Chapter Text
It was safe to say that Aimee and Brittany had earned a good night after what they had both gone through.
It was safe to say that, as Aimee slumped on her couch, she was already exhausted. Today had been a really bad day. Today had been one of those days where Aimee wondered why she even bothered attending college when she had such terrible classmates. She had just given some bitch in her class constructive criticism on jer project and potential Unfortunate Implications (as TV Tropes would say) and said bitch had decided to lash out at her. And of course, the teacher…she’d all but groveled before the teacher.
Her fucking classmates. She was twenty one, and what was a consolation was that soon she’d be out of this miserable place.
”You look like someone stole your dog,” Brittany said.
”Don’t even joke about that,” Aimee said.
”Right. Sorry. I just…you look exhausted.”
”I had a shit day.” Even talking to Brittany about it, she already felt like crying. “I’m so exhausted, Britt,” she said. “Just…I feel like I’m surrounded by assholes.”
”What about me?”
Aimee smiled weakly. “Yeah. You’re not an asshole.”
”Don’t pay Regina any heed. She just can’t take criticism,” Brittany said.
Aimee nodded. “Obviously.” Then, “Stab night?”
”Stab night."
***
With the rise of Jill Roberts as the Final Girl, they hadn’t outright remade Stab (much to the relief of Stab fans who thought that remaking Stab would be a lot like defiling the Mona Lisa), but they had added her easily into the franchise as Sidney’s plucky cousin who had survived Charlie and Trevor with the tragic cost of losing her mother as well as her friend Olivia Morris. Rooney Mara had played her, salvaging her Scream Queen career for people who hadn’t cared for her in the Elm Street remake. Jill Roberts. The Final Girl. The survivor. The star.
(The fact Rooney Mara apparently had a better time on the Stab 8 set than on the Elm Street set definitely helped. It showed, Aimee thought)
And so Aimee and Brittany were sitting down to watch Stab 8 on DVD. Stab 8 had been praised for breathing life into a franchise that had been bordering on the ridiculous with time travel and whatnot, as well as Rooney Mara’s performance. And Aimee could say that as a Stab fan, she could use a distraction.
It was then that Aimee’s phone rang. She looked over it. Unknown Caller, apparently. Probably a telemarketer or a prank caller, she thought. After all, it wasn’t like there had been Ghostface attacks for a while, right?
Then her text messages went off. Aimee checked them.
The text read, I know who you are. A protector of a liar.
“Bullshit,” Aimee said.
“What happened?” Brittany said.
Before Aimee could reply, her texts went off again.
Murderer apologist, the text read.
Aimee shouldn’t have texted back. She shouldn’t have. And yet she did anyway.
Just because we like the Stab movies doesn’t mean we like murder in real life, she typed back.
Not that, the text back read. You know what you did. But I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself. A chance to live.
A chance to live.
Aimee already knew what it meant.
”Brittany, call the police,” she said. “We’re being threatened."
”Jesus Christ…” Brittany did so, and Aimee made sure to stay on the line.
The phone rang. Her breathing shaking, Aimee answered it. “Hello.” she said.
“Hello, Aimee,” the familiar voice of Ghostface sneered. “It’s time for a little quiz. Name the actress who played Sidney in the original Scream.”
”Tori Spelling.”
”Good. Second question — who directed the Stab franchise as a whole?”
“Robert Rodriguez.” Aimee said.
”Excellent. Now…who were the masterminds behind the Woodsboro Massacre of 2011?”
”Trevor and Charlie.”
”Incorrect.”
”But I saw the movie,” Aimee said. “It was Trevor and Charlie. I know it, everybody knows it…”
”Then they’re wrong.”
***
What happened next was predictable.
Even seeing the door cracked open, Aimee knew what was going to happen next.
The figure in the Father Death costume lunging into the room was no surprise.
Neither were Brittany and Aimee’s attempts to fight back, throwing everything they had at the killer.
Or them dying.
Aimee couldn’t help but wonder why the killer had said she got the wrong answer regarding the Woodsboro massacres of 2011 as everything went black.