better gun than either of them had. Attempting to go with the element of surprise, Wilford burst through the door with his sword. He’d managed to take one of the guys down before the other one shot him in the face.
Fuck. He liked that sword.
“Fuck you! It’s not me!” he shouted through his headset.
“Well it’s not me, is it? So it must be you!”
He didn’t know where the other guy was. He checked his watch again. They were the only two left. It had to be the other guy, because the screen on Wilford’s watch was green. He decided to get out of his spot and find somewhere more secure, ignoring the other guy ranting about how he was apparently innocent, and it had to be Wilford who was hunting him. He found a little supply closet and locked himself in, ready to just camp out the timer.
“Oh fuck!” the other guy shouted suddenly.
Wilford stayed quiet for a few moments, knowing he was being baited.
“Where’d you go, pal?” he asked.
Nothing.
“Don’t do this. It’s not cute,” he said.
Still nothing. Fuck. What game was being played now?
“Hey, Wil. Where you at?”
It was Billy. Billy had been confirmed dead five minutes ago.
“Oh, fuck you!” Wilford shouted. “You filthy fucking cheat!”
Billy cackled on the other end of the line. Wilford was pretty sure he could hear it on the other side of the door. Right before it exploded.