Note: I just revisited the last chapter. 2 'unforgivable', criminal writing mistakes were found. Sorry about that. Naturally, I addressed them.

Note #2: If you're thinking that the story's vulgar, you're right. It comes with the fact that the most characters are in their late teens or early 20's.

Chapter 3. Adjustments

Well past 22:00. Disappointment is a traditional emotion in the sense that it has a scale; the magnitude to which it vibrates the self/soul hangs on the specifics of a particular occurrence. Generally, the more intimate, endearing person one let-downs, the more dismay one feels.

"What's wrong with me? How did I think that it'd go over smoothly?"

The labeled insane lady is irritated with how everything turned out at the fraternity party; immense tides of opposite interpretations plunge the mind from side to side.

"I was just trying to protect her." – she voices in her head with impeccable softness.

Her current psychological state discourages all attempts of going back to the apartment. In a way, it is the cliché of 'facing the music' that spikes dread.

Seconds later, on the same quite bright sidewalk as before, a cellphone rings. The female is swift with taking it out of her pocket and seeing the person whose calling. Safe to say – the view is enigmatic; reason being – the caller identifies/calls him or herself as 'Anonymous'. The mind instantly concludes that the unknown attention seeker is one of the people who are eager to publicly annihilate, demolish her.

"If you think it's a good idea to…"

"Sam… Sam… Sam…"

Out of nowhere, she stops walking. Even with the turbulent emotional sphere, indecisiveness towards the future, the voice clicks into mind.

"You bitches are dead! How can you…"

"Sam… Sam… Sam. No need to be this hasty."

A marvelous interaction – one side is flailing, acting erratically, while the other is composed, calm.

"Hah! Alright."

The female paces herself forward noticeably slower than before.

"You got my attention, Ghostface."

"Good, good. Attention is good. Especially… the bloody kind."

One word is delivered in an intensely mean tone.

"Why don't you just move one with your life? Hah? There are a lot of other things to do than pray upon me."

"Yes. That's true. But you're not a normal girl,… are you, Sam?"

The attention shift is unnoticeable at the present – a decreased care for the surrounding space and more focus on the conversation. Obviously, the perilousness of the situation soars.

"You're one of those psychos that drool over the murders of Woodsboro?"

"Not… exactly."

The female acknowledges the fact that she is at an intersection; yet, stops completely at it.

"Well than what is exact about it?"

There is deep breathing on the other side.

"Well? What? Speak up, coward!"

"The movie will be finished, Sam. It will!"

A perplexed grin appears. Then promptly fireworks start shooting from up ahead, in the middle of the street. As with the case of most, the sight grabs Sam's attention; automatically, this leads to a vulnerable position for a surprise attack.

"What the…"

BMPH. A palm raps around her mouth from behind; a cotton ball, soaked in some type of chemical, is violently pressed onto it. Being who she was, the young lady launches her elbow backward at the assailant, legs begin to move. Soon after, she gets a powerful kick into the backside of her knee. Also, the hand with the phone is twisted; therefore, the object soon drops to the ground.

"I'm… gonna…"

Surprisingly, she begins to feel dizzy, weak, exhausted; the ability to escape slips away. Seconds later, the entangled duo are nowhere to be seen.

At another intersection. A blatantly annoyed driver pushes on the brakes with significant force; so much so that the passengers could feel the unsettling aspect of it. Luckily, no one is being transported in the mentioned vehicle. Though the air is cooling, the vibrancy, zestfulness of the streets remains present. Anyone noticeably sane would attribute variety to the young people's festive mood.

"All of this role playing. Hmph."

A caution-smugness hybrid of a facial expression.

"There is one undeniable vain with it."

Swiftly after voicing that thought, a cellphone starts ringing.

"Yes."

"Chloe. The clear rundown of the crime is obtained."

The driver instantly links the tone to possible outcomes, end goals.

"You sound disturbed, Erik. What did the student report?"

"That his fellow student got a tomahawk to his upper waist."

Green light turns on, the vehicle moves.

"So we're dealing with another killer with a deep personal vendetta?"

"I'm not sure about that." – he replies with a concerned, yet confident voice.

A lightning fast reanalysis.

"What is highly likely,…"

A deep exhale is conducted.

"…That our night is not over."

"I see. I'll call you when I'm there."

"Stay safe, Chloe."

A resoundingly compassionate retort.

Quite soon. Two people are participating in a moderately heated argument. A key force towards this altercation is the alleged breaking of unwritten rules; such rules are insanely specific within certain groups. Two of the most well-known and frequent – 'Girl Code' & 'Bro Code'.

"…Whatever the case may be, it was still a bad idea."

"I know, Tara. I really wanted to lie to your sister,…"

The adolescent female places her palms over her face; more than likely, the recent chain of events is barraging the mind with vastly unparallel ideas.

"…But she's still your sister and the main person allowing to live in this massive apartment."

"Yeah…"

Palms drop down.

"…I get that, Quinn."

In spite of the intense, energy depleting, adrenaline receiving plays of the evening, the fort manager picks up on a few details that widen the landscape of what transpired at the fraternity party. Previous experience centered around the sisters' relationship certainly aids the intellectual capability. The way Tara acted from the moment she came through the door poked Quinn's mind; the idea – either Sam or Tara acted extraordinarily. Assessing the mood, it leaned heavily to negativity. Fortunately, that was enough for Quinn to treat the situation seriously and immediately.

"Guessing by the way you act,…"

The calmer female of the duo slowly walks straight, parallel to a countertop; the other stays as silent as possible in her spot.

"…Sam didn't just casually crash the party."

"No."

Their eyes meet.

"That wasn't all."

A barely noticeable emergence of tears in the canals.

"She nearly tazed a guy in his crotch."

Safe to say that Quinn's expectations of Sam's behavior are demolished. Moreover, a flickering of the eyes comes to fruition almost immediately; a taking of the breath in the negative context.

"That's… unusual."

"I'll be honest with you if you swear on your life not to tell Sam. Ever." – Tara states swiftly, agony seeping through the illusion of calmness.

"Alright, Tara."

She places her palm on her left shoulder.

"I promise."

"Hah…"

An erratic vibration of the body, shaking of the head; it all points to an unnatural release of tension.

"…I'm afraid, Quinn. I'm afraid that I'll never be able to live my life completely with the way Sam is now."

Tears become unquestionably visible.

"I know she cares. I know she wants the best for me. But… I CAN'T!"

The harmonious psychic state, which debatably existed up to this point, is on the verge of completely submerging in emotional turmoil.

"…I can't continue to live my life this way. It is so… draining, demoralizing."

Tara's eyes lower down. The ending is undoubtedly more calmer than any other part of the conversation; sorrow has almost balanced out the agony. This way the perspective of the future is consciously tipping to the side of cynicism.

"It is an unfair situation, Tara. I completely understand – no one should ever be put in such a spot."

Suddenly, the other Quinn's palm softly lands on Tara's cheek.

"But you're a fighter, Tara. You survived the horrors of Woodsboro, being physically limited. You had the courage to move away from that dreaded place."

Given the fact that the tears stream diminishes, eye contact appears to be on the cusp of reestablishing itself, the verbal countermove is working, producing positive results.

"You must find that courage again and become even stronger. To the extent that you can have healthy relationships with the ones you care for."

In a few seconds, their eyes become just opposed again. Out of nowhere, Tara jumps at Quinn, hands going around her at the chest level; obviously, her head ends up colliding with the body too.

"Tara…"

"Thanks, Quinn. I needed that."

"Glad I can help."

The young female duo hug for a couple of minutes. A wonderous moment – vulnerability is taken at face value and the needed compassion, care is left to shine for as long as it is necessary.

The tender moment passes & Sam's siter is alter to unusual, intriguing news being broadcasted on the television in the living room. Unsurprisingly, this leads to the female duo breaking apart. Direct eyesight flashes, talking reemerges.

"What's wrong?"

"The TV."

"What about it?"

"Something dangerous is being shown right now."

Quinn reads Tara's facial expression; it reeks of uncertainty, manageable disarray and fear.

"Alright. Let's check it out."

It takes seconds for the duo to leave the kitchen.

On the perimeter of the O.K.B. party. Just envision an investigation of a crime scene. Good? If any of you had: 'STOP' tape running around the entire house, especially the patio, at least 3 police vehicles near the sidewalk of the house, officers taking statements, sirens flashing, then the landscape is clear. There is no preparation for sudden death; such a method does not exist in the World. Meaning, any person that sees a jarring, monstrously tragic event will react accordingly, naturally – eyes widening and mind running on overdrive.

"Greg looks like a fighter getting up from a knock out." – a male utters.

"Can't say I blame him."

To the shock of no one, a large commotion surrounds the building and its close surroundings.

"Disturbing. Really disturbing."

The male chaotically looks around the confines of the house.

"What's wrong, bro?"

"Just making sure, sis."

"Of what?" – inquires another female curiously.

"That neither Sam, nor Tara are anywhere around. They probably got out of here as soon as the clash ended."

"Understandable. They both looked insanely tense this evening."

An unconsciously tender, raw, disharmonic breathe out is acted out.

"I'm not so sure that's a good thing."

"What? Why?"

"Yeah, girl. Why?"

At a distance away someone says:

"Finally."

"…You just don't throw a tomahawk at a person if you're not malicious. Both of them… had malicious incidents before."

The male thinks a bit.

"You're right. I could see that being a warning sign."

On the front steps. The cream white hue of Greg's skin undoubtedly resembles more of a view of spilt milk; not overlooking the environment, the seismic shift is visible only on the face. Ambivalence, ambiguity, indecisiveness – all of these states could be attributed to this young male. Right now he's keeping his head down, palms extending, retracting, colliding.

"You must be Greg?"

Despite the discouraged overall mood, the brown eyed male attaches the voice to a person of female sex. The possible precariousness of the situation is eliminated with a simple argument – he would be dead if the standing person was Larry's killer; whether that's plausible or not is irrelevant.

"Yes. That's correct."

"Then look up."

Battering fear away once again, he agrees. In front of him emerges a fairly young adult female, beaming ideas of stoicism, lack of playfulness. Black jeans, unremarkable, bleak black leather belt firmly holding them in place; all black, transparent at the shoulders T-shirt covered with a unpinned up, thick same colored blazer finishes off the upper part of her body. Graciously sized, cerulean blue eyes are the objects who most likely required attention from him.

"Who are you?"

She masterfully pulls out an object from her black blazer.

"Chloe Fortune. NYPD detective."

To the observant, there would be no distortion between the way she dressed and the way she spoke.

"I'm really not in the best mood to talk about what I saw. The image…"

"Completely understandable. It's uniquely tense seeing someone die in front of your eyes."

[At a police station]

Erik's eyes catch a glimpse of two officers departing the building.

"I just hope there's not a new development at Chloe's place."

[Back at the crime scene]

"…That's a worthy fact. Did you see the person's face?"

"No. The distance was far too big."

"I know you're a bit tipsy, but your input is extremely helpful." – the detective explains with vigor.

By this point, the umber brown eyes male's emotional sphere resides in a severely calmer state than before. Even with the relative intoxication, the mind continues to be admirably, astoundingly engaged in the current dialogue.

"Input on what, detective?"

"Can you gage the distance for me?"

A rational recollection of the short moment in time where the weapon was launched.

"At least 60 feet (~20 m)."

"Thank you, Greg."

At least half an hour later. A collective of four are travelling away from the relative closeness of the O.K.B. party.

"Cha! Cha! Cha! That was a majestic party!" – Raymond shouts, mind submerged in unrelenting belief.

"Glad to see you enjoyed yourself, Ray."

"Anyway! How'd your poker go?"

"Surprisingly well. Everyone acted up to par." – Adam answers.

"I was surprised, too. These students were astonishing with their manners. Did not expect that in the slightest. Respect to Cody."

Then Viktor leans back to his headrest and drops the attention surrounding the conversation at least in half.

"That… incident did shake the base."

"Oh yeah, but I'd be lying if I did not enjoy roasting that girl at the party."

"You could have evaded that."

"True. Though, I feel that is the reason why we live in a culture such as this. Evasive of conflict."

[At a different place]

"…Strange how?"

"Well,… they did seem…"

"Unfazed by the killing."

The male officer shifts his eyesight a little.

"You said you weren't with them in the basement?"

"I wasn't. I saw them coming up and leaving through the front."

"Are they the same as hers?"

"Yes. We compared our views and they are the same group."

"Alright. So you know their names?"

"Adam, Viktor and Raymond." – a person responds calmly, without haste.

Just before midnight. The public task force position themselves in a circle around one of their vehicles.

"Quick fact. The doctor has already taken the body back to the station."

"Great. It should provide us with more answers."

"I wouldn't be that sure."

"Give me a reason." – Chloe expresses.

"The uniqueness. I can't recall any other killing being accomplished with a tomahawk."

The path's shift pleases the female detective; she becomes overly determined to meet its end.

"What are you implying?"

"That we're dealing with someone who not only is incredibly dangerous, but has most likely thought up a perfect scenario…"

Dread appears on the officer's face.

"…This looks to be just a part of a scheme."

The black decked detective understand the overall message.

"According to you, there will be more deaths?"

"Yes. And I'd be stunned if it does not happen in the next 24 hours."

Understandably, she keeps a file of this dialogue within her 'important drawer'. The conversation does not necessarily make one of the officers a suspect of the investigation; more so – a person who might be key to solving it. To some extent, there is no difference between these 2 mindsets. Still, the cerulean blue eyed female is resolute in the officer being a worthy ally far more than a potential enemy. Obviously, the conclusion – highly dependent on the evidence, circumstances.

[…]

"Aren't we being to accusatory?" – Hailee asks softly.

"Of the trio."

"Yes. They did not look to be the killers."

The dialogue becomes immaculately silent, barely heard by anyone other than the one talking.

"Looks can be deceiving, Hailee. You can't say they acted too cool for the situation."

"What about Raymond, Angeline? You said he was the one that knocked down the wicked girl."

"That's true. All I'm saying is we did not behave improperly. We did not force them to leave before the police arrived at the house, did we?"

"No. We didn't."

"If they're that confident, then they shouldn't be afraid of law enforcement."

"I guess."

Hailee's begrudging, half-hearted vocalization turns out to be the finishing of the exchange. Her mind is consciously enigmatic & unconsciously enthralled. The people that subscribe to the ideology of 'experience is the quintessential aspect of life' could understand such a spectrum of thought processing. If the past is riddled with misfortune, just or not, then anything, which is based in any relative positivity, captivates the psyche at least subconsciously; this dynamic is more potent when the contrast occurs extremely fast after a negative consequence. As far as the female is concerned, the upcoming days definitely appear to withhold a rich exposure of life.

Sunday's start. Since most people sleep during the nighttime, a day's start is met unconsciously, in a dream state; of course, there are exceptions. Today being the 2nd day of celebrating Halloween (even if the actual day is tomorrow) slides it into the latter category. The unsettling wind, lack of light could faze the people in the streets if not for the company that surrounded them. The overwhelming majority of young people walked in groups across the streets of New York City. Yet, if someone was alone in a seemingly empty, huge space, unnerving can easily come to fruition.

"Where are you, man? We were supposed to have ended this."

Suddenly, a sound of something vibrating occurs; the person swiftly reacts to it. Fortunately, the unpleasantness, nervousness only lasts for less than a minute after the vibration. Maybe one of the preferred outcomes manifested themselves.