Survival Of The Fittest

So, he wasn’t as blind as he appeared to be. That would be an interesting twist if Danny was the viewer of a movie. The protagonist realizing he had underestimated his opponent, and paying dearly for his mistake. However, Danny suddenly felt like vomiting. The sheer anxiety of a bigger male running toward him at full speed with the goal to ram Danny and then possibly kill him didn’t sit well in his stomach.

Despite all of that, Danny reminded himself he had the advantage. He had a real weapon, unlike his opponent. A flaw in his plan was that the boy wasn’t as blind as he should have been. Still, if he could pull off his bluff, Danny could still manage to get out unscathed.

His hand grabbed the flare gun. Danny didn’t forget about it. He did want to avoid using it until it was the right time. However, there was always the intimidation factor. Slinging the gun out, he pointed it at the running boy. It was a gamble, and he hoped his lucky stars were on his side.

“Stop fucking moving or I shoot!”

There was so much blood. Layla couldn't understand what she had done. This thing pierced into his flesh like she would cut a steak. It went easy like that.

The foam knocked her glasses off and she stopped her breath, trying not to inhale the chemical soap-smell that was covering her face. As she rubbed the burning foam away with the hoodie's sleeve she slowly opened her eyes to see that Ron already had run away and that all the drama had now focussed on other people. More people.

She quietly observed, standing with her swordbreaker in a defensive position.

"I'm Ron, fuck you!"

It was the first thing he thought of. It didn't matter anyway. He wrapped his hands around the fire extinguisher, his only means of protection out here, and he pointed the nozzle at the stranger girl. Just like with Layla, he sprayed at her face. Only this time, he wasn't running away from her. He had to get past her. He heard more voices shouting from behind. More people. More trouble. He had to break free, right now.

"Get out of my way!" He shouted as he sprung to his feet. He swung the fire extinguisher around, slamming it into the girl's side. Then, he rushed past her. He kept running through the strange garden, not bothering to look behind him. He didn't know if anyone was following him, and he didn't want to know. He pressed a hand onto his stomach as the other arm was wrapped around the extinguisher, trying to run through the pain. Every step felt like another stab in the gut. He just had to keep pressing forward and forward until he was finally alone.

Overall, it wasn't a dignified beginning for a future winner. But he was still alive, despite everyone trying to end him. That was all that mattered. He just had to keep living, running, scraping by. Until the rest of them were all dead. And he would never look back.

((Ron Kiser continued in Gotta Fake it 'till You Make It))

The blur kept blurring, but their voice finally revealed itself to be a male. Clay thought he recognized the voice as 'Danny C,' a classmate whose last name he had some trouble pronouncing, and very few of their peers said it very often. His words were pretty intimidating, though: “Stop fucking moving or I shoot.”

It was too late; Clay's momentum was carrying him forward at a run, and he guessed that their collision would happen in half a second or so. Clay's legs carried him as fast as he'd ever gone before. Make up your mind, Danny!

The blur, Danny, twisted somehow, just before the crash, but it wasn't a human that Clay crashed into. Somehow, there was a solid gray stone that caught Clay on the right shin just below his knee. The larger boy sprawled forward, his balance ruined, he barely hung on to the dufflebag as he landed hard on the grassy earth.

He looked up, wincing in pain, to see where Danny was, but all he saw was the small gray blur that he now understood was some small stone structure. He felt for his hat, but when he fell, it had tumbled off of his head and away somewhere in the grasses and flowers. For now, at least, it was gone. So was Danny.

PPPSSSHHHHH

Christina immediately started coughing as Ron decided that it would be a good idea to fire white foam into her face. That burned like hell. Then she dropped her knife. This was mainly because a fire extinguisher had made a direct impact with her torso, so she was busy clutching her side as she collapsed.

Fucker broke my ribs!

Christina coughed up a little more as she wiped her face and stumbled toward where she dropped her knife, picking it up stumbling back to her feet.

Twenty bucks says he falls in three days

((Christina Rennes continued in Something Better))

As Clay lifted up his head, Danny had become dust and rocks.

After Clay's failed attempt to tackle him to the ground, Daniel didn't linger around thinking about what he should and he shouldn't do. Only his two legs were thinking, and they were screaming to run away. His feet stomped the ground, crashing and smashing through the memorial garden. Throwing the stealth out of the window, he exposed himself to the eyes of the world.

Danny ran until he reached the treeline, and then, he ran some more.

((Danny continued Welcome To The Fucking Monkey House.))

With a bloodied swordcatcher in hand, Layla looked confused about what to do about everything surrounding her. This felt like too much.

She decided to run after Ron, trying to catch up on him. He seemed to be the least dangerous of the people in sight.

[[Layla continued elsewhere]]

Clay heard the sound of footsteps running away from him, and the sounds of the fight behind him faded away as well. His breathing slowed as the near-panic drained away from his pounding heart. He smelled the grasses and weeds around him, as well as the still-gentle breeze carrying the faint scents of the ocean. He was alone.

Well, not quite alone, he thought. There are likely a handful of cameras hidden nearby to capture the action for the sick amusement of the terrorists. There were certain to be microphones also, though they could probably be hidden inside the collars that each kidnapped student wore. He pushed himself up to his knees, then carefully ran his fingers over the collar he wore. There was a very faint seam in the rear quarter, and a small raised bump on the upper lip just under his chin – probably the microphone.

Clay looked around himself again, seeing only a sea of mottled green with the one gray stone thing next to him that he had collided with. He felt in his coat pockets once more for his white cane, but did not find it, nor did he feel it when he searched the interior of his dufflebag a second time. He stayed, resting on his knees, controlling his breath, trying to decide how to proceed next.

Well, I need to find something to take the place of my missing cane, and I need to find at least a few people who are more interested in talking than fighting. I don't want to walk toward a beach, so according to the provided map, I'll need to head roughly north-east to get to what is labeled as 'The Woodlands'. Hopefully I will at least be able to find a suitable stick or branch there.

Clay took a deep breath and stood up. He removed the compass from the bag, checked it for directions, then placed it in the pocket he normally reserved for his cane. He closed up the bag, then slowly moved his left foot forward, feeling the subtle nooks and bumps of the rough earth. He transferred his weight to that foot, then did the same with his right, feeling a pocket of loose dirt and a small, sharp stone. Then he repeated the process, feeling each span of ground with his feet because he had no cane to find the obstacles before he got there.

It was a slow, maddeningly boring process that took over an hour.

He slid one foot forward, trying to find a patch of ground that was relatively flat and solid, shifted his weight, then slid the other foot forward, feeling the uneven patchiness of the lawn until he could be sure there were no obstructions. Then repeat. One foot, then the other; one step, then another. Again and again and again. There were no interruptions, but the process still required his full concentration in order to avoid a painful fall.

The painful white of the sky became even brighter, and the warmth of the day became warmer. He looked forward to the setting sun and the coolness of the evening, but before that, he had to find something cane-like so that he could move around the island (if the map was to be believed) at a pace faster than a crawl.

After an hour or so, Clay felt the ground becoming less even, less smooth. There was a slight angle, a cant hinting that he was shuffling along a hillside with the crest somewhere to his left. He stopped and knelt down, opening up the dufflebag to retrieve the map and an energy bar. Have I gone too far, he wondered. Should I head more west, more uphill? He remembered that he had not actually seen the beach, and he might only recognize it if his footing turned from earth to sand.

Well, if I walk into the sea, I'll know I've gone too far. He put the map away, took a long drink from a bottle of water and got back to his feet.

He slid one foot forward, trying to find a patch of ground that was relatively flat and solid, shifted his weight, then slid the other foot forward, feeling the uneven patchiness of the lawn until he could be sure there were no obstructions. Then repeat. One foot, then the other; one step, then another. Then repeat again.


[Clayton Barber continued elsewhere.]