Survival Of The Fittest

[Alex Tarquin ENTER: from Woof Woof, I'm a Dog. Kill your Friends.]

Alone.

It was good to be alone, wasn't it?  Alone meant safe, in some ways.  Jeremy might have pointed that gun on his behalf, but that didn't mean he couldn't point it at Alex if he changed his mind.  There could only be one winner, whatever code of honor Alex pretended he might cling to.  And it was all pretend, of course.  All of it.  He felt himself unraveling, and all his pretensions fading to black.

Now it was just Alex.  The accidental murderer pretending intent, because accident was idiocy and intent was glory.  

He'd sent Jeremy away.  He'd let Hazel go.  Those had been his choices.  Just like cutting off Crowe's finger, and just like shoving a shelf atop Rea's still-warm body.  All his decisions.  His loneliness was a choice.  He'd sent his friend away.

He hummed to himself, as he wandered the halls of the Asylum, as he froze and moved cagily and cattily, mastering the stage, always leaving cans in his wake.  Recovering some as he moved, leaving others.  Mastering the layout of this place, blocking and marking, so that when time came to perform

(to kill, to kill, don't pretend otherwise)

he would be ready.  In control.

Alone.

Also: grungy and ugly.

This was a problem: Alex had not showered in days, and there was really no hope of a shower in the near future.  He smelled, and he was going to keep smelling.  That thick, spicy, strangely soupy scent that always came with accumulated BO.  But he handle smelling.  Smelly was just something he'd have to accept here.

The real problem was appearance.  This broadcast was going to be aired, as every other broadcast has been aired.  He was going to be seen.  His clothes were grungy, but that was alright--a little bit of Mad Max post-apocalypse grunge would probably help sell him as a warrior badass.  But he still had to look good.  He still...

What did it matter?  He was going to die.  No one would believe him.

Jeremy believed me.  Hazel, Michael, Jordan.  Lily?

He hummed, as he stalked the halls of the Asylum, tracing them as best he can, sketching out his mental map of his stage.  He hummed, not quite smiling, not quite frowning.  Staying alive, staying aware.  Staying himself.  Whichever self he was trying to be, these days.

Flooded water on his feet.  A creepy room, with slimy tubs.  Perfect setting for a horror movie.  It set the skin on his neck crawling, thinking of a half-dozen found-footage movies.  This was a room of horrors.  A room for monsters.

And that was what he wanted to be, right?  A proper horror monster.  A Hannibal Lecter, contained within the asylum but not imprisoned by it.

Tired.  So tired.  So alone.

(( Michael Crowe continued from Hang in There))

Michael had a lot of conflicting thoughts. Number one, was 'what in the hell' was he really doing? What was he trying to prove? For the last three days, he hadn't thought about anything. Just doing. Was this for Jerry, or for himself? Was this some excuse to show he wasn't scared, that he didn't care; That he was still on top, still in control? That he was right? It never mattered to Michael if someone thought he was wrong, but he did take note of it. If one person says you're wrong, then you tell him to fuck off. But if ten people tell you it, you might have to think about it a bit, right? Were they any better? After all, the same people tellin' him he's wrong are the same people who'd grab popcorn and a lawn chair if their buddy was getting mauled by a bear instead of doing anything about it.

Second, why him? Why'd his class get picked. Why do we have to go through this shitstorm? Why not some fuckin' bigshot 400 people school on the other side of the states? Why'd they choose us? All that time, all that effort. How much were they spending on this? Hell, how many times has this fuckin' happened, it's ridiculous. They had to run out of islands eventually. Jesus, and you'd think by now whoever owned this shithole would speak up. Durr, yea' we abandoned an island, a lot like this one actually, same bell tower, same asylum and everything, but we don't know if it's ours, hyuk hyuk. Maybe the government knew, maybe they're using this for anti-terrorist funding or some shit. Maybe he's just thinking into it too much, like Tessa Tinfoil.

Third, where in the fuck were these cans coming from! Michael kicked one of them down the hallway, watching it bounce along the wall before rolling away. Why were there so many in a trail? Did it lead to a trap, does someone need help. Michael knew he told Audrey he'd let Darwin do the work for him, but... Maybe that change of tactic, maybe it was just switching his priorities? Save a life, rather than take one? What the hell... Not like he was good at either, but maybe, maybe it was worth a shot.

Michael was too optimistic though. He knew what it probably was. Follow the candy to the white van. Never get seen again. The trail of cans lead him to a shithole he'd never thought he'd return to. Michael tilted his head away before moving down the stairwell. Maybe. Maybe this was Nancy planning it? That's what she's doing for fame now?

Fate seemed to fuck him through every corner. Every ally he meets, he loses. Every chance of success he gets, he loses. Maybe fate was telling him to turn around. Maybe that's what he should do. Turn around. Find Jonathan, or Darius, or anyone. Give up. Make the best of it. This might be his last chance to do it. Do it.

Yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes?

Maybe, just maybe, if he stuck to it, his luck would turn around. Something would go right, right? Powers that be! Grant me some good shit for once! Please!

Michael made his way down the stairs, he saw a shape. A familiar shape. Wasn't Nancy. Wasn't Alessio.

Well... worth a shot right? Worse case scenario, this is the last mistake he makes. Fitting end. Family mourns for about a month, they get over it. Jon mourns for the rest of the time on his island, he'll get over it. Nobody else gives a shit.

Michael crouched low. Jeremy wasn't with him now. What'd he do, gut him for his gun? Wouldn't surprise him one bit. A little 'told ya' so' if that was the case. This time he wasn't gonna go into theatrics, no screaming, none of that shit. Sneak and gut.

But could he do it? For all his talk he did a bad job of even finishing off a kid in a straight jacket. Shoulda' known though. If he could've brought himself to do it, the whole bell tower thing wouldn't have happened would it? Just a whack and leave. Explain it was for the greater good, be blissfully unaware that your partner never really gave a shit about your ideology. Move on.

Michael stayed low, slowly inching his way towards Alex. It was time to see if he could actually do what he promised Jerry. It was time to see what he was capable of. It was time to nut up, or shut up.

((Will McKinley continued from Inner Animal))

Ever since the storehouse, there has been a foreboding feeling of danger in the air. Darius might have been a complete asshole with no filter, didn't mean he didn't have equally stupid friends out for his blood. People like Michael and Jerry. If they were annoying to no degree back home, lord knows what those fucks would do around here.

A familiar building came into view as he continued his trek. Conflicting feelings came forwards as he came closer and closer to his destination. Ben and Penelope could still be there. After what he'd done could he face them? Look them in the eyes and be honest about it? At the same time he figured he'd find him here, the thing responsible for all this. If it hadn't taken her away, then all of this wouldn't have happened.

He stopped in his tracks as he looked over the building once more. Noticing more and more details in it with each trek. This was the second time he'd come here and the unwelcome feeling it gave off was tenfold what it was last time.

Memories of his crime still fresh in mind, he had forced himself back. A part of him felt a need to do so. Whether it was to apologise to Darius's corpse or kill somebody else. It didn't matter. He was here now.

As he walked inside, he decided to check the downstairs this time. Going up gave him friendly faces and a time of reprieve from all the bullshit going on. Downwards would be hell he figured. Just what he deserved.

As he found his way down, he noticed someone had set up cans around the area. A way to warn them of others entering. Will had to admit it was pretty smart, Whoever did that isn't stupid enough to walk around unarmed either he figured. He would have to be on his guard here.

He carefully walked down the hall, trying his best not to disturb the cans. With the way it was set up made the place feel like a lair in a way.

He stopped in his tracks. The sound of water splashes echoing out with footsteps as someone marching around the ground as he realised who it could be. He hurriedly got his gun out. There was no mistakes to be made here.

Alone.  Ugly, inside and out.  A story he was trying to make even his fellow players believe, little monster that he was.  Crowe had been right: all he'd done was kill one scared little girl, because he was afraid himself.  Christ, what a fucking coward he was!  All those words about fitness and honor, because no one else knew the truth.  No one else knew...

Not alone.

The cans were clanging and rattling.  Someone was coming.

Alex had wandered for hours, tracing the halls of this place, leaving his cans and strings in his wake.  When he could not find cans, he made do with whatever clanging pieces of metal he could jury rig together.  He knew someone was coming.  Getting closer, before they stopped tripping any alarms.  He had come from that way himself.  He knew what halls they could possibly take, and where they led.  

He stood at a slight angle, his head tilted so it seemed like he wasn't looking at the door, like he was unaware of whoever was coming. But with the way he'd left his flashlight, he had a clear reflection leading back down that hall.  He watched that reflection for any movement, for any sign of a gun, for any sign of danger.  There was a doorway in the opposite direction: if it looked too dangerous, he'd bolt.

And then he saw the figure.  He recognized him, too.  All the wear and tear of the past few days hadn't made him any less recognizable.  Crowe.

His grip tightened on his machete, but otherwise he gave no visible sign of what he'd seen.  Dangerous.  Very dangerous.  But a good story.  Perhaps a chance at the glory he was losing.  A chance to sell his name and...

And a chance to kill again, you fucking monster.

Yes, well.  After all he'd said and all he'd done, he didn't have the luxury of looking back.  Not if he wanted to survive.  Not if he wanted to be remembered.

He considered his options.  He muttered to himself, nonsense phrases--"peas and carrots, rhubarb"--as he looked around the room.  Let Crowe get just a little closer.  Let him strike, and think nothing was wrong.  

Alex's heart was beating fast, and his fingers and toes were tingling with electric adrenaline.  He could taste ash on his tongue.  He could die, right here.  But after so long alone, he had to admit: there was a part of him that wanted to fight.  A part of him that wanted to kill.

Just let him get a little closer.

Michael crept closer and closer to Alex. If he could do this, he was going to do this...

However, the closer he got, the more he thought about what he was doing. Something unnerved him, something felt wrong, off.

Maybe this was the wrong path?

Then again, maybe he couldn't bring himself to just play the knockout game with the axe. He wanted Alex to be somewhat aware. He wanted the bastard to feel something, to feel the fear of being hunted like the wild animal he wanted to be. He wanted Alex to be afraid. Even when he nabbed Al, he waited for that fucker to wake up before knocking his lights back out. He stood there, still, for a whole ten minutes.

If he could give Al some sort of slight decency, he guess he could give Alex some too...

His axe slid underwater as he moved. These dark corridors had another nostaliga to it, one that reminded him of many sci-fi horror films. Might as well use that to his advantage.

He was close enough now. He stopped moving. Alex wasn't moving, just mumbling. Something felt wrong, but Mike didn't care. He could do this. He had to.

Like a xenomorph, he slowly stood up, rising out of the water. His axe raised and hovered above Alex's shoulder. Michael let some of the filthy water drip from it, onto him.

Drip, drip, drip.

A low hiss escaped Michael's mouth, increasing in volume until Alex turned around...

Will continued his way down the hall carefully. Whoever picked this place to hide out was a smart one, cans all over the place made it difficult to be stealthy, same with the water. It's what convinced him he was down here. It'd fit how he acted back then perfeclty.

Clinging to the walls, he followed the sounds till they stopped, for a second he wondered if he had heard him until he could hear something faint as if someone else was there with him. An ally perhaps? With the he was acting that day, no way did he have any. So someone else out to take him down? You'd think that would have made him happy, instead it made Will hurry along the path, still taking care not to disturb the cans or make too much noise. Tarquin was his kill. Nobody else's.

When the faint sounds became more and more clearer. He peeked his head around the corner and saw him. The one he'd been looking for, he'd been right to check this place out, his hiding place. His lair. He could finally make things right again.

No more mistakes.

He walked out from his spot, he didn't know or care whether he had a gun at this point. If he was going to die, he was going to know Will pulled the trigger.

"Tarquin." He had his gun out aimed right at him. He noticed there was someone else there as well, Crowe. Hard not to notice with that shitty hair. Looked like he was about to try and take him out. Fuck that. With both hands around his gun, he fired at them.

Crowe stopped moving.

Alex did not turn his head to look, still mumbling, still pretending to search the room, still pretending that he couldn't see Crowe.  The axe was rising, oh so slowly.  Christ, did Crowe think he was an executioner?  Did he think he was the killer in a slasher film?  There wasn't time for this.

Alex's heart was pounding in his chest.  His limbs felt weak with stress and adrenaline.  Just a little closer, Crowe.  

Alex tightened his grip on his machete, ready to swing, and-

And there was movement across the room.  A face Alex vaguely recognized.  Where had he seen that face?

"Tarquin," said the voice, and Alex recognized the voice, Alex had heard it whispering, shouting, cursing his name, bellowing in rage, Alex had heard it days and days ago, after the bullet hadn't killed him, after his sword had cut through Rea and

oh fuck

The gun was rising, and there was a hissing like a snake, and Alex threw himself backwards, forgetting Crowe was there, and the two fell back together as the thunder of a gunshot rang through the room, and Alex kicked out with all his strength and the tub of slimy water just in front of him fell over, unleashing a dank splashing cascade across the flooded room, mirroring the splashing of his tumbling flailing against Crowe.  His flashlight went tumbling, casting wild shadows across the grimy room.[/i]

"Keeeeeeeeehhhhhh-"

"Tarquin."

Michael turned his head just in time to see the poster child for the IRA pointing a gun at them. Will you motherfu-GAH!

Alex flew towards Mike, the back of his skull colliding with Michael's face. My face! That was my good side you fucker, you're gonna pay for that!

He flew back first into a nearby sink, the mirror above it shattering. Michael let go of his axe to shield his head on the way down. He heard the familiar clap of a gun shot as he smashed face first into the water.

"I'bbl' gbbkinb' gbbcht' yerr' grrr'king' bbbbicthkgrrr'!" He cursed through the water.

Well this kinda changed things didn't it? Now there wasn't really much chance of playing vigilante. If he wanted to see Darius or Jonathan ever again, he had to get out of here before he got his ass shot! Michael pulled himself out of the water as his hair hung limply along his face. Shit he'd have to fix that later, if he could. He adjusted his shades and grab- wait, where the fuck was his axe?!

Michael spun around in the water, grasping for his axe almost comically. Well, it would've been comical if it happened to anyone else. Right now it was happening to him, so it wasn't that funny. He turned his head and saw Will, still there, still pointing his gun.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-" Screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the axe, screw the aaaaaaa-haaa-haaaaxe!

Michael scrambled to a half-crawl, half-run and bolted towards the lockers next to the shower stalls. As he ran, the announcements sprung to life. Taking cover outside of Will's line of sight, he ignored it, opening various lockers, had to be a weapon, had to be something here! A pen, a shirt he could use as a garrote, anything to get away from these fuckers! He didn't sign up for th-

"Back to business, Darius Van Dyke finally shut up after William McKinley put a bullet in his brain. So if you hated him, send your thanks Will's way."

"send your thanks Will's way."

"send your thanks Will's way."

Michael's hand reached to his side. Will got Dee? No fuckin' way... He almost couldn't breath... Outside of Jonathan, there was nobody else. All his friends were dead... He felt a lump in his jacket... Wait a minute... He pulled it out. It was Jerry's shock knife. Michael stared at his reflection through it.

Well this kinda changed things didn't it? His best friend's killer was right fuckin' there, and he was gonna run away? Naaah. Fuck. That. Scene.

"send your thanks Will's way."

Michael felt adrenaline course through his veins.

Michael was gonna give Will his thanks alright... Gaddafi style!

As the shot went off, he could hear the sounds of scuffle as a tub was kicked over. Dirty water spilling over the already flooded room. As they both fumbled away with Michael crashing into a sink, but Will didn't care about him. He was secondary right now to the real piece, the boogeyman that haunted Will's thoughts since that first day.

As Will moved towards them, Michael bolted like a bat out of hell, out of sight and out of mind for Will. The sounds of him frantically searching through the lockers was compounded by the familiar sound of the announcements coming to life. And the voice he'd come to think of as pure evil rattled off the tally from yesterday. Including his very own murder of Darius. His mistake. He couldn't let that stop him though, not when he was this close.

"You heard him Tarquin, I've killed before and I ain't fucking afraid to do it again!" It wasn't long till he saw him up close. He looked like utter shit. Not at all like he was that first day. Will thought it was fitting for him, and it'd be even more fitting once he had a bullet in the head.

"You gonna get up and die like a man or lie there and die like a worm?" He punctuated that question with a twirl of his gun, they always did that in the movies to show they meant business. And right now it was all business. "That's the only choice I'm going to give you, more than you gave her, remember?" It would all be over soon.

Flailing blows, Crowe and Alex rolling apart, Alex's machete somewhere in the dark, Alex's other sword digging into his back.  He moved sinuously through the dark, hoping Rea's avenger wouldn't find him, hoping-

To no avail.  There was Rea's avenger, spinning in his gun, a shadow in the dark every bit as theatrical as he was.  The Announcements droned to life around them, and Alex could suddenly recognize the man in front of him.  Will McKinley.  Had Rea and him been an item?  Things began to make a lot more sense, the accidental narratives they'd created, heroes and villains and avengers.

Will was offering him a choice.

I'm going to die

Crowe was off in the dark, and had been preparing to strike him down.  Rea's avenger was there, just out of reach, tall and gaunt and terrible, with his gun in hand.  No chance of getting lucky from this range, no scrapes along the scalp.  This man would put an end to him, one way or another.

Die like a man or die like a worm?

When the fall is all that's left

The choice was not 'die like a man or like a worm.'  The choice was 'die a man or die a legend.'

Alexander David Tarquin flashed a grin up at the man with the gun.  He raised his voice in a proper theatrical style.  "Man or worm?" he shouted, laughing a little.  "You're a child, Will.  Playing their game and pretending it's vengeance.  What did Darius do to you?"  He laid back against the cold, slimy ground, hating the feeling of the water sloshing around him, showing none of his disgust on his face.  "In this moment, you are fit and I am not," he said.  "Play, or don't play.  But don't lie to yourself.  You're no different from me."

Michael peeked from the corner. Will was pointing his gun at Alex. Talkin' a bunch of shit, like he's the hero of this film or some shit, pompous asshole.Michael was the hero, not him! Not that coward bastard! Michael looked at his blade. It was a fake blade, but the tazer game on it was strong. He wouldn't be able to pull a Wolf Creek on that bastard, but he'd definitely get him to drop his pussy-pistol. Just another coward with a gun.

Alex was doing his 'nothin' personnel kid' speech or whatever the fuck it was. For once Michael was glad to hear that Xxedgel9rdxX shit, it meant Will was so focused on Alex's bullshit that he wouldn't see what's coming next.

*slosh slosh*

Michael crept closer, holding his shock knife low, keeping his body low. He had to think, he had to plan this out.

*slosh slosh*

Slowly he moved forwards, watching the two. This wasn't the time to think. All it took was one sentence to describe Mike's plan.

*slosh slosh*

Will dies first.

*slosh*

Michael sprinted towards them.

*slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh slosh splash splash splash splash splash splash splash splash splash splash splash splash*

*KZZZZT-VRRRRR-KRAKRAKRAKRAKRAK*

"CAAAAAAAHHHHMMMME OOOOOOONNN YEEEEEAAAAAAAAH!!!"

The room filled with the flashing strobe-like lights of Larkin's shock knife, and the ear-piercing screams of one pissed off greaser.

"rrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIUUUUUUUGGGGHHH!!!!!"

"Alright then, I'm as bad as you. I've killed and so have you." He held up his finger as he started going into his point, fucker trying to guilt trip him regarding the shithead, even beyond the grave Darius managed to find ways to piss him off. "But there's a big difference between you and me." He didn't know why he felt the need to justify himself to Tarquin, known murderer and wannabe villain in training, but something about what he said pissed him off enough to do so.

He shrugged to himself before continuing. "I'll enlighten you then, he tried to rob me while I slept, didn't stop when I woke up and told him to fuck off and acted like a shit the entire time."He twirled it once more in his hand as if to compound his point before he continued. "As for you, Rea didn't do shit to you, she was as innocent as can be and that's why you're gonna die." He cocked his gun and aimed at Tarquin once more.

And that was all fine and dandy till some fucking lunatic with shitty hair ran in with a knife screaming. If anyone ever wondered what someone snapping sounded like, they would just have to look back at this.

Michael Crowe's lost his damn mind

He only saw the knife being lighted in the dark before deciding fuck that, and fired off into it.

Closer now.  That gun pointing at him.  Everything could end, at any moment, in pain and blood.  The old terror was in him now, wild and terrible, and he did not try to fight it.  He let it ride through him, gave him the edge he needed, the energy and the mania.

All this shall be lost
Like tears
in rain

But it would't be lost.  The cameras were rolling.  Alexander David Tarquin might well die, but he would die as the man who had mastered their game, even when he'd lost it.  

On guard, Rainsford

He was so so so so so afraid.

The gun was pointed at him.  Will was speaking his words of danger and accusation, words that hit hard.  Alex searched deep, tried to marshal the ones he needed, the fitting last lines for the villain he was supposed to-

The crackling of electricity.  The bellowing of a madman.  Will was spinning around, pointing his gun at Crowe as he plunged across the room and-

And the moment was now, because when the fall is all that's left it matters, but when you can dodge the fall, wrench yourself upright, claw your way out of the ravine and cling tenaciously to every scrap of life, that's what you do.

Alex twisted and lunged in a low tackle, knocking Will off his feet as the thunder of his gun sounded through the room.  The gun the gun the gun that could end them in an instant, so Alex was struggling for it, trying to knock the weapon from Will's hand.

Michael sprinted forwards, still screaming, still brandishing his taser. There's a moment where your body goes into autopilot, you simply start watching instead of speaking. If asked why it'd happen, Michael would tell you he wouldn't know, he wasn't a psych expert. There was one thing he did know. The mind could only bend so much before it snaps in two. This meant either one of two things. The 'autopilot' was either the symptom of snapping, or protection from it. It could be that catharsis needed to get his mind set straight, or it could be his mind was gone at this point. He didn't know. He'd know if he survived this.

Michael had one goal. Kill Will. Will had to die first. He didn't deserve to watch Alex die, not like he didn't deserve what was coming either, but Will didn't deserve closure. Michael would make sure of that. Will wouldn't be the one to kill Alex, and Alex wouldn't be the one to kill Will. Will dies first, then Alex. Michael closed the distance.

Will turned.

Will aimed.

Michael closed his eyes.

Will fired.

Will missed.

Michael opened his eyes. Alex tackled Will, he got him on the ground. Michael almost forgave him for lopping his pinkie off. Almost.

It was still the opening he needed though. There was one thing he wanted, and if Michael could give Will just an iota of pain that he had over the course of these five goddamn days, he'd be happy with it. Will was sprawled out on the ground, fighting Alex for the gun. There was the opening. Go for the groin.

Michael's voice cracked as the screaming ceased. He brought the knife up, the lights and sounds of electricity coursing through it filling the room.

He brought it down between Will's legs.

And of course, it all went to hell. Both literally and figuratively.

Alex had decided to take a third option and be even more of a pain in the ass than he already was. Trying to grab his gun while Crowe screams his fucking lungs out.

And it was then Will felt sudden pain down below. Fuckface Crowe just hit him there with the knife. Repeat, he'd just gotten low blowed with a glorified knife taser. Will had felt zaps before when he'd touch doorknobs or a wire. Never had he felt such pain magnified right to his dick. Even so, his grip didn't let go of the gun even as Alex was grasping for it. Hell, his grip tightened around it as he knew if he let go, there was no coming back from that.

He jerked from the pain emanating from the knife and saw him in the dark, Crowe. Stabbing people in the groin like the sick bastard that he was. Will did the first thing he could think of and kicked him as hard as he could in the face.