The Game at Carousel: A Horror Movie LitRPG-Chapter 53Book Six, : Kimberly Interlude

I had been Off-Screen too long; every second counted now.

Riley was gone, and I had no doubt where he'd be headed. He would climb to the rooftop, where the image of a red fire axe would mark the final battle. It was the only place Riley would go, assuming that monster, Daphne, would let him.

From the moment we arrived in this twisted storyline, something about Daphne Sinclair unsettled me deeply. My instincts kept whispering conflicting warnings, but no matter how closely I watched her, I couldn't catch her slipping. At first, I'd assumed she was merely manipulating Riley, exploiting his love. But that didn't quite fit, and my doubts wouldn't quiet.

I watched every calculated smile, every choreographed laugh as Daphne charmed our teammates. Even when Social Awareness screamed that she was acting contrary to her true character, hiding her true relationships. It was like watching a perfect, terrible dance, one I couldn't interrupt.

What good was I, a supposedly natural-born people person, if I couldn't spot the impostor among us? I wasn't a detective, but I trusted myself to read the room. How had I let a murderer into our circle? I should have spoken up on my suspicions sooner. Would Logan still be here if I'd had the courage? Would Ramona?

Riley would blame himself, as he always did, for falling into Daphne’s carefully spun web, as if he should have somehow outsmarted whatever trope had fooled us all.

If anything, he snapped out of her spell fast, faster than I had in some ways, but that didn’t surprise me. Riley’s walls were always thick, his emotions guarded. Even under Daphne's control, he’d seemed distant, performing his love rather than feeling it.

And she had noticed it too. She looked at him with profound rejection, waiting for him to stare deeply into her eyes while he was distracted by the game.

But the truth was out now, and my suspicion had turned to fury. I guided Andrew quickly into a safe room, a simple supply closet on the third floor, out of harm's way for now.

What kind of overpowered trope would let you poison someone without having to physically do it? How was it fair for her to have that?

I had tried to help Emmett the blackmailer escape, too, but he refused to leave his wife’s side at first. When I finally convinced him to break away, he collapsed not far into our escape, as if all of his Grit had left him at once. The floodwaters took him, and there was nothing I could do.

It was probably out of character to even attempt to help a thief, given the backstory my trope, Obsessed Survivor, had given me.

Carousel was playing with me, testing me. Teasing my character’s memories, her trauma, dangling it in front of me like bait. All I could do was follow along.

With Andrew hidden away, I flung open the stairwell door, desperate to climb upwards, but instead, I froze. There were no stairs. Carousel had set a different scene entirely, a memory from my character’s past. A bank robbery that she was a hostage of.

Not now! I protested silently.

This had happened four times already, opening doors in the hotel or casino and walking into the past instead of the present. In this storyline, it was hard to show my backstory, so Carousel had gotten fancy.

This was the last flashback. I knew it instinctively. There was no time for more.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into my character’s past.

I saw the younger version of my character, a trembling fifteen-year-old girl, crying softly on a polished marble floor, wrists bound tightly behind her. She was played by an NPC, not some de-aged version of me.

Beside her knelt a young man, her older brother according to the red wallpaper’s blunt description: "Kimberley’s Brother." He was tied as well, but somehow calm, whispering gentle reassurances to the frightened teenager.

“It’s okay, Kimmy,” he kept repeating, his voice firm and steady. “Just stay quiet, stay calm. Don’t give them any reason to notice us.”

But I knew the robbers. I'd seen them before in a previous storyline, Permanent Vacancy. Carousel had cast familiar villains as NPCs in this twisted scenario, mocking me, daring me to react. Merrit Speirs, professional and methodical, moved among the hostages, attempting to manage his unstable brother Bradley, whose unmasked face betrayed violent urges barely contained.

Two NPC hostages already lay dead, blood pooling grotesquely beneath them on the shining tile. Bradley had murdered the first hostage in a previous flashback under a flimsy pretense: "he reached for something." The second had panicked and tried to flee, cut down instantly, a grim lesson for everyone else.

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Carousel had made me watch every unnerving scene from this terrible memory. Each one attempted to teach the same brutal lesson: compliance with monsters led to survival.

But standing here now, watching this carefully constructed scene, I saw clearly that Bradley’s patience was frayed to breaking. The promise of safety through obedience was a lie. Something terrible was about to happen, something that would tear my character's world apart.

This wasn't my past, but it was my burden. Carousel wanted me to understand her fear, to play my role perfectly, to be an obsessed survivor.

I wasn’t afraid. I was angry.

And anger was something I could use.

The final memory played out in front of me. The robbers, Merrit barking tense instructions, Bradley pacing like a caged animal, argued sharply now. It was clear they’d gotten what they came for, heavy bags bulging with cash stacked at their feet. Yet Bradley wasn't satisfied. His rage simmered just beneath the surface, his hand constantly twitching toward the pistol at his hip.

“We need to move,” Merrit hissed, trying to keep control. “The cops will be here soon.”

But Bradley ignored his brother’s warnings, prowling near the remaining hostages with a disturbing look in his eyes. He seemed to be looking for an excuse, a justification to unleash the violence crackling inside him.

My character’s brother sensed it too. He shifted protectively closer, whispering urgently again, “Kimmy, stay calm, no sudden moves. Just breathe.”

But the scene refused to stay calm. Another hostage, a man in his thirties, broke suddenly, panicking and lurching to his feet. Bradley snapped to attention instantly, leveling his gun and shouting a command drowned out by the hostage’s terrified scream.

The man stumbled forward, flailing desperately toward the exit, and Bradley fired without hesitation. The shot echoed sharply through the lobby, a deafening crack followed by stunned silence. The fleeing hostage dropped instantly, dead before he hit the floor.

My character screamed, a raw, terrified cry. Her brother instinctively reached for her, pulling her close as if to shield her from reality itself. But that brief protective gesture was all Bradley needed to target them next.

“Shut her up!” Bradley roared, storming toward the siblings.

Merrit tried to intervene, to pull him back, but Bradley was beyond reason. He seized my character roughly by the arm, yanking her upright and pressing the cold steel barrel of his gun against her temple. Her scream cut off instantly, replaced by panicked, gasping sobs.

“Leave her alone!” her brother shouted, desperation breaking through his steady calm for the first time. “She’s just a kid!”

Bradley laughed, chilling and heartless, then turned toward Merrit. “She’s coming with us. Insurance. A ticket out.”

I stood frozen, watching helplessly as she was dragged forward. Her brother struggled violently against his bindings, calling her name, the ropes cutting deeply into his wrists. Merrit’s face showed clear doubt, but he didn't intervene.

He had already lost control.

I watched closely, my fists clenched tightly at my sides, anger searing through me. I knew exactly what would happen next.

The memory shifted sharply forward, skipping ahead to the inevitable climax of Carousel’s carefully crafted tragedy.

Outside the bank, chaos swirled, sirens wailed, red and blue lights flashed, and police shouted commands from behind barricades. Bradley stood at the entrance, clutching my younger character as a shield, his gun pressed tightly to her head.

“Let her go, Brad!” Merrit shouted from behind, desperation finally breaking his steely composure. “This isn’t how we do things.”

Bradley sneered, eyes wild with paranoia. “You’re weak. She’s our only way out. They won’t shoot if I have her.”

My character’s brother had somehow gotten free inside, stumbling toward her. He raised his arms, pleading, voice hoarse with fear, “Please! Take me instead, let her go!”

The officers behind the cars barked frantic orders, guns raised, confusion thickening the air. Bradley hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face.

And then, something snapped.

Bradley’s arm twitched, the gun shifting slightly from my character’s head, pointing toward her brother for just an instant. Her brother lunged forward instinctively, driven by desperation, love overriding caution.

The crack of gunfire filled the air, brutal and final. Bradley fired out of reflex, almost accidentally, the bullet striking her brother squarely in the chest. He dropped instantly, crumpling to the pavement, a look of shock frozen on his face.

My character screamed again, agony tearing through her. The sound pierced straight through me. She twisted violently in Bradley’s grasp, grief-fueled adrenaline powering her struggle. Bradley lost his grip, stumbling back in surprise.

Young Kimberly ran through the bank's wide plate-glass window, her only exit, propelled by pure, blind panic. The glass shattered spectacularly around her, shards slicing through her skin as she escaped into the blinding daylight, falling forward onto concrete dusted with glittering fragments of broken glass.

I watched her collapse to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, hands cut and bleeding, shaking as she tried to crawl forward, away from death, away from horror.

Away from everything she'd just lost.

Cops fired upon Bradly and Merrit through the broken window, slaying them in a barrage that seemed to last unrealistically long.

And suddenly, the vision faded, lingering for a moment on the girl who was supposed to be me.

The stairwell stood in front of me once more. The past, or Carousel's twisted portrayal of it, disappeared like smoke. My breathing slowed, anger replaced by something deeper, something sharper.

Because I knew now, more clearly than ever, exactly why this character, why I, could never surrender again. She was a survivor who wasn't afraid to get bloody. So was I.

This memory was not fictional, I finally knew. There really was a little girl somewhere who had lived through that moment, and Carousel had made it my backstory.

I felt her.

This memory was my fuel, my ammunition.

I took it with me as I ran up the stairs as fast as my legs could carry me, pulling my hair back in a ponytail to transfer Moxie into Mettle.

I had lost time because of the flashback, but I had gained something too, and I was going to regift it to Daphne as a blood-soaked wedding present.