A/N: This story is based heavily off the recently released 2017 Friday the 13th: The Game, and as such plays perhaps a bit loose with continuity, and particularly location. Likewise the characters are based off my own interpretations of them, due to the game-specific characters not having much canonical personality. The story itself is still in progress, and updates may be slow but I have somewhat of a buffer before it gets to where I currently am in the writing process. Any feedback or comments you can give are always welcome, and I hope you enjoy the story!
Friday the 13th: Legacy of Camp Blood
Prologue
A chilly breeze rustled the branches of the trees and tiptoed over the surface of the lake beyond, leaving dark ripples in the water painted silver by moonlight. Around the beach, the songs of hidden crickets broke the otherwise silent night. Their high-pitched chirps were nearly loud enough to mask the sound of liquid spilling and the muted curse that followed. Every second out on the dock felt too open, too exposed. The moon was too bright, the air too quiet, too still even with the breeze. Finally the last drop of gasoline trickled into the engine, and Tommy Jarvis straightened up with a sigh of relief.
He'd already checked the hull for leaks and repaired the engine. Old and rickety though the speedboat was, it was a chance of survival. As he turned to walk down the dock back to the shore, going back to inform the others of the repair, he realized something.
The crickets had stopped singing.
For a moment his footsteps stopped, his heart pounding in his chest and his breath catching in his throat. And that moment was all it took. Behind him was a mighty splash of dislocated water, and the dock quivered as heavy boots landed on it. Before Tommy could move at all, too-strong hands shot out, grabbing his arms in vice-like grips. Panic overwhelmed him, filled with memories of the first time he'd been grabbed this way, years ago when he was only eleven. The hands gripping him were wet, and with a mighty struggle, he pulled free, taking a few steps away as he turned to face his attacker.
Looming overhead, larger than life, stood a dark human shape. Clad in black with rotted skin, one gloved hand clutching a long, sharp piece of wrought-iron fence like a spear. And above it all -drawing the eye like a beacon- a white hockey mask, almost glowing in the bright moonlight. His old nemesis- Jason Voorhees.
Again, the gloved hand shot out- just one this time, the empty one- grasping his throat from a distance that Tommy would have sworn impossible. His fingers clawed against Jason's huge hand, trying to free himself as he was raised off the ground. The edges of his vision began to cloud as he struggled for air, blood pounding in his ears. Then, with a force that made the dock shake, Jason slammed him down on his knees, pulling back the spear to strike. Gasping for breath, paralyzed in fear, he watched the sharp pointed tip come ever closer until...
With a full-body lurch, Tommy woke. No Jason, no lake, no dock. Just him, his darkened room, and a roaring headache. He relaxed back against the pillow, heart and head pounding. The only light filtering through his windows was pale and muted, filtering through the trees outside- clearly not dawn yet. What time was it anyway? He couldn't have been asleep long, he didn't feel nearly rested enough, but now he was far too alert to sleep. Groaning, he rolled to one side, fishing on the bedside table for a nearby lamp. With a tug of the pull-chain, warm golden light flooded the corner of the room, revealing a
The glasses inside were not a fashionable model, rounded with thick plastic frames and badly un-flattering to his long face, but the frames had been cheap and he couldn't complain. He rarely used them anyway. Clumsily Tommy settled them on his nose and turned his gaze to the clock by the bed. Nearly 2 am. Definitely not enough sleep, but better than some nights.
He'd dreamed of Jason for years, ever since he was a child, but the dreams had always been different. Fragments of things he'd experienced or read about, or just twisted verions of places he knew well. But lately his dreams had changed.
Now, each dream had been nearly the same each night- arriving at Camp Crystal Lake to stop Jason from preying on the counselors there, and each night ending in him jolting awake just before he met his grisly demise at the hands of Jason Voorhees. They all played out differently, even down to Jason's appearance. Always tall and broad and terrifying, but sometimes more rotted and corpse-like, other nights more human-looking in ratty-looking overalls and a bag tied over his head. The worst nights, the mask seemed to be almost part of his face, or he loomed charred and smoldering, with a trident in hand and flaming pits behind the mask where his eyes should be.
In the light of his bedside lamp, the inky tendrils of the nightmare were fading, but feeling of heavy hands on his arms still lingered. He needed more sleep, the weary ache drifting through fingers and toes and pressing against his head let him know that clearly. However, like always his brain had other ideas. Thoughts, feelings, emotions, all jumbled together in a ball of confusion swirled in his brain, made up of effectively everything and nothing at the same time. The sudden awakening had set his heart beating a little faster and caused a tangled knot of worry to sit in his stomach.
With a soft groan, Tommy sat up. Much as he needed sleep, it wouldn't be coming for a while tonight. It had been hard enough getting to sleep in this heat without an overactive brain and nagging anxiety, it would be almost impossible to sleep until it subsided. He leaned over the end of his bed, fishing up a light, button-up shirt that he tossed on over his boxers, not bothering with the buttons. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well be busy. On barefoot feet he walked over to the desk across the room, flicking on the desk lamp and pulling out his tools. One of these days he'd get this radio working again; it might as well be tonight.