Survival Of The Fittest

Everything was moving far too quickly for Francine. One second, she was watching. A boy flew out nowhere, kicking Phil in the back of the head. This was chaos. Disorganized madness. Then there was the voice, whispering to her. Break it up?

"What?" Francine said, and then she had been shoved forwards. Oh god. She was flailing her arms, momentum carrying her right towards them. She bumped into Phil, and he spun and decked her, dropping her to the ground. Francine landed hard, stunned. She blinked. He'd hit her? He'd actually hit her? She hadn't done anything. He was insane. A monster. An utter psychopath. He'd hit her, and she hadn't done anything!

At least he would get his comeuppance. The girl he'd been wailing on pulled a gun. It looked kinda weird, though. She fired, and a bright, blinding light shot out of it, like a ball of fire or something. A flare? She was using a flare as a weapon? Weren't those harmless? Just for signaling for--

The flare rebounded from Phil and hit Francine square in the chest, and she realized just how wrong she'd been. It burned, right from the start it burned. She couldn't move. She couldn't think. She screamed and tried to swat it away, but it burned her hands. Fire. Pain. Screams. It shouldn't have been like this. How had this happened? It was too quick, far too quick. She shouldn't be here. She'd tried to find the group, and now she was screaming and burning and... dying?

No, no it couldn't be, but the pain was so bad, it could be, it'd be better, better if she died, better if it went quiet.

Mercifully, the agony overwhelmed Francine less than two seconds after the flare hit, though it felt far longer. She passed out, escaping the remaining terrible seconds of her life.

G039, Francine Moreau - DECEASED

((Oh look, more GMing. Also approved.))

Chris unfortunately slightly missed his punch. While he intended for the brass knuckles to put a nice dent in Phillip Ward's skull, his hand was slightly too high. Instead, the heel of his palm crashed into Phil's forehead at the same time as Maria took a swing at his jaw. The force of both punches sent the psychopath reeling, while also sending Chris to the ground.

The wind was knocked from his lungs as he landed hard on his ribs. As his vision slightly blurred and his glasses went askew, he rolled over and saw another figure flying toward him. He had no clue who the hell this chick was, but she wasn't there for long. Phil's random flailing clocked her in the head and she went down.

Chris pushed off the ground to try and make another jump for Phil, but caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He saw Maria holding something orange, and despite his blurred vision he recognized both the gun shape and what the color of her wide-barreled pistol meant.

"Whoa!"

Chris immediately dropped back to the ground as there was a fairly loud POP from Maria's flare gun. Flame flashed from the muzzle and Chris felt intense heat, about 2000 degrees Celsius, flash by him toward Phil.

While he wanted to cheer, seeing the assailant get his comeuppance, it was not to be. The flare simply bounced off of Phil's shirt, probably giving him a bruise and stinging burn but not much more........and landed right on the sitting girl next to him.

Chris was left to watch in horror as the screaming, flailing young girl was given the most brutal death in history. While he couldn't see all the details, he would have considered himself lucky not to know them if he knew exactly what was happening.

Human flesh melts at 70 degrees Celsius; the flare was burning many times that. While ordinarily it wouldn't have been particularly lethal, the poor girl was caught in a worst-case scenario: the flare landed nose-down and gotten caught in her clothes, and the rocket motor and sheer heat caused the flare to burn straight through her.

The girl stopped screaming shortly after it hit her, probably going into shock. The heat and pushing of the rocket pushed the flare all the way through her body until it landed on the grass under her back, lighting the green turf. The skin around the entry and exit wounds were essentially charred to ash, while almost all of the flesh on her torso began to liquefy and slough off in thick black chunks of goo, exposing the red muscle and white bone.

Around the same time that her hair and clothes caught fire from the heat, Chris, Phil, Maria, and Marybeth, on sheer adrenaline, began running for cover and away from the rapidly growing bonfire. As Chris started running, there was a massive BANG and a super-bright flash behind him that lit up all the trees and belligerants in white false-daylight.

While anyone looking at the flare going off would have been instantly blinded, they were lucky not to see.

The flare's explosion instantly created a zone of heat almost an order of magnitude hotter than the 2000 Celsius it was already burning at, the force of the explosion and sheer heat vaporizing the majority of the girl's torso and leaving the few remains as crumbly bits of black ashen flesh. Her collar immediately detonated and sent her head rolling away from the flames, her hair still burning down to the scalp like a flaming bowling ball.

At the same time, a roaring fire started, with the epicenter being the girl's ex-torso. The flames quickly consumed what little was left of her body, immolating it and eventually leaving just a black skull and arm and leg bones.

Chris was running on full adrenaline now. All thoughts of saving Maria were gone. He just sprinted to the bushes, grabbed up his daypack, and started running. He skirted around the flames, the heat burning his bare skin and making his eyes hurt. He just kept running, away from the smell of burned flesh. Away from the roaring fire. Away from the madness of Survival of the Fittest.

The fire, fortunately, would not burn down the forest. About 20 yards from the clearing where the melee had occured, the fire finally ran out of fuel and burned out. On the east side, the fire reached a natural stream, acting as a firebreak and stopping it in its tracks.

Instead, for the next few hours, up until about 9:00 PM on the first day, the flames would be seen flickering and the smoke would be rising. And then, all would stop.

((Christopher Carlson continued in Wakey wakey, sunshine...))

Marybeth had to marvel at the running boy, who she could now recognize as Chris Carlson, having such impeccable timing. His dynamic entry hit Phil the same time Maria's punch hit. Phil staggered from the impacts, and was met with another impact of the timely entry of Francine, courtesy of Marybeth's input. As an instinctual response, from what Marybeth could guess, Phil swung has arm around wildly, trying to hit anything or anybody that was trying to press an attack. One fist thwacked solidly on Francine, knocking the new challenger to the ground.

While Phil was working hard at punching anything he could reach, Maria clearly had other ideas since she was pulling out something from her pocket or somewhere. It looked like a gun. Yes! Fun is going down! Marybeth wanted to cheer and yell out, but that might distract people. Instead, she decided to stay put and watch as Maria pulled the trigger on the oddly shaped gun. It really didn't look like any gun Marybeth was familiar with.

The snap-hiss of a match being struck filled the air. From the barrel of Maria's gun shot a very bright looking object. Marybeth didn't know what kind of gun shot glowing bullets like that; she should ask Maria about it later. She watched the bright glowing bullet hit Phil's chest and bounce- wait, bullets weren't supposed to bounce off people's chests. At least not unless they were Superman. As possibly interesting a concept SuperPhil would be, Marybeth was pretty sure Phil was anything but a superhero.

The bright ball of whatever had indeed bounced off Phil's chest, and landed on the fallen body of Francine. Then the screams started. They were screams unlike anything Marybeth had ever heard before. Agony. Terror. Despair. The screams wove these emotions together into a primal sound that pierced through the air. It didn't sound like something from a movie or TV show. This was the kind of scream that Marybeth had only read about, in those grimdark novels all about gritty realism and death.

Marybeth couldn't really see what was happening. Whatever had landed on Francine was now blindingly bright. She shielded her eyes; it was impossible to see what was happening but it was easy to guess. Death. Marybeth had caused it. Francine was in pain, was dying, because of what Marybeth had done.

No. It's not my fault. It's all Maria's fault. And Phil's fault.

Whatever had killed Francine was evidently also hot enough to start a fire. Within moments, the fire had spread onto some nearby bushes and fallen branches. Marybeth had never really spent much time outdoors; she had preferred the comfort of her writing desk. Of course, the concept of "fire = bad" was not novel. She could see the forms of Chris, Phil, and Maria running away from the growing blaze. That seemed like a smart idea.

Picking a random direction, which just happened to be in the same general direction as Phil and Maria, Marybeth started running as well. The possibility of actually being caught in the conflagration and burned to death was easy motivation for her. She ran for a short while, until her body's lack of extensive exercise caught up with her. Maybe she should have actually tried harder in gym class.

Marybeth could see Maria to one side, and Phil to the other. How convenient. Marybeth took a few more moments to catch her breath. If she was going to be running any more on this island, she hoped it wouldn't have to be for very far every time. After those few moments, Marybeth straightened up and yelled at the two others near her. "How does it feel to be a killer, Maria?" Marybeth may have just heard another girl die in probably the most agony imaginable, but she wasn't going to let that curb her attitude. Not now. Not ever. "You know you killed her. Murderer!"

She whipped around so she could direct her voice at Phil. "And Ward! Don't think you're off free either." This was a lot more yelling than Marybeth was used to. It was one thing to yell over the cheering of football fans, or the constant hum of muttering in the cafeterias, and a totally different thing to yell in a forest through trees and twenty feet of branch filled air. "Francine Moreau is dead because of you. Don't forget that."

Marybeth didn't like yelling. Not unless she had to, and she'd finished her piece. She could follow these two people, or at least one of them. A story of an angsty killer could definitely be interesting after all. And there'd be somebody to talk to that actually had seen the whole thing and who could back up her story. Marybeth wouldn't mind some company. Especially if that company was Julian Avery.

The thought of Julian snapped Marybeth to another thought. What would he think of Marybeth's involvement in all this? If anything, she should try to get to him so that Phil or Maria couldn't spread nasty rumors about her. Marybeth was not a killer. It was up to her to make sure other people knew that. And there were many other people on this island. Marybeth just needed to find them.

((Marybeth Witherspoon continued in Axes Aren't Efficient For Grinding))

No.

Nonononononononono.

No.

This was ridiculous. There was no way a flare could do this. It just wasn't possible. All it could really do was just hit somebody, and probably set their clothes on fire, right? It couldn't do this. She never saw a movie where somebody got shot with a flare gun and it BURNED A GODDAMN HOLE RIGHT THROUGH THEM.

NO

NOOOOOOOO

Maybe it was at least partially because of the headache and dizziness, but her brain just couldn't process what was happening in front of her. She just stared at the burning, screaming girl, like she was some kind of unfathomable Lovecraftian monstrosity, her screaming burrowing it's way into her ears and deep into her brain, and the sight and smell of charring flesh doing the same through her eyes and nose. Try as she might, she just couldn't look away. It was the world's worst car wreck.

You did this.

You did this.

No...no, this wasn't supposed to happen. She was just going to shoot at Phil, scare him off. If it really was gonna hit him, it'd just start a fire on his shirt or something, and he'd be too busy ripping the shirt off to chase after her. It wasn't supposed to just bounce off and hit somebody else. It wasn't supposed to burrow into her, skin blackening

YOU DID THIS.

clothes being torched, flesh and bone and organs charring, with that godawful smell

YOU DID THIS.

and that screaming oh god just stop the screaming stop it JUST STOP IT

YOU DID THIS!

She had to run. She had to run away from the screaming, and the smell, and the burning. Far, far away, where she couldn't hear it anymore. Or smell it anymore. Or see it anymore. She had to get away. She had to get away right now.

Maria turned a full 180 to run as fast as she possibly could. And just in time, when the flare suddenly ignited and she could feel the burning, like the fires of Hell were chasing her.

Oh God, now she was on fire.

SHE WAS ON FIRE.

Reaching down as she ran, she violently pulled her surely-burning shirt off, dropping it by the wayside. The shirt, however, remained intact, as she wasn't really on fire. The sheer heat of the ignition had just given her a bad sunburn, but good luck convincing her otherwise. Likewise, though the screaming had mercifully stopped, in her mind it was still going, only now it was screaming something as she ran terrified from the area, the greenery starting to burn down behind her.

"How does it feel to be a killer, Maria? You know you killed her. Murderer!"

Maria could hear a voice calling out behind her accusingly, and she gritted her teeth so hard her jaw begin to hurt.

YOU DID THIS!

No...no, it wasn't her. She didn't mean for this to happen.

YOU DID THIS!

Stop it...please, just stop it...

[font=impact]YOU'RE GOING TO BURN IN HELL MARIA GRAHAM![/font]

{{continued in Ten Shades of Gray}}

Phil felt like he had just been punched in the gut by someone twice his size and four times his weight, the flare itself had within milliseconds seared off a small portion of his t-shirt and burned the skin underneath. The damage itself was superficial, however the pain was not. Every stride he took away from the inferno stung like hell and this was only compounded by Marybeth's words of encouragement.

He hadn't waited to see if Francine was still alive. As soon as Maria fired the flare gun he had bolted as fast as his legs would take him, forgetting both his pack and claws, letting them lay on the ground next to the old pine he had sat at before. He hadn't started it and Chris Carlson had no right running in and sucker punching him either. Phil imagined trying to explain his actions to a teacher. Vehemently spouting that he had been 'booped' on the nose which was the reason he tackled the girl. The presiding authority would look at him like he was insane and send him to detention.

It wasn't fair, it was never fair. Phil never started it, it was those cruel popular kids with their jibes, their knowing smiles and their high pitched laughs as he walked by. He had found a sort of solace in the hockey team, a place where he could vent his angry and people would respect him for his skills. Sure they occasionally teased him, but no more so than any other player. There was a comradery there that he had not found before and now this stupid terrorist had taken that away.

Looking up Phil found himself in somewhere wholey unfamiliar. Trees crowded his eyesight and he could hear nothing in the fading light.

All alone he curled up in a ball, uncaring of the camera's that watched his move. In the morning he would look for his team again.

That night Phil cried, small muffled sobs before drifting in to a nightmarish sleep. When daybreak came he willed it not to be so, but eventually he knew he had to move, to escape. His stomach rumbled and his bladder was full. Scraping himself up from the pile of leaves he had sat down in Phil Ward did his business and then headed out, his body aching and burnt, his destination unknown.

((Phillip Ward continued elsewhere...))