Survival Of The Fittest

It was difficult to nail down exactly when the anger started. Remembering a time when it wasn't there, coiled up and waiting to strike or alive and thrashing, was growing more and more challenging. It'd been with her for so long that it no longer felt like an intruder in her mind. It felt like a part of her.

Maybe it came when her mother first told them about Marcello. Maybe it came when she first realized that Paulo wanted nothing more than to be just like him.

Didn't matter. It'd been with her ever since, no matter how she tried to cure it.

First it was softball, channeling her rage into physical, palpable actions, burning through the caustic energy it filled her with daily by laying herself out on the field, running, tagging, throwing faster, harder, farther, until her muscles screamed for release. Each time, as she stood in the shower and let the hot water scald the dirt and exhaustion from her skin, the same thought ran through her mind: It's not enough. She couldn't sweat the anger out of her, or pack it into a ball and fling it away. It stayed inside at her, pushing at the boundaries of her self control while she curled up in bed, too sore to even bother with a comforter.

She went through more phases, seeking more intangible forms of expression, and each one seemed to pull her further downward. The bluntness, the venom, the hatred...they swelled up inside her like tumors, warping her actions until she barely resembled the happy, simple girl bouncing on the couch and rhyming with her brother.

Now, as Ian twisted the knife, her knife, Meera's knife, into her stomach, she could only focus on two things: the pain, and his face. That face, contorted by the emotions she knew so intimately, leering into hers, made her wonder: Is that what I look like?

Her mind was going fuzzy from the sheer agony as she bled out. She didn't even have the strength. She could only lie, and think, what if? What if she'd found a way to control herself better? What if she and Paulo had stayed close? What if she'd found the other girls before their killers? What if she'd never left Kathryn and Iselle? What if she'd never attacked Ian? What if she'd just...let him go? Let go of the hatred, all of it. Towards him, towards her team-mates, towards Paulo, towards Marcello, towards herself...would she still be alive? Would Paulo? Would they be happier together? Would she be a better person?

Fuck. That.

Maybe she would be. Or maybe everyone she hated fucking deserved it. It didn't really matter. The anger was a part of her, for better or worse. It was bound up in the core of who she was. She couldn't just shove it down or wish it away, not then and especially not now.

Fuck Ian for killing her.

Fuck Paulo, the team, and her father for abandoning her.

Fuck the assholes who brought her here.

Most of all, fuck regrets. Fuck anything trying to make her doubt who she was, even now. As she clasped her hands weakly around the hilt of the knife and bled into the grass already slick with rain, she craned her neck to stare up into Ian's eyes with all the bile and disgust she could manage, until she could no longer hold her head up or her lids open.

She was Alda Goddamn Abbate. She lived a short, angry, destructive life. But it was her life, her choice, and nothing could take that from her.

Not even death.

G056, ABBATE, ALDA: DECEASED

42 PEOPLE REMAINING

((Mirabella Strong continued from All for You))

Bella scarcely took notice of her surroundings as she slowly trudged into the Central Park, each of her movements both directionless and almost tangibly calculated. She hadn't stopped moving since she'd fled from the apartments, nor had the rage that continued to boil fiercely within her shown any sign of cooling down. She hadn't stopped to observe the scenery or acknowledge the corpses strewn about her as she'd progressed across the island, pausing only when she'd reached the outskirts of the park stretching ahead of her. Her mind had become a harried and unorganised muddle, unable to be arranged into some semblance of order as though they'd remain in some perpetually chaotic state. Thoughts and emotions had ploughed through her, the only constants being the white-hot anger and a singular notion that replayed itself over and over like a broken record; show them how useful she was.

All her life, everybody had only thought of her as a weak and useless little girl, and the fact it'd taken her this long and this much trauma to fully realise it made her almost want to laugh. She was fully alone now, with no chance of anybody magically appearing and rescuing her as Garrett had done back in that alleyway, what seemed like a lifetime ago. It was just her and her sickle and the knowledge that the only person left in her life that mattered anymore was herself, because the others had all abandoned her, given up on her.

She'd show them just how little she needed them.

It wouldn't be that hard, in truth. Everybody had already destroyed any preconceptions she'd had of them, seemingly as easily as getting a haircut or changing their outfit. Why would it be any different for her?

As she caught sight of others in the park, mere blurs in the distance from her position at the park's very edge, her feet slowed their grudging progress and ground to a halt, leaving her beside a gnarled oak that stretched into the skyline above her. The hand which held her precious sickle flexed, fingers running along its polished handle, whilst her other flew to her collar to adjust the makeshift hood she'd made for herself - a blanket she'd taken from her bedroom and subsequently knotted around her throat in a rough cloak. Her head tilted to the side, curiosity urging her to move onwards and investigate, see just what'd happened to the figures in the distance, but another part of her rooted her to the spot, a morbid part that wanted her to remain an unseen observer. She was good at observing, had done mostly that for the majority of her time on the island instead of taking initiative for herself. It wasn't that unfamiliar a feeling to stand there and watch, comforting almost. Like things had been before.

She'd continue onwards in just a few moments, but for now she wanted to wait and see what'd happen next.

Ian simply watched as Alda died in front of him, still bent over her, still clutching the knife's grip as her blood flowed onto his hands.  Perhaps it was fascinated horror, perhaps it was simply exhaustion catching up with him, but he couldn't move.  He couldn't look away when he met her hateful gaze, dumbstruck, unable to fully comprehend.  

She was dying, and there was only hate on her face.

His arm jerked away as he felt her hands brush against his own, grasping weakly for the knife.  He screamed.  Even as she fell away, he pulled the knife out and stabbed her again.  And again.  And again.  

He was still screaming, incoherent sounds of rage, of horror, of a need to stop, and the need to destroy any traces of the monster in front of him.  His muscles were weakening, perspiration was dripping into his eyes, his collar pressed deep into his throat as he gasped for air, and his strikes only became the more frantic for it.   He stabbed again and again, but nothing was helping.  

There was no monster in front of him, only a girl who'd died like the brother he'd taken from her.

Finally, he plunged the knife into Alda's corpse one last time, almost falling onto her as exhaustion claimed him.  Too tired to move, and too drained to do more than stare, blank and uncomprehending, drenched in blood and tears, and soaked in the mud.  There'd been only the two of them, and now there was nothing.  

It was over.  He'd won.

And while Ian stabbed the girl over and over again, Juhan just watched.

He'd woken up, despite his still-throbbing headache, and his screaming muscles, because of the shouting. The shouting, and the scuffling, and the punches, and the threats. So he opened his eyes and saw Ian plunging a knife into her.

For two days, Juhan had been in denial. Because who should he believe, the terrorists who captured him or one of his closest friends? No, no, despite the fact that they were all losing it, his little group was an exception, they were still there, whole. Ian wasn't a killer, he was a victim of circumstance, like Takeshi and Juhan. Screw you for even having the slightest thought that Ian would do something so monstrous, so unlike him. Ian was the sane one, the person Juhan could rely on while he was losing himself.

So when Ian stabbed her, all Juhan could do was stare. At first, there was fear, because it was natural. It was the first time he'd seen someone actually die in front of him. His hands trembled, and he almost screamed. And then it was self-hatred, because Juhan should've stopped it, he shouldn't have gone to sleep and been useless, he should have done something. And then it was pity, concern, because part of him was still in denial. It was self-defense, it was an accident.

He walked towards Ian, and there, the situation became more clear. The girl on the ground was Alda, Paulo's brother. Crimson flowers blossomed from her shirt, flecks of it splattered all over Ian and the ground. And Ian, he was laying there besides her, staring at her and at nothing at the same time. For a few seconds, Juhan's mind went blank as it saw the puzzle pieces and started putting them together. Alda was Paulo's twin it was definitely self-defense but if so then why was Ian stabbing her when she was on the ground and screaming maniacally this doesn't make sense this doesn't make sense-

But then he broke out of his trance, and chuckled to himself. Idiot. For the first time in years, he felt some blood rushing through his head, and his hand turn into a fist. It was something almost foreign to him, but he recognized it.

Anger.

Juhan had been an angry child back in kindergarten, but a little therapy and a few reprimands from his parents solved it. For the years following it, he relied on blaming himself, on pity, on despair whenever something bad arose. Never anger at others, because there'd be consequences, and why lose the company of someone who didn't even care for him, who'd hurt him?

Deception and optimism could only work for so long. Even though Alda was the one on the ground, the person who'd died in the fight was Ian Williams, because the boy caked in mud, blood, and tears wasn't Ian, it wasn't even human. It turned out that one of the monsters he'd been trying to run away from for so long was right next to him this entire time.

Takeshi was long gone. He hadn't even bothered to wake Juhan up.

Despite the fact that his body was in no condition for another trek, Juhan got his bags and walked away from the central park, because he was done.

Ian heard the steps coming closer, but he didn't look up.  He could see Juhan out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn't ready to acknowledge him.  Let him break the silence.  Let him decide what to say, for once.

Except, just as suddenly, he heard his friend walking away.

Against his will, he looked up, and Juhan was already back in the gazebo, grabbing his bags.  It took Ian a few seconds more to grasp what was happening, and then suddenly it clicked.  In an instant he was up, pain and exhaustion forgotten as he stumbled forward, croaking in a voice he barely recognized as his own.

"Juhan?  Wait!  What...why?"

There was a part of Juhan that wanted to forgive, that wanted everything to go back to the way it was. And it was so tempting, too. There was pain and despair in Ian's voice, and for a second, it made him want to go back and say 'I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it'. He wanted that so badly. But he was tired of doing that, of accommodating for every bad trait and wrongdoing. He'd tried for so long to see the good in everybody, what could be salvaged, but how do you find the good in a madman who just stabbed his classmate?

Juhan glared at him and said, "Just shut up please."

He took a few deep breaths to try and compose himself, but stopped, because why? He didn't have to apologize anymore. And if Ian wanted an explanation, he'd get one.

"I... I thought that the announcements lied. I rationalized, refused to believe that you'd kill Paulo. Maybe by accident, sure. You tripped into him, accidentally dug the knife into his chest. Whoops. And if I'd woken up a few moments later, maybe I'd believe that it was the same with Alda. But I'm done trying to cope. I've tried to forgive so many times, to see the silver lining in all this. I tried it when Megan pushed Francis down the stairs. And before you ask, yes, I was there. I tried it just a few minutes earlier when they said that Maynard, Maynard, killed someone."

He laughed a bit because the mere idea of it was absurd, and something he still couldn't get used to. Maynard killing someone. It was a comedy, like the fact that Juhan had allowed himself to be led on for so long.

"But what bright side is there here? How the fuck can I rationalize this, Ian? I didn't see everything, but I saw enough. And to be honest, I still want to live. And if I stay with you, you might just lose it on me. And I'm not ready to die. I'm done trying to censor myself, trying to stay nice with everyone. Don't bring me down with you, Ian."

Again, he turned to leave the park, and Ian behind. As far as anyone knew, he'd be deaf now. Nothing could persuade him not to do this anymore.

Ian recoiled at the other's words as if he'd been slapped.  A thousand emotions played on his face, but not a word escaped his lips.  There weren't any words for this.

How dare he?  How dare he?  Did Juhan think he'd looked for this fight?  Was he supposed to have let Alda butcher him?  Or maybe it should have been Paulo?  Oh, or maybe he should be calm now, right?  Let Alda be just another name, a face, a meaningless number lost in the Announcements, to be forgotten lest it disturb poor Juhan's illusions.  

Don't bring him down to your level?  Perhaps he meant the level of actually caring?  Of watching your friends breaking down and trying to help?  Or perhaps he meant the level of actually defending yourself?  Perhaps Juhan would have been more comfortable if Ian had died instead?

Juhan thought he was done trying to be nice?  Who'd kept quiet, who'd endured in silence while his friends made light conversation?  Who'd tried to help when Juhan was breaking down in the Hotel, overwhelmed by the wretched escape failing, when he'd been busy coming to terms with killing a boy, and all his own problems?  Who'd said a single kind word to him?  Which one of them had ever thought about him?  Ever?

And now he was somehow untouchable?  Now Juhan thought he could act self-righteous and indignant with any credibility?

Pain.  Anger. Guilt.  Betrayal.  Disgust.  A thousand emotions fought to break free.  The dam holding them back was shattered, there were no more walls, only his own inability to express them all at once.   It all crystalized into a single word, as he threw himself at Juhan, taking them both to the ground.

"Stop!"

Juhan should've been scared. This was, after all, the first physical confrontation he'd ever been in. And there was the fact that Ian had just killed someone earlier, and probably still had the weapon in his hand. But in Juhan's current state of mind, anger and determination ruled, because he wouldn't become another Alda, or another Paulo.

He attempted to struggle out of Ian's grip, but his body was giving out on him. The wind had been knocked out of him as soon as he plunged to the ground, and Ian's arms only tightened even more. So, he directed his rage to his words.

"What... what the hell are you doing? What's this supposed to accomplish, Ian? Is, is keeping me here going to change anything? No, no, no, I'm not gonna stop. You lied to me. For two days, you made it seem like an accident, like Paulo just tripped over the overpass. Tell me, Ian, is there anything else you forgot to mention?"

It took Bella awhile to recognise the voices echoing throughout the park; though their exact words were unclear, who they belonged to became gradually unmistakeable the more she listened to the argument unfolding before her. She stood still for a moment as their voices escalated in volume and tone, lost in the intricacies of what was transpiring between them. At first, she didn't quite believe it could be Juhan and Ian fighting just a few feet away, having rejected the possibility of meeting them again a long time ago, back when the very last drops of her optimism had ebbed away.

She knew she had to make a move, needed to make her way onto the scene that she'd been secretly privy to, but no moment seemed apt enough for her to make her entrance. It wasn't until Juhan had stormed from the park, leaving herself and Ian as its sole occupants, that she found herself moving methodically towards him, feet moving as if of their own accord. Her sickle was gripped firmly in her hand, held tight against the jeans she'd grabbed from the shopping centre. It brushed lightly against the soft denim, and with the brief touch of metal-on-fabric that occurred it brought back a flurry of memories - of Ami finding her amidst the wreckage, promising to stay with her, promising that things would be fine, and then shattering all of that without a moment's thought. The notion alone only fuelled the furnace burning within her further, untempered anger rising within her chest once more.

She wondered if it'd ever cool down, or if it'd remain boiling within her forever.

But then again, it didn't truly matter whether it did or not, not anymore.

((Some GMing here is also not approved, please let me know what to edit.))

No answer. Juhan didn't even get an explanation. The only response he got was Ian's grip tightening even more, like keeping him here would make up for the body next to him. Right now, the only thing he wanted was to get out. He was sick, both literally and figuratively, and he couldn't quite believe that he was in this situation. Ian couldn't have him, not at all.

As the seconds stretched on, Juhan's desperation increased. His bravado was starting to fade, and he revisited a few key facts. Ian had just killed someone, and he might just have that same weapon in his hands. Squirming wasn't working, his body didn't have the energy anymore. With one final effort, he moved his foot back and kicked.

Ian's grips suddenly slackened, and Juhan was finally able to stand up. He may or may not have heard a crack, he didn't know. What mattered was getting out of here, and making sure that Ian wouldn't get him again. Don't be Alda, don't be Paulo. He rummaged in his bag and found that his belongings were soaked. One of the Molotovs must have cracked when he slammed into the ground. He finally found what he needed.

Juhan pulled out a gray pipe with some rope sticking out of one of its ends. Both of them knew plenty well what it was. They were supposed to use it against the terrorists, not each other. From what he remembered, Gavin had been able to test the pipe bomb successfully. He pointed it back, and walked at a steady pace backwards, looking at Ian.

"Don't, just... don't. Stay away. Please."

His voice was shaky, with not nearly a trace of the edge he wanted it to have. But it didn't matter. Ian didn't get up. As he got farther and farther away, Juhan's walk turned into a jog, and then a sprint, away from the park.

((Juhan Levandi continues in A Manic Depressive Named Laughing Boy))
((Takeshi Yoshikawa continues in Running Away))

(Slight deviations from Mara's post present, regarding Ian's behavior.  Slightly anachronic.  Will gladly edit/discuss changes at request.)

---

Somehow, Ian came out on top in the struggle.

The blind determination and adrenaline that had driven him beyond the point of exhaustion ebbed away as he lay gasping for breath, barely managing to hold Juhan down.  Confusion and chagrin crept into his face, even as his brow furrowed into a glare to match the other boy's.

"I...you...selfish..."

Words and thought alike seemed to elude him as he stared at his friend on the ground.  The heck was he doing?  No, really, what the heck had he done?  It...it wasn't supposed to be like this.  He didn't mean to...Juhan had...

It didn't matter.  There were no other options.  There were no fallbacks, there was nothing else to salvage.  He didn't want to watch another friend walk away.  Not again.

Please not again.

"Just...listen! You...you owe me that much!"

His grip must have slackened as he spoke and stuttered, or perhaps his reflexes were simply too dulled by pain and exhaustion.  Either way, when Juhan suddenly twisted away, he wasn't able to hold his friend down.  He didn't even quite realize what was happening until Juhan's foot smashed into his face, and the world vanished in an explosion of lights.

Apparently, Juhan disagreed.

He fell back without a sound, stunned and barely able even to gasp for air.  He made one precursory attempt to pull himself to his feet, only to collapse before he even brought his knees up.  The world seemed to swim in front of him as he fell to the ground, shuddering in agony before finally lying still.  There was no more fight left in him.  There was nothing he could say. There was nothing he could do but listen, as the other boy walked away.  

Nothing he could do, but cry.

Juhan was gone.

Her feet came to a stop only a few feet away from Ian, and she tilted her head as she came into his vision, letting it rest comfortably upon her shoulder. She couldn't quite believe she was standing before the same Ian she'd known, the same Ian whom she'd abandoned what seemed like years ago, the blind panic that'd raced through her as she'd left him leaving the memory of their parting only the faintest blur in her mind.

She hoped they hadn't waited for her, because she doubted the girl stood before him was what he'd hoped for when they reunited.

For just a moment she felt the overflowing bottle of anger that bubbled within her subside, blocked by a fragile wall of another emotion for the first time in what seemed like forever; curiosity. She barely noticed the tears that trailed down his face, nor the mess his altercation with Juhan had left him in. Unrelenting curiosity overtook everything, curiosity over what'd happened to him and Juhan and Takeshi over the past few days, curiosity over just how much had happened to him since she'd run away and undergone hell, and what had driven him to this point. It capped the anger she thought would never leave her, desire for knowledge replacing what once would've been stress or panic at his injuries or his fight or the kills he'd made.

"Hi Ian," she said softly, her voice devoid of any trace of emotion, before motioning towards the body that lay before them, scarcely registering its presence let alone making an effort to uncover who it was.

"Made a bit of a mess, haven't you?"

The light of the sun was bright, almost blinding as Ian lay prone against the ground.  Lights seem to swim and fade before his eyes, dancing through the tears even with his eyes desperately shut against them.  

There was no past, no present, no future, no meaning to anything, anymore.  All his tattered hopes and fears lay before him, shattered in a million fragments, broken beyond repair. There was only pain, screaming in his bleeding arm, aching in the cut along his chest and the bruises in his ribs, ringing in his battered head.  It ran through every fiber of his being, and he welcomed it.  It was part of him, a constant beat to the refrain of a single word.

Why?

Ten seconds passed without an answer, then twenty.  It felt like an eternity.  He didn't even recognize the footsteps for what they were until they'd stopped.  He scarcely understood that someone was speaking, let alone the words being said.  He barely even had the will to look up, with only some small measure of curiosity left to drive him, brushing the tears aside just long enough to see.

A little life seemed to spark back into his eyes as the figure in front of him came into focus.  Really?  Now?  Now He had to face her again, of all people?  

His first attempt at speech left him coughing and choking on the phlegm pouring down his throat, and his second attempt fared little better, leaving him croaking in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own.  

"...Bella?"

"Hi," Bella repeated softly, tilting her head and rolling her fingertips along the handle of her sickle. "Long time no see, huh?"

Bella released a shaking breath as she seated herself onto the ground beside Ian, paying no mind whether she dirtied her new clothing or not with the refuse and gore that dotted the area. She rubbed her hands along her jeans for warmth and swept her cloak onto her lap, the edges of the fabric dancing across the pool of blood settling beside the cooling corpse before her. She recognised who it was now; Alda Abbate, one of the softball girls and someone with whom she had very little history. Ian certainly did, though - he'd killed her brother Paulo way back when, only shortly after they'd left each other's company. Something must've happened, something that drove him to stoop to that level, the one she was still hovering only slightly above. Whatever it was, it must've been worse than what she'd endured, and that notion alone sent shivers trickling down her spine.

Bella rolled her gaze away from Alda's corpse to gauge Ian's face, pausing for a few seconds to look at the boy staring back at her. He was barely recognisable from the person she'd parted ways with a few days past, his comforting features and the warmth he usually exuded long gone. It felt good to see him like this, to know that she wasn't alone in her classmates kicking her about like a ragdoll, to know that someone else had endured as much as she had. It was proof that something horrible must've happened to him to cause Paulo and Alda's deaths, and the curiosity that had propelled to her to approach him urged her to find out exactly what it was. She wanted to know the exact details of what he'd been through, wanted to know exactly what made him stoop to the level of killing that he had, the one she was still hovering above, the one she was now questioning whether she had any right to let herself go to - as tempting as it was.

"What've you been doing?" she began, voice perfectly soft and level with nary a hint of wavering. "I... I guess you must've been through a lot, to be driven to kill both of them. I'm sorry, Ian."

It really was her.  Go figure.  

A tiny chuckle escaped Ian's lips, threatening to turn into something near hysterical until the sound caught in throat, sending him straight into another coughing fit.  He shuddered on the ground, fighting back nausea as each racking cough sent waves of pain lancing through his skull.  Juhan must have really done a number on him.

"...Been better."  he finally gasped, closing his eyes and turning away.  It wasn't like he'd missed the real question implicit in her words, but for now, he was content to let the silence hang.  She wouldn't understand.

Instead, as the pain subsided, he pulled himself slowly off the ground, fighting back another bout of nausea as he sat upright to face Bella.  She had a makeshift hood around her head - a blanket, for goodness sake - but he could see an ugly knot swelling on her forehead all the same.  His eyes softened, lowering their guard the barest fraction.

He swallowed.  There was a coppery taste to the bile running down his throat.  

"What...what happened to you?"