Fragmentation

[Namira]

"My name is Bobby Jacks,"
You are Male Student Number 6.
"I'll have no part in this,"
Survival of the Fittest.
"It's wrong,"
The Strong will Survive.
"There's more to the world than strength,"
You'll not last long with that mindset,
"I'm no killer,"
Tell that to Christopher Straton.

Boy 06, Bobby Jacks sat up and groaned, his face buried in his sizeable hands. This was terrific, just plain terrific. Not only did he have the worst headache known to man, not only was he no more than a week away from dying or becoming a murderer - again. Not only was he arguing with himself - but he was losing. How messed up was that? How could you conceivably be defeated in a debate by your own mind?

Things were going from bad to worse for Bobby. First there was that incident with his agent, then the big night, the fight, ending with a man dead, and now this, the ultimate bad: SOTF.

Bobby sighed, gazing down at the small jar and syringe which comprised his issued weapon. He'd have more luck killing somebody with his fists. Bobby chuckled ruefully - he was 100% positive of that, his hands had been field tested. Bobby sighed again, covering his eyes, as if that would take away the nightmarish situation. To his ears, even the peaceful brook was a source of menace and fear.

"I can't handle this..." Bobby said out loud, only to almost jump out of his skin when he heard a reply.
"Then don't big man, don't," Bobby's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing, even before he saw the speaker, he knew exactly who it was. Tyson Neills.
"What the hell do you want Tyson?" Bobby hissed. "Didn't you get enough of needling me at that bonfire?" As the much smaller boy approached, Bobby noted that he was holding a gun, and it was pointed right at him.

Shit.

"Well I was looking for you. I figured since you've done this before you could give me some pointers," Bobby's reply was through gritted teeth.

"I am not a killer,"

'Tell that to Christopher Straton," Bobby, who had been in the process of getting to his feet, froze. Those exact same words which had just echoed through his own head were now being uttered by another.

"Why are you doing this - why are you playing?" Bobby asked Tyson, playing for time.

"Why the hell wouldn't I? It's life or death, only the morons choose death," Tyson raised the gun. "Say night Bobby, you always were a prick," Bobby looked at Tyson, so close, but the barrel of the gun making the distance infinite. Bobby's eyes shut and he waited for the bang, hoping that it would be fast.

What the fuck!? What kind of weak-willed pathetic excuse for a human being am I!? This is Tyson! Never, in a million years, is that little bastard going to kill me!

Bobby's eyes flew open just in time to see Tyson's finger tighten on the trigger. At that moment, Bobby dived forwards, the gun going off with a boom, the shot scything over Bobby's head. The boxer landed in a crouch, and exploded upwards, the syringe clenched in his fist stabbing up, through the underside of his chin and probably through his tongue as well. Tyson squealed, blood pouring out of his mouth, his gun dropped. Bobby knew he couldn't let up, and dragged the syringe out, to the accompanyment of yet more screams and yet more blood. Bobby sighted his target, then struck again, this time aiming for Tyson's eye. the terrible squelch it made and the hideous scream shook Bobby's composure, but he remained calm, drew back a hand, and struck the end of the weapon with a flat palmed blow, driving it right into the back of Tyson's skull and knocking him from his feet, quite dead.

B28 TYSON NEILLS - DECEASED

The boxer collapsed to his knees, staring at the corpse, yes, corpse, which now lay on the ground before him. Tyson was dead.

I killed somebody, I actually killed somebody. Hey! See that everybody at home, Bobby Jacks has a brace! He's made his murdering talents public!

"I might not have been in trouble for killing Christopher, but if you thought that was an accident, you would have to have some sort of problem with your head..." Bobby giggled, then his frame was racked with a sob, then abruptly, all movement ceased.

No way back now... Bobby looked up, then around, searching for something, quickly, he spotted a camera. Walking up to it, he threw a mocking salute.

"Well Danya, I hope you're watching... I've killed somebody, and I wish I could blame you. But that's the beauty of this show, isn't it? It's not you pulling the trigger or holding the knife, it's us, and we're the ones killing others, because not one of us has the guts not to claw for every inch, every second of life we enjoy. I've started clawing already. Enjoy the display,"

Bobby turned away, then stalked over to the dead body of Tyson, which was already looking worse for the wear, and was already attracting the attention of various insects. Bobby paused at Tyson's head, then grabbed the syringe by the handle and heaved it from the corpse's skull. It was more than a little bloody, and it some strange jelly on it, as well as being slightly out of shape. Bobby grunted - a weapon was a weapon.

Tyson still had his daypack over one shoulder, so Bobby took a few moments to ransack it of everything useful, which had the effect of doubling both his rations and medical supplies. Bobby paused as he saw an instruction manual, remembering Tyson's gun, he moved off into the undergrowth to retrieve it. Once he had the weapon in hand (an Armalon PC, he found out) Bobby quickly read through the intructions then carefully put them into a pocket. Bobby gathered all of Tyson's ammo, took one last look around, then walked away from the bloody scene.

The lack of emotion on his face would have worried anybody who happened to see it.

Bobby had lost his mind.


((Continued in From Serenity to Shame))