>Attack Mary now.

Why not

>Rape Mary

>>26485147
>other
"Your name's Mary Midden, isn't it? God's told me to kill you."

>Disregard god, get a burger. Fuck I'm hungry.

>deny existence of magical space wizard
>show contempt for Bronze Age murder cult fairytales by buying a hamburger
>read Dawkins

[x[ Let Mary pass

we follow her and off her soemwhere with no witnisses.
And then revel in the bloodlust.

>>26485147
>>Other.
Rape Mary

>>26485211
"That's Mary Midden. She has to die."

Shut up God. You don't even know if that's her name, do you? You glance up, around your fingers. She wasn't expecting this. Couldn't expect the wrath of the divine, on her walk home. Just a bit closer.

You draw your legs underneath yourself, shifting carefully, and slowly. A few people glance, disturbed, and clear a bit further away from you, unaware of the grace of God touching this one. This was a prophecy. She looked like a doctor. Maybe she would be the one to deliver the antichrist? Or perhaps, she was an abortion doctor, and she would be the one who, if not stopped, would prevent the second coming? You feel tears welling in your eyes. It wasn't really fair. But God called on you, finally, from your years in the wilderness. You swallow, wince at your aching knees.

Trust in the Lord, and lean not on your own understanding.

You're squatting now, leaning on your right leg- the one without that cut. You feel yourself shriveling, wanting to curl up and disappear as the crowds sweep by. You're about to give up, about to stop, but then she does it. She looks out of the corner of her eye, looks at you. Her eye crinkles up. She raises a lip in disgust.

That's Mary Midden. She has to die.

You leap for her, and she cries out, steps back, raising her arms from her purse, as you grab her on the shoulders, and send her down to the sidewalk. She bounces off of the walk, shrieking, raising her hands over her face, as you bring your cup of change up, a brilliant, shining comet, glittering in the late night street lamps, and you scream with her. It wasn't fair. You bring your metal mug on her forehead, hard. Red bloom.

"What the fuck are you doing, you freak!" You glance. It's a black man, unseasoned by streets. Some college puke. A circle is growing around you, but he approaches.

>Don't stop. Mary must die.
>React to this new threat.
>Don't. He'll kill you. They'll kill you.
>Other.

>>26485324
>Don't stop. Mary must die.

>>26485314
>soemwhere
>witnisses
Goodness me. I must get some sleep, it seems.

>>26485324
>Don't stop. Mary must die.

>Sorry. Didn't think there would be multiple replies. I'll give it ten minutes, then draw consensus, and write.

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>>26485324
>Don't stop. Mary must die.
God wills it.

Wow guys, way to listen to satan on the first fucking choice of the quest.

Get a burger I said, it's probably better to disregard suspscious voices in your head. But no. If this woman is the only thing standing between unspeakable evil and the world, and you just listened to the voices in your head like a tool, then you brought the results on yourself.

And I'm still fucking hungry.

Shit. I have to go soon. This seems intresting though.

inb4 /tg/ takes the morally right heroic path

>>26485406
>>26485380
>>26485358
Writing.

>>26485419
Fuck! Too late!
>>26485414

>>26485414
Eat a dick. She must die.

She scratches. She scratches so fiercely. Her blue nails up and at your face. You're crying. You didn't want to do this. But you were a member of God's army. Mary Midden must die. Your mug comes up, and goes down on her face again.

"Somebody call the cops!"
"Police! POLICE!"

The police. Policemen were scary. They would come to you while you tried to sleep, and kick you. Asked why you wouldn't go to the shelters. Cause Mike was at the shelters. Cause the shelters had nice little clean yuppies looking with shining teeth, using you smiling as they put you down on their resumes and tumblrs to live normal good and happy lives, and thinking a bit of watery soup would be a fair trade. You wanted their lives.

Your mug cracks, right above her eye. She's begging now, even as her nails carve up skin and dirt on your face. It wasn't fair. It shatters on her face, before the black kid tackles you from the side, and you hear whistles from further away.

"The fuck is wrong with you!" It's not a question, "You fucking freaking weirdo!" He gives a right hook, catches you in the jaw, works a tooth rotten from decay out of your gum, and pushes your head in to pavement. No, no, you couldn't be sure Mary Midden wasn't still alive. You bite his arm, he bellows, leaning off of you, and you crawl, you crawl for her, the one chosen by God, still laying by the curb side, blood red so vibrant against the chemical red dying her hair,

You reach, claw, scrabble, your chipped and ruined fingernails stained black by a hard life reaching for her, when the polycarbonate baton hits you in the back of the head.

"Stop it! Hold still!"

It's hard to focus. It's blurry. She's right under a streetlight. She looks shining. Doesn't even look fat, with her eyes half lidded like this. Arms reach from the dark, pull her aloft- the shoulder length hair, a dark halo. She had to die. God wanted her back in heaven. That had to have been it. You were doing a favor. God is good.

You weep then, and howl, trying to claw forward. Oh but God is kind. But when could you go with her? Chips of mug, and blood drip behind, as she goes in the dark, swallowed by the hands beyond your blurred vision. When was it your town? When could you be there? When could you join her? She would be grateful. To go back to heaven, yes? Maybe she wouldn't look at you with disgust then.

She would look at you with gratitude. Realized what you had done. Her angelic wings spread wide as her smile. Oh wouldn't that be nice.

You hear the crackle of a tazer.
>Die.
>Live.

>>26485580
>Die.

>>26485580
>Die
Then we can hang out with Mary Midden.

>Die.
shortest. quest. ever.

>>26485580
>Live

Hopefully we can get some help.

>>26485580
>Live

God might still need something from us. It would be selfish to just die.

>>26485580
>Die.
We ghost now

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>>26485608

>>26485580
>Die.
We deserve it.

"No, no, no! I said kill Mary's MIDDEN! Her compost heap! You were supposed to mulch her compost heap, how on earth can you get that wrong?!"

>>26485580
>Die.

>Die.

Writing.

You scream. You scream, until you feel like your lungs are giving out. You scream, until it feels like the whole of your being is coming out your mouth. And then suddenly you can't scream. You feel stretched, shivering, involuntarily pissing yourself, sobbing, wracked with pain, breaking your fingernails on the pavement.

The gates. Your eyes roll in to the back of your head, but you can see clearer than ever. The gates are waiting for you. Mary Midden is waiting for you there. Pretty and whole. She wants you home. You want to go home. Oh God, how long have you waited? How many nights on sodden cardboard, how many days begging on corners, have you wished to be home? But you could never go home. You were a tumor. A blight. A failure. A curse. You didn't want to be a burden. You didn't want to hurt them. Those you loved. But here was the answer, right here before you. The body might be defiled, but you'd always kept your soul clean, you had.

"Oh fuck," You hear a fat man breath above you. You sizzle, warm, comforted. You can go home again. It was the weakness of the flesh. You lay your cheek on pavement for the last time. You were clean now. You can't wait to see your kids.

"We, we have two down, one critically wounded, and, and, fuck, she pissed herself-"
"You fucking idiot! Look, look at her, she- she's pushing sixty! You didn't need to!"

No more tears now, little lamb. God cares for you. No matter what may have happened, no matter what might have been done. He will love you. You're rolled up, face to the street light. The light is blinding. But you don't need to worry about your eyes any more.

Goodbye.

Mary Midden closes her eyes.

>>26485816
...
Well shit.

>>26485816
So.... Did we die or what?

>>26485869
>>26485855
The vote was to die.

Mary Midden is dead.

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>>26485881
wait
were we mary midden all along

*slow clap*

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>>26485881
>>26485907
>mfw

>>26485907
nah, we were playing God (the voice in Mary Midden's head)

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>>26485816

>>26485930
There are options.

Mary Midden is dead though.

>The Villain.
>The Doctor.
>The Daughter.
>The Martyr.
>The Hero.

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>>26485924
but
...
fuck im confucsed

>>26485961
The Doctor

Doctor... FRANKENSTEIN.

>>26485961
whatÉ
what does this mean

>>26485961
I'm not sure what to do so,
>The Doctor

>>26485983
Shh. Just choose. The tangerines hold many secrets.

>>26485987
>>26485978
>The Doctor.

Very well.

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>>26485994
UNNNFFFHHHH
I DONT
I DONT KNOW
MY MIIIND
IT IS NO

>>26486011
waiting

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"Jesus CHRIST," Her eye had come out. Oh sweet little Angela. She had smugly said to you on the way in that she had just got off work. Smiled at you on the way out.

There was part of a coffee mug shattered in her face now, and her eye had come out. Green and bright.

"Is she breathing?" Some tool out in the crowd.

There is a quintessential unfairness to medical care. You're not a doctor. But you know, just looking at poor, sweet Angela McCluskey, that she didn't have much of a chance. What did she ever do?

"Up, up, up, up, c'mon, careful, up," That's Dwight Edelhart. He's your fellow paramedic. You're not a doctor. You can't save her. But you can get her to a hospital. Where they might save her. Probably not.

"There she is," You get the gurney up, and over. Dwight looks upset. Had a thing for Angela, you guessed. Not fair. You glance back, at the street, to the corpse being covered by a white sheet. What the fuck was wrong with the world that some crazy bitch could be allowed to hit such a nice woman like Angie? Some crazy fucking baglady.

"Hope she suffered," Dwight echoes your thoughts miserably, as you push the gurney in to the ambulance.

You get her up there. Get her settled, strapped down, get the tubes in, brush away what you could. You're no doctor. There are doctors at the hospital. You're just the delivery boy.

Dwight works. Dwight has all his attention on Angela. Good boy.

>Make Dwight angry.
>Make Dwight sad.
>Make Dwight fall.
>Other.

>>26486096
>Make Dwight fall

>this quest
what in the flying fuck am i reading?

>>26486096
>Make Dwight fall
Making Paladins fall is practically my profession.

>>26486096
Make Dwight sad.

>>26486096
>Other
Remain Silent
Ponder reasons as to Angie's death

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>this quest

Dwight falls. Writing.

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>>26486126
cant corrupt pure evil, nigger

>>26486202
hurryyy uuuupppp

The ambulance was where you were God. You internalize this, bumping along the road, heading for the hospital. Dwight is working away, frantically, frenetically at Angela. You stay very still, watch him. You sway over Angela's body, glancing at her blood stained scrubs, but paying most attention to Dwight's hands.

Somebody would be blamed for this. Angela would not be the same when this was all over, after all. No matter what, Angela would be poorly. Best case scenario, you contemplate, her eye, a missing eye. No longer the 'girl next door,' the attainable, chubby one with a sweet smile and sweet look to her.

You look up to Dwight's eyes again. Nervously working away. Young. New. Fresh. His career could recover from this.

"Dwight, what the fuck are you doing?"

You reach out, grab Dwight's hand, as he's reaching for Angela's face. He looks up in a panic, staring at you.
"Let go! I have to keep the-"
"No, no, no!" You point, forcefully to the opposite side of Angela, to nothing in particular, "Are you blind? Get that taken care of!"
"The fuck are you-"

You slap him.

"She's dying damn it, every second counts! Are you this fucking new? Holy shit, move over!"

Dwight is baffled. He's never seen this side of you before. Neither have you really. But Angela was part of the hospital staff. And this is important. So very, very important in life. Hate is a balm. It is society's autoimmune response. You move over to Angela's other shoulder, letting Dwight stay on her sinister side, and resume doing exactly what you were doing before. They would look for something to blame. Dwight bears his seed of doubt. He would bear the guilt, not you. When Angela inevitably wakes up a different woman, or brain dead, or something worse, Dwight would be the first to stumble. Because he cared for her, and he trusted you.

Your hand works mechanically, stemming bleeding, removing shards, bringing air to a poor woman that didn't deserve anything.

Will she live?
>Yes.
>No.

>>26486279
Expect slowness. Sorry mate.

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>>26486281
>No
I don't even know what's happening, but I'm voting anyways.

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>>26486281
>Yes

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>>26486311
>>26486324

>mfw

Live pls

>>26486281
Yes!

>>26486281
No.

>>26486362
>>26486336
>>26486324
A dreadful fate.

Writing.

>>26486281
yes

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>>26486281
>Are you this fucking new?

>>26486373

Dammit, this quest is going to make me sad isn't it? Everyone left dead or as freaks.

>>26486389
Well what were you expecting from a quest with the title Kill Quest? Fun with ponies and rainbows?

>>26486410

Was expecting just one kill every once in awhile, not one every 3 posts

She stirs. She still has a heartbeat, a will to live. Poor little dear Angela. You wonder if she'll wake up Angela even. The shards are so deep. Who could have hated her this much?

You glance up at your fellow in the ambulance, and he flinches. Dwight is cowed. Good.

You are a god in the ambulance. Let no one forget it.

You ride for the hospital, sirens shrieking where she can not.

The ambulance bullies its way in to the hospital, and is met by a crowd of gabbering limbs, flailing instruments, and undue worry. You are confident she shall live. Dwight opens the ambulance doors, clearing the way. While his back is turned, you lean in close to Angela, and kiss her wound. That should help. What is wrong with you?

You push her out, out to the hands of the waiting beast, and their cilia flail and draw her in to the bowels of the hospital. You have worked too late. You are a good person. You think such strange things. Out there, you are sure, you will go back to retrieve fat people, and you can make fun of them with Dwight, and not worry about the fear of being an outcast in the hospital if their dear sweet Angie suffers and you are the only one to blame. You can think of people as people again, when you have a junkie wailing on your gurney, and you can laugh with Dwight, instead of seeing him a lamb. You lick the blood from your lips.

There is a man, waiting in the shelter of a tree from the fluorescent hospital beast. Your ambulance shivers, waiting for you. But. He is dark and squat in that shadow, despite his yellow skin. His eyes, ah, how they glitter in that fell dark. Delicate gloves, and a phone book open on his chest.

Something dreadful would happen, if you approach those eyes.

You can still forget.

>Approach the man.
>Go back to the ambulance.
>Follow Angie into the hospital.

>>26486421
Sorry to disappoint.

>>26486452
>Approach the man.

>>26486452
Approach the man.

>>26486421
theres still only been 1

mary midden is the only one dead

angie is just gonna end up either a vegetable or visually impaired

possibly both

solutions:
>1.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visual_prosthesis
>2.http://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Servitor#.UgIpRW1m50o

>>26486455

Not disappointed at all. Just not what I expected.

>Approach yon man

Approaching.

>>26486452
Approach the man.

You don't want to do this. God, why was it so lonely here in the dark? You shiver, in the heat of an August night. You step forward to the man, shaking your head. No, no, this isn't what is to be done. It's a dark and lonely parking lot, and he's wearing a phone book as a fashion accessory. This isn't to be done.

You look behind, helplessly, as you walk from your ambulance. No driver. No one, no one at all in front of the hospital but you and this man.

One soft step, in front of the other, and you get closer to the man, the phone book open, his hands to his side, spreading and closing, the noise of leather tightening and relaxing, as he waits. Flesh peels back, baring teeth. A smile? You can't call it that.

"Mother, mother, mother, mother, mother," He whispers to the humid night, as you approach, shaking, "Mother, mother, mother, mother, mother."

"Who are you?" You whisper, wishing for nothing else than to be crouched in an ambulance, staring down a fat man with a coronary, "What do you want?"

"Mother, mother, mother, mother, mother," The yellow man doesn't sing, walking towards you, one gloved hand rising, tapping at his phone book on his breast, "Mother, mother, mother, mother, mother."
"We're in front of a hospital," Oh, god, why would you ever leave your realm? "You should, you should be careful, there are cameras."

His free hand whips out, grabs you around your throat. He's shorter than you, oh but god is he strong. How did he cross so far, so fast? Him, whispering that refrain. Mother. Mother. Mother. Your mouth cranes open, as you try for breath.

>Fight. Be free. Don't die.
>Beg.
>Pray.
>Read the phone book, child.
>Other.

Enjoy the reading material.

>>26486550
Read the phone book. What else is there to do.

>>26486550
Read the phone book.

>>26486576
>>26486568
>>26486565
Reading.

Why? Why in the fucking CHRIST are you doing this? This isn't right. This isn't fair. But that, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap on his paper drew your eyes.

Diane Bovet.A phone number. An address. Even as your eyes fill with tears, and you thrash, darkness creeping in to your vision, you keep reading that. Diane Bovet. A phone number. An address. What the fuck? Why the hell were you reading that?

The dark man takes his other hand, and adds it on to your throat, sweeping your legs out from under you with a swift kick. You should fight. You're taller. Oh, he was strong, but do not go gentle in to that good night! That's what your father always told you. Now, in a nursing home. He slams you against the tree, pushing you in, smile on his face, whispering, "Mother, mother, mother, mother, mother," working his thumbs in to your trachea.

Why? You gasp, looking up, tongue, tongue too big for your mouth, air, air, air, AIR! What a precious need, what a dreadful thirst. Your lung burn, you weep. Why? Diane Bovet. A phone number. An address. Why would this be the last thing running through your mind. You raise a weak hand, but you can't interfere, can't stop. Diane Bovet. A phone number. An address.

It's not fair. Your eyelids, start to grow heavy, even as your body wracks itself for precious oxygen. Why the fuck were you dying? Why did you do this? How stupid could you be to approach a strange man in the dark like this? Diane Bovet. A phone number. An address. What pointless bullshit to think about. If only you could think of Emily instead.

His thumbs are set on opposite sides of your adam's apple. They work down, pushing it in.

Emily. Oh God, Emily. Forgive me. Diane Bovet. Four one oh, two two five, five eight seven four. Three three one nine Elmley Ave.

Eric Willis dies, sputtering, drooling, eyes open, staring up, oxygen deprived.

Did he deserve to die?
>Yes.
>No.

Eric and Mary are dead.
>The Villain.
>The Daughter.
>The Martyr.
>The Hero.

>>26486658
oh god, they're all gonna die.
four more people are gonna die.

>>26486658

Yes because he was dumb as fuck. He deserved to die in the sense that the people in horror movies do.

Show me the Hero

>>26486658
No.

The Hero

>>26486658
>The Daughter

>>26486658
>No.

>The Martyr.

>>26486669
I don't think being dumb as fuck warrants divine retribution on the ultimate scale.
But then who am I to say so, eh?

>>26486687

Well, the way I think about it is

>see obvious evil
>go and introduce yourself

What did he expect to happen?

>>26486672
>>26486669
>The Hero.

That is where we'll pick up tomorrow. I need to sleep. 4:40AM here.

Quest should be over soon.

>>26486699
>obvious evil
That's not how reality works, anon.

>>26486658
What the fuck is even going on

Also,
>No
>The Martyr

>>26486669
But, you told him to.