allstarz | week 0 execution

W0: EXECUTION

In the morning at 12:30pm sharp, you hear the intercom speakers blare loudly across the entire airport, perfectly audible no matter where you are.

All passengers, please report to the Flight Deck effective immediately. All passengers, please report to the Flight Deck effective immediately...

Hopefully that’s not quite as long a trek as Saturday for you. All the same, you are propelled by that same sensation to come to the Flight Deck. Your feet carry you past that glass doors onto the outdoor terrace, where the benches and quaint planters await. Why, it’d look almost serene if not for the fact that one of you appears to be missing. There’s really only one place they could be, isn’t there? Your gaze might eventually settle over the runway you can see out below—the view is great from up here.

While you're not forcibly rooted to your seats, there's no way out. The glass doors close behind the last person and refuse to budge, and the viewing glass is just as unbreakable. As for any open areas, the invisible forcefield is working so very hard on this Sunday.

Oh, and because I’m sure this is the most pressing question on your mind: yes, Allstars Coffee is still serving hot beverages and small baked eats, even during execution. That’s what you need during stressful situations, right? More commemoration ASS caffeine? Yes, we thought so. You’re welcome.

In just a few minutes, the combatants approach, as helpful screens light up to further help you understand today's proceedings.

CULPRIT

EXECUTIONER

Allstars——prepare for sendoff!!

NAVIGATION; (FULL NAV)

INFO

PLAYER STATUSES IC PROFILES MURDER PROPOSALS CYOA SIGN-UPS

SETTING

NPC AUDIENCES LOCATIONS ROOMING CURFEW

REPORTING

PC TURN-IN MOD REPORTING EVENT TURN-IN VOTING

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ there are so many warnings and errors going off in boothill's neurocircuitry—systems failing, losing energy, losing cognitive processing. even so, a ridiculous thought comes to mind as anders' shadow rises over him: that the shade feels blessedly cooling on his face, where his sensors can still register the faintest of changes in temperature. it's the smallest bit of comfort he gets while answers speaks, telling him to find justice in the next life.

justice. more colors flash, fainter than last time. DESPAIR. SORROW. REMORSE. REGRET. does he deserve justice at this point? killing twice on the first week? maybe roxana, real roxana and not the one from his strange and fading memories of the prism, was right. maybe he was always fated to be corrupted this way.

boothill's chin falls to his shoulder when he can no longer hold it up. there's a thump on the ground next to him. the knife dives into the crack over his breastplate, the place where his heart lies exposed.

out in the runway a few meters off, in the direction where boothill's eye is pointing, a toddler sits in a small circle of grass, out of place in the middle of the pavement. she wears a red bandana over her little clothes, and her hair thin and curly near her head. a hand-carved guitar, perfectly sized for her body, lies halfway on her chubby legs. she hits the strings with her hands and laughs delightedly at the light, discordant sounds it makes. then she looks directly at boothill as he dies beside anders and gives him a big grin, her bubblegum-pink gums showing little bits of baby teeth.

LOVE. GRIEF. TRUST. ACCEPTANCE.

boothill smiles at her and she disappears, eaten up by flames like a piece of parchment. he dies this way, colored blood pouring out of him, the light going out behind his eyes entirely.

Boot of the Hill is dead. ]