A/N: The contents of this chapter may not be suitable for all audiences. Please read at your own discretion. (violence, twisted thought patterns, torture)
"... Yeah, I heard you," Alesha said. "I'm just processing."
If everything CJ told her was true, then a lot of things made sense. "Anyway, by my estimation that leaves Veronica and Westley as the final two with uncertain roles, at least before your divination last night. Who did you look into?"
CJ sighed and ran his hand along his scalp. "I wish I'd have looked at Westley's. But I divined Veronica's secondary role and goal. I thought she was more likely to have killed Shelby because they'd clashed the day before. I guess I didn't have enough faith in her."
"Don't be too hard on yourself," Alesha said, though she knew the words would probably ring hollow. "Considering that she'd clashed with Shelby before and was the last person to see her alive before she disappeared, I would have been suspicious of her, too."
"Well, thanks," he muttered. "Anyway. Veronica's secondary role is Hunter, and she's supposed to hunt some beast known as the Terror of the Island or something like that. If it weren't for the fact that Westley is the only one without a verifiable other role now, we'd have been out of luck trying to find the Serial Killer."
"Yeah," Alesha said. "Though, come to think of it, why are you so adamant that he has to die just because of that role? I'm a Werewolf, but unlike the legends, I don't go around eating people. I just run down the beach while howling at the moon."
CJ was quiet for a minute before he responded, and when he did, his words were soft. "A gut feeling, really. Alesha, how much did your role change you? Think deeply about it, and respond with as few words as possible."
She looked at him with a quizzical look in her eye, then nodded in understanding when he mimed a headache. Right, the penalty. They would be punished for acting or speaking too far outside of their roles.
Alesha turned her attention inwards and backwards. When transforming into her Werewolf form, she had experienced a kind of blissful release she never knew as a human. It was exhilarating and intoxicating, completely sweeping away rational thought and filling her with a sense of fulfillment as if she had finally reached something she'd always longed for. But, had she ever actually longed for that? Had she ever wanted to feel the wind blowing through her fur as she ran down the beach, panting from the exertion of rapid movement? Had she ever wanted to be anything other than human?
Recalling just how often she had cursed at and fought against the System (which had been strangely quiet today) for turning her into something other than human, she began to feel a bit of dread. Just how much of what she'd experienced these past two nights as a Werewolf was due to her own free will? How much of it was as a result of "emotional injection," or "modification" artificially imposed on her from an outside source? Were those emotions her own, or were they not? If they weren't originally, then did they become her own as soon as she accepted them? What then? With something relatively benign, such as a friendly Werewolf that simply enjoys running around like a puppy in a dog park, these questions and their implications might not be a big deal.
What about an existence as terrifying and evil as a Serial Killer, then? What would happen if, through no fault of their own, someone was artificially "bestowed" the inclinations, tendencies, desires or even the personality of a Serial Killer? How long would their original self last before crumbling down and being completely overwritten by something so overwhelming as that?
By this point, Alesha had turned pale. "I get it," she said. "That guy, though he's just as much a victim of this Game as we are, he has to die. As soon as humanly possible."
"No, not as soon as humanly possible," CJ corrected. "As soon as Werewolf-ly possible!"
Alesha rolled her eyes. "Where's Jasper? I have an idea."
----
Westley walked behind Tristen, carrying a load of wood on his back. "Can we stop for a drink?" He asked.
"You can stop by yourself and catch up later," Tristen said. "We've got work to do."
"Man! It feels like just yesterday you were weak and sickly… oh wait, it was. Did you get bit? Are you a Werewolf now?"
Tristen sighed, turning around. "What's your point?"
When his eyes landed on Westley's face, they got drawn away by a golden flash of motion -- swish, swish, swish.
"Gotcha," Westley whispered in triumph. He kept the pocket watch swinging as he spoke. "Tristen, you will answer my questions truthfully. Were you turned into a Werewolf?"
"Yes," he said, vacant eyes following the watch's parabolic motion.
"Who turned you?"
"Alesha."
"Do you know anyone else's roles?"
"Hallie is the Coroner, Jasper is a Witch Doctor, Veronica is a Hunter. I haven't been able to piece together what CJ's role is, he's too crafty. Your role is a mystery to me as well but I don't think it's anything good."
Westley nodded. This was useful information. He'd been about to target Alesha or Veronica next, but with this information, he now knew that either of them could be potentially dangerous targets. He needed to be careful.
"Alright, Tristen, When I stop swinging this watch you're going to forget everything we talked about during this conversation. Then, you'll take a break with me at the river and take a quick nap on the banks. You will dull your senses and not wake up even if you are attacked. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
The watch stopped swinging, breaking the hypnosis. Everything went as Westley had commanded -- the two of them went to the river together, and, finding himself exhausted for some reason, Tristen decided to take a nap on the banks.
Westley took out a sharp, broken bone he had prepared for the purpose and began to contemplate what to do. "Hmm, do I go for the kill quickly? Or take my time with it… no, it's better to do it quickly. Something is telling me they've figured something out. Ah, well, better make the most of a quick job!"
With that, he stripped off his outer layer to protect his clothes from bloodstains, then pounced on the sleeping Tristen. Thankfully, he'd brought plenty of bones to play with! In quick succession, Westley slammed sharpened bone spikes through the gap between the radius and ulna in each arm, as well as one into each of his thighs. "If you wake up, this is gonna hurt~" he cooed with a maniacal grin.
What followed was a kind of "art form" that only a Serial Killer would appreciate -- and even then, they might not. Westley cut the sleeping Tristen up all over, first going for critical muscles or ligaments required to move properly, then carving haphazard patterns into his skin. He cut a series of dots and dashes into the torso -- his name, but in morse code (one of the more useless tidbits of information he'd obtained during his days as a nerd). For fun, he then added "was here," also in morse code.
By this point, about ten minutes had passed. "It's a pity, but I really have to wrap this up now. Let's see, where should the fatal blow be… the neck? The heart? Ooh, no I've got it! I'll slit your wrists and puncture your lungs, then bury you 'alive!' Then, by the time you die and I kill Hallie by having buried you in her place, I'll be far from here!"
Everything would have gone according to plan -- that is, if Alesha's plan hadn't gone into effect first.