Survival Of The Fittest

Ace wrote:This is my moment, my destiny. I’m not gonna fuck this up. I promise. I can’t fuck this up. I can’t. I can’t. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I’m gonna do what I gotta do—whatever I gotta do is what I’m doin’. I ain’t playin’—but I ain’t the one to play with. I’m a man now momma. I gotta think like one. The world is a hard place when it humbles you. I’m so lost Momma, but I haven’t lost all them lessons.

The sound of gunshots rang like an alarm on a school day—jolting Ace out of bed with the same sense of urgency his mother’s voice would. Beats had been bathed in bullets the last few days and his battles had left him battered. His eyes remained closed and his body remained still. There was a ringing in his head that had been present outside from the moment the first explosion went off and it was now replaced by a fuzziness that was all encompassing. Ace felt numb. Ace felt his body, which he had relied on so much during his trials on the island and in his life before, fail him. Beats wanted to scream and couldn’t. Beats wanted to get up but his legs refused to listen.

“Ugh,” he groaned, “Shit,” whispers and mutters, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” mantras and meditations, “Come fuckin’ on!”

Ace flipped himself on his back, the heavy LMG landing on his side with a loud thud. Beats felt his bloodied back stick to the floor of the manor. Green eyes desperately studied the ceiling and searched for inspiration as much as ignition. The fire in his belly was going out. The light in Ace's eyes and his heart about as dim as the chandelier above. This was his moment and his destiny...

And Ace felt himself crushed by it.

Diego jolted away from the frame, but a bullet or two caught him, the wood splinters caught him.

He pressed his back against the fractured, pockmarked exterior wall again, chest heaving, fingers pressing white against the grip of the gun. He looked down.

He'd lost his shirt a week ago, and in the days since, he had been left completely exposed, bared for all to see. In multiple senses, really. Literal in that his skin was on display, morally in that everyone saw the core of what Diego was, of what he was willing to do to live. And, now, another layer exposed.

There was no shirt to soak up the blood, to allude to his wounds in blossoms and red blotches, to merely suggest pain. He looked down, and he saw tears in his flesh, holes, blood streaming from them down the side of his stomach. He saw, as clear as possible, all that he was losing.

He resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, bang his fist against the wall. Stinging pain, burning pain, throbbing pain, all of it was pain, and all of it was temporary. This whole situation was still his. They were still his. In the second that he'd peered into the house, he'd seen Ace floundering on the floor. He would be his in a few seconds.

The other boy, Marco, was still standing at the entrance of that kitchen, he assumed, leaning out, waiting for Diego to make his next move.

And so he would.

He turned back into the house and, without a moment's delay, pulled the trigger.

It was over, wasn't it?

Marco lit up the door frame and sent Diego recoiling back to the porch. There'd been blood, he, he was sure there was blood pouring off the boy's bare chest, direct hits that Marco couldn't count up before he disappeared but they'd been hits hadn't they? There was no sound on the other side of the frame. He'd expect screams, right, or labored breath, or, or, or reloading, cursing, or-

C'mon

C'mon

C'mon

Come fuckin' on!

And a loud thud he expected to be Diego's body hitting the floor. Except it wasn't coming from the doorway. Ace's attempt to rally had snuck under the gunfight. He wasn't, it was over, he couldn't even lift that gun, he didn't know where he was, he didn't have to do this. Ace couldn't meet his eyes. Marco kept staring into his face but if Ace was looking at anything at all he couldn't figure out what.

Marco was still trying to figure him out when the impact snatched the air out of his lungs. He only broke his gaze from Ace to stare down and see red spilling onto the kitchen floor. His vision blurred. The floor rose to, no, no he fell but he didn't feel it, the growing stain just got closer without him registering the drop to his knees, or to his side, or to…to...did it matter?

It was over, wasn't it?

It wasn’t over.

Ed Reed; NFL Hall of Famer wrote: "I'm hurt, dawg; don't ask me if I'm all right! Hell, naw! Joaquin said, 'Dominate,' and we're not doing it! I'm putting my heart in this shit! Let's go, man!

The gun shots provoked a fear in his heart and fear was fire and fire was fuel. Beats wasn’t scared of getting burned. Ace had touched the hot stove quite a few times and had quite a few burned fingers to show for it…but he also had ten fingers. Plenty to spare. Fire could burn you but it could also mold you and temper you like iron. Beats was tempered steel. He was cut from a different cloth. Ace was made from an entirely different fabric. Beats was 1 in 1000. There was nobody who could fuck with him. He was here for a real reason--plenty had been hit like he had been hit but they weren't fuckin' breathing. Ace still was. Beats was still alive and still fighting and pushing.

Live by the fire and die by the torch—Momma I ain’t dyin’ here!

It wasn’t over.

Marco hit the ground and Beats rose up. Half a sprint and a half a crawl again, dragging the heavy machine gun as he scooted backwards with a frantic desperation. He had a job to do and Beats was gonna get the job done. It was just another game and Ace was just down at the half. That didn't mean shit. That's exactly how Ace had earned his keep, that's exactly how he had earned that scholarship he was so proud of. The Horned Owls had been down 28-0 at half time. Everybody had looked dejected and nobody thought they stood a chance. Ace was usually quiet but that time he was loud. He spoke with his play and with his body and with his blood and with his sweat and his tears. He made a promise to his team and then he tried his best to keep it. Every game he played was based upon that promise made, one boy to another: I will get my job done.

There was so much work to do--could anyone but Ace do it?

On his butt with the gun in his lap and it’s heavy metal casing and barrel of ammo nearly crushing his pelvis, Ace did the only thing that he could do: move forward. The only thing that mattered to Ace when you had a gun out was if you were willing to use it and he was. He really, really was. Ace was a terrible shot, but just shooting was statement enough. The native language on this island was nothing but vicious violence. Ace had become fluent in less than two weeks time. He pulled the trigger and closed his eyes.

It wasn’t over. Not yet.

The bullets he shot at the doorway had no rhyme or reason. Neither did his scream of defiance.

He shouldn't have gone here.

Marco and Ace had been facing off against each other, they would've killed each other, they would've taken care of each other. He should've just waited things out. That had worked for the past few days, that had kept him alive.

He was here already, though. He couldn't run off. He was in too deep. He'd made his decision. He'd owned this. They would be his, this would be his.

Marco had fallen, and that was supposed to be it, right? He'd fallen, he was dead, Ace was on the ground, he'd be dead, and that'd be it.

He'd been a bit transfixed by Marco. Not for any particular reason, just because he was moving, falling, just because he wanted to make sure he'd stay down.

Ace had been moving for half a second by the time the blur finally registered to Diego. He'd been moving, and Diego had responded as fast as he could, he swore he had, the gun was in his hand, his finger had been on the trigger, he'd been ready, he was ready, it should've been enough.

He jerked the gun to the left, trained the barrel on the football player.

There were thuds against Diego's thigh, calf, little plumes of red.

Diego had pressed the trigger already, reflex, but it didn't matter by then.

Conversation with Momma Beats wrote:“Ace, there’s plenty kids who end up paralyzed or never playing again. It’s a dangerous game and college ball is just going to be crazier.”

“Ma, I’ve never been hurt.”

“You’ve been lucky.”

“I’ve been good!”

His shots and screams were aimless and directed at whatever opponent happened to be in his way. One went down and another appeared...that was just the way shit went. That was always the most difficult battle—the next one. The struggle never ended and the hustle cared not for fatigue. Ace’s gun rattled and rocketed in his grasp and his bullets made their mark—the thrill of victory was an intoxicating and powerful vintage. For the fraction of a memory of a moment Ace felt as if he was the conqueror.

Sunglassy Smurf was down and Bomby Smurf would soon follow. They thought they were Alexander? They were no Alexander. Ace was the most ruthless and vicious champion ever. Beats was the big bad wolf. Ace was the biggest villain and most diabolical person left. Strong enough physically and selfish enough mentally to use that strength. Nobody could stop him. Not Connor, not Justin, not Blaise, not Bomby Smurf or Sunglassy--not even Ace. Victory wasn't something earned--it was something taken. You didn't win because it was meant to be--you win because that's what you're made of. It was easy to do anything in victory--it was only in defeat that you find yourself. But what did victory cost? It didn't fuckin' matter. If it cost to be the boss, then fuck it, Ace would have to pay.

Beats didn't want this. Beats didn't need this. Beats deserved this.

He deserved the bullet that hit him in the chest—probably more than he deserved any sense of victory. Shock provoked adrenaline and that finally gave him the spark he needed to stand up. Green eyes stared widely at the doorway and at his opponent. Black and bloodied hands struggled with the weight and build of the LMG. Ace tried to lift it up and take aim again. Beats screamed at his soul to unload the clip.

He wasn’t lucky and he wasn’t good and he was incapable of doing anything in response to those inescapable truths.

Beats tried to take aim and he couldn’t. Ace stood up on weak and shaking knees grasping his chest with one hand and holding onto the heavy gun with another. Ace refused to fall. It took his entire essence to remain ten toes down. The LMG slipped through his finger tips as blood continued to envelop the shreds of his navy shirt. The gun landed on the floor with a loud clang. Ace remained standing on shaking legs.

Diego didn't feel like taking any more chances.

He aimed for the chest, fired.

He aimed for the leg.

Reciprocity.

Fired.

It was over.

Not just this one thing. Not just this fight or this game or this trauma. It was over. Not his football career, not his innocence, not his personhood. It was over. Not just this one thing—but everything. Everything he had ever wanted or ever dreamed or ever fought for. Dreams were what you did at night—but dreams also were what got you through the day. Beats had sacrificed and killed and watched so many die for his dreams. Ace needed to keep standing and fighting. Beats wanted to raise his gun and move forward.

Ace wrote: “You still don’t get it Cap’n. It ain’t 'bout want no more!

And it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. It wasn't even about need.

Ace needed to remain standing. Beats wanted to keep fighting on—Diego shot him down. Hard.

In football, if you were thinking—you were losing. Blood on his shirt, shotgun shell in his leg. Ace couldn’t stop his mind. His eyes turned toward the ceiling. Desperate and pleading and hazy. His body screamed at him to move and instinct battled with intuition and left Ace with nothing but self. In football if you were thinking—you were losing.

Ace couldn’t stop himself from thinking.

Somehow it didn’t feel quite like loss.

Ace fell backwards with a thump.

And Diego was the last one standing.

The gun stayed rigid in his grip as he took his first step forward, into the house. Just to make sure they stayed down. No more second chances.

Left foot first.

Right foot dragged.

More blood trailing behind him, red smears on the hardwood floor.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Knees quivering, but staying upright. He could do this.

Left. Right.

New wounds, new pains on the side of his stomach, leg.

Burning, biting, tearing.

Clenched teeth, chattering teeth. Teary eyes.

Left. Right.

Every inch of his body ripping itself apart just trying to get from one place to another.

Body shaking.

Left. Right.

Pain. Pain. Pain. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

But he was still alive. He was still here.

The damage dealt to them by the island was part of an evolving process, Kelly had said. She had framed it positively, and she had promptly been proven wrong when she had collapsed and disintegrated under the wear and tear dealt by Erika and him. But there had been a valid point lying beneath the madness. He felt it with each and every step he took.

He felt it with the gunshot wounds Ace and Marco had just dealt him, the wetness, the fire coating his stomach, leg.

He felt it with the cheek Kelly had torn, yawing and gaping beneath gauze.

He felt it with the fractured cheek, missing teeth, broken nose Morgan had given him, every shaky, clenched inhale stinging.

He felt it with the torn shrapnel gashes in his face, upper torso dealing with Henry had left behind.

He felt it with the jagged line across his forehead Diego had given himself.

He felt it with the ribbed bruises Ty had given saving him.

He felt it with the scar in his left hand, the one he'd made for Lorenzo, the first wound, still humming below everything else.

He felt it with the slice Cam had made along his arm, still tearing him apart with every motion he made.

So many people on the island, so many of his classmates had left their mark on him. So many of them had changed him in some way, physical or not. He was not better for it. He hurt, he cried, he struggled for it. But with each step he took towards the bodies in this manor, with each breath he took, with each time he blinked, he was reminded him of who each of them had been and what they'd been to each other. Whether or not he made it off this island, he would never be allowed to forget them. Never.

He was not better for it, but he was not entirely worse for it.

He was changed, and that was the most that could be said about it.

Left.

Right.

He came to a stop in the dead center of the main hall, the pitted, marred, obliterated entrance of the manor behind him. Rays of sunlight illuminated the interior, swirls of sawdust the only reminder of the carnage that had just preceded. Chandelier above, wide walls around, stairway to the side. Marco's body collapsed in the kitchen, Ace's body in front of him.

He stood there for a few moments, just looking around. Taking it all in.

All his now.

He stopped, eventually. Moved the gun, aimed it center, in front of him, low. Just to make sure of things.

Below him was movement.

Ace wrote:I’m gonna disappoint you, y’know?

Above him was death. Above death was inspiration. Necessity was the mother of innovation and Ace had a front row seat to the birth. The LMG was too heavy and his body was too weak. The spirit was willing but the flesh was bloodied and bruised. The LMG wasn’t Ace’s deadliest weapon—that honor belonged to his clear eyes and full heart.

Saku wrote:Yep!

Mixed with the Wildey .45 and the Kel-Tec. Two pistols, one small and light weight and one big fuck you four-five. Combined with eyes that still had fire and a heart that had long run cold--how could he lose? His fingers were already on the triggers--he wasted no time pulling 'em.

“I ain’t goin’ out like that,” he grunted over gunshots through gritted and bloodied teeth, “I’m built fuckin’ different!”

In football if you were thinking—you were losing. Ace couldn’t stop his mind from rushing—but he was done losing. Below Diego there was movement. Above Ace there was death. Above them both was inspiration and Ace ran off with it like Prometheus did the flame. Fear was fire and fire was fuel. This boy had three times inflicted damage and hurt unto Ace or people he cared about. Even as a stranger and distant concept—he had Ace’s disdain and disgust. Beats saw a mirror into his own soul staring into the desperate and angry gaze of his opponent. What Ace saw was arrogance and anger and hate and so much fear. Driving faster on the highway to hell, Beats saw himself in this small and pathetic and wounded boy making his way towards him.

And Beats wanted nothing more than to shoot him down.

Ace didn’t have the stomach for suicide--but he had developed a taste for murder and had found a comfort in violence. Such was the only rule that mattered out here on Murder Island. That was the name of the game they were both playing and Beats was an award winner. Ace screamed with desperation and defiance—but shots spoke louder than any shout.

With shaky arms and shitty aim Ace unloaded both pistol clips into the ceiling. As the deadly hot iron exiting his guns meshed with the ceiling walls and clanged with metal of the chandelier…Beats purpose became clear.

When the chandelier came crashing down no mystery remained.

Diego had reacted in time but he'd run out of bullets.

He'd rattled his finger against the trigger but nothing came out, just clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick.

He hadn't moved because Ace's gun had been aimed too high, he thought it wouldn't matter.

He hadn't even realized what was happening by the time the chandelier fell.

Just a crash, tremendous noise, the world collapsing, and then




It was cartoonish, what had happened to him. It was how you disposed of enemies in kids' shows, video games. It was so obvious, and yet he hadn't seen any of it coming.

There was a broken, faltering, stuttering wheezing in the air. Almost like chuckling.

Diego struggled to lift his head up. For the few seconds he could, he saw his body, legs pinned by warped metal against the ground. His right arm lay underneath. Bent in three places. He didn't think he had that many joints there.

His left arm remained free. He tried to take in a huge gasp of air; he stopped halfway through. There were stabbing pains in his chest. What air made it out couldn't come back in. It felt like the chandelier was pushing down on him. Crushing him.

To his side he heard footsteps.

His heart hammered.

He pressed his left hand against the rubble, and it didn't move.

The thrill of victory was an intoxicating and powerful vintage. For the fraction of a memory of a moment Ace felt as if he was a conqueror. Drunk off of victory and violence and dazed due to blood loss, Beats struggled through shock as he made his way towards his handiwork. His heart was colder than snow and his steps were heavier than stone.

“You,” he huffed, “Got,” he puffed, “Me,” he couldn’t speak, he could hardly focus, “Fucked up.”

That would have to suffice. That would have to be enough.

Tony Montana; Scarface (1983) wrote: You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fuckin' fingers and say: "That's the bad guy."

So...what that make you? Good?

You're not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie. Me? I don't have that problem. Me? I always tell the truth--even when I lie. So say good night to the bad guy! Come on! The last time you gonna see a bad guy like this again, let me tell you! Come on! Make way for the bad guy! There's a bad guy comin' through! Better get outta his way!

The world would never be enough for someone like Ace. Beats had learned that better than anybody.

As he made his way to his victim, he tossed his pistols on the ground. No bullet would be wasted on this punk—but no bullet would ever be enough for someone like Ace. This wouldn’t be payback. Payback implied that Ace was gonna stop when the debt was repaid. In football if you were thinking—you were losing. Beats was done losing.

And now he was done thinking.

With his remaining strength he pushed the heavy metal chandelier off of Diego’s crumpled form. In another lifetime, Beats’ strength was something he tempered and trained. He could bench 225lbs ten times. Saquan Barkley had done twenty-nine at the NFL Combine. Ace wasn’t Saquan Barkley—not then and not now. But that chandelier wasn’t the combine. This had never been a game solely about physical strength. This display relied on more than that. This situation tapped into a strength Ace hadn't known he had.

He stood over Diego. Beats huffed and he puffed and then he found himself sitting on the boys chest in what amounted to a full mount. Ace wanted to scream. Beats wanted to cuss and spit and rip this kid a new one. He couldn't manage any words. Ace was struggling to manage breaths.

The single hand that wrapped itself around Diego’s neck spoke louder than any shout.

"No. No no no. No no no no no."

Ace loomed above Diego, impossibly tall. Diego pushed and pushed and pushed and yet it did nothing, he managed nothing.

The chandelier was pushed off like it was nothing. Air flooded into Diego's lungs for one short, merciful second, and then no more.

Ace's weight came upon him. He shook his head sideways, quiet no's pouring out his mouth, and then no more.

Diego's chest contracted, yet nothing came in. Heaved up, down, up, down, yet nothing made it past his throat.

He stared wide-eyed above. Green eyes bored into him.

He began slamming his left fist into Ace's face, trying to make it stop.

Ace wrote: I just dunno what to do. And you think that when the chips are down, it's gonna like, bring out the best version of you...? Like, that's what all the stories say, right? Ordinary people doin' the extraordinary. Doin' the unimaginable in face of the unthinkable. Startin' to think I'm not built like that tho. Prolly the opposite.

Gotta keep tryin'...right? Still here, ain't I?

Beats wouldn't be stopped.

Ace couldn’t feel shit. His reaction towards Diego’s repeated and frantic punches was more shock than awe. Beats felt genuinely surprised and insulted by Diego’s audacity— both to shoot him and to strike him. That shock stoked the flames of rage that already burned deep within Ace even before this encounter. The hand around the boys neck tightened and Ace dug his dirt and bloodstained nails into the soft flesh of Diego's throat.

This wouldn’t be payback. Payback implied Ace would only give as much as he got.

Ace’s other hand balled up in a fist and with no hesitation or restraint he began raining them down upon Diego’s face like a hammer. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

He didn't have many options left.

The grenade launcher was pinned beneath Ace, pressing into broken ribs, somehow stealing more air from him.

The shovel was nestled deep in his bag, splayed off to his right, near, yet impossibly far.

The gun didn't have any ammo left.

All Diego had was his hand. He'd fought for so long, he'd fought for so much, yet all he was left with was this broken, beaten, useless body of his.

Ace's fist hammered into his face, breaking loose even more teeth, reopening the tear in his cheek.

Blood began to seep into his left eye, the world turning red-black. It stung like saltwater.

Blood rushed through his ears, a raging river.

Fingers pushed against his throat.

All he had was his hand.

All he had to fight for his life was his hand.

All he had to reclaim all the years he'd never lived was this hand.

And with that hand, he grabbed onto Ace's face.

Nails digging, dragging through his cheek.

Puncturing his eye.