Survival Of The Fittest

Nathan Caudle (STAR Defense Squad, known to his comrades as Nate), stood on deck, watching the island get closer. He was itching for action. For years, he'd wanted nothing more than to turn something around on Danya, to destroy him utterly and make him pay for all the wrongs for which he was responsible. The exact method was fairly secondary in concern; what mattered was that Nate wanted to burn something.

And now, he had a chance. Thanks to Brynn, they had everything they needed. They had the island's location, previously secret to all but Danya's inner circle. They had information on the collar design changes, and, specifically, they knew how to exploit a last second fix in order to tie up the collars for a good while. After what the one girl had pulled, it required physical action on the part of the folks at HQ to initiate a collar explosion, even for things as mundane as danger zones. Stopping that sort of thing was a simple matter of having a more powerful signal at a closer location. Sure, the terrorists would probably be able to outjuice STAR given twenty minutes of time, but since they were dealing with an assault on their headquarters at the same time, Nate was pretty sure they had bigger concerns.

And thus was his group able to run roughshod over this carefully-crafted game to snatch everyone they could get their hands on and then run.

Well... not quite everyone.

They were leaving the players.

Nate had argued long and hard for this particular side of the plan. He wasn't about to forget the atrocities he'd seen over the years. He wasn't about to say that any murderer was more deserving of life than their victims. In Nate's mind, pulling the trigger sealed their fate.

That wasn't the argument that his side had used, of course. Plenty of people had come close to playing themselves during their times on the island. Nate didn't think highly of them, but he knew when to fall back on logic. The points had been simple.

People played the game because they wanted to survive. They assumed that killing optimized their chances of doing so. They were wrong. Nate could explain the math behind it. The fact that the last three winners had been big killers was a total fluke. That didn't matter, though. By refusing the players, they made a stand. They put forth a solid demonstration of fact. Those members of the Senior Class of Bayview Secondary School who had turned to murder were all fucked. If they didn't bring everything down around Danya's ears, well, hey, next season those kids would look back and remember poor little Maxwell Lombardi being left behind when the cavalry busted in, and they'd look at the guns in their hands and they'd ask themselves, "Is it worth it?" and maybe the answer would be just a little harder.

No absolution for the murderers. Justice in action.

Yeah, sure, Nate had promised that, on the off chance they did manage to totally destroy the terrorists, they'd come back and grab everyone, killers and all, on the second run. He doubted that would happen, and intended to see the lot of them jailed if it did. For now, though, the concern was running the people who weren't insane, who weren't twisted or vicious or monstrous, back to the nearby island where they had the helicopters stashed. Logistics for this had been a total bitch. Most of the V3 people were still in Australia. Nate wasn't sure how many of them even knew this was going on. It was a bit too close to home for a lot of them. Potential for bad flashbacks and other dangerous distractions. Potential for security leaks from the less disciplined ones.

Nate was hoping for a decent haul. Nabbing thirty students per ship would be ideal, would leave Danya's game with peanuts. At last count, the survivors numbered in the mid-eighties. Of course, realistically speaking, that would never happen. They'd be lucky to get a dozen at each grab point. Anything was a success, though. Anything at all.

The boat was nearing their destination. As it closed, Nate shouted out for one of his assistants to check the gear. It was all in order. Everything seemed to be working just fine. Nate didn't like that. Nothing ever went perfectly.

"Check again," he called.

After a few seconds, the girl he was talking to replied, "It looks pretty good, only, uh..."

"Yeah?"

"Looks like that group from before is still on the island making repairs. Greynolds and friends. They're supposedly being recalled for defense, but..."

Nate frowned.

"Keep an eye on things."

The last thing Nate wanted was a squad of heavily-armed terrorists dropping in on him. The odds were good that, like the patrol boats, they would soon be frantically scrambling back to base to save Danya's fat ass, but he couldn't be at all sure of that. It wasn't worth risking his life, and the lives of the other STAR members here, on.

And then, they were there. The trip from the large speedboat to the beach, undertaken in a small raft, was surreal. The next few hours were going to be the biggest thing the group had ever been involved in. Nate almost wished he could have been with the assault squad, handling the actual important side of things. Still, this would have to be good enough.

Nate got himself oriented, then whipped out the amplified megaphone he had. His earplugs were already in place. Wasn't a student nearby who was gonna sleep through this.

"Good morning, death island," he called out. "We're here with your friendly taxi service, offering an all-expenses-paid trip back to the good ol' USA for all of you non-murderous sorts out there. Killers, players, and cannibals welcome too, for the bullet-in-the-head special, if you want the easy way out of this.

"But wait! There's more. Come now, and you get to give Mr. Danya a nice big 'Fuck you', plus you get a free Happy Meal when we hit shore. This is a limited time offer, though, so you better move fast, 'cause the seats on this boat are hot, and once they're gone, they're gone.

"Oh, and if I find out you murdered someone on your way here but weren't on my happy little list of sociopaths, I swear I'll put a bullet straight through your skull."

[[Garrett Hunter continued from I Am Jack's Inflamed Sense of Rejection]]


It was two long fucking days. Especially considering he had to spend the entire time with fucking Jeremy Franco.

They'd gotten off that mountain, far away from the tunnels and the bodies and the stench of death. Except they didn't, not really- away from the tunnels, yes, but there were bodies everywhere, to the point where he had to watch his step. He held his breath to ward off the smell that pervaded the island, ruining his appetite, though he occasionally forced a cracker down his throat. He walked as fast as his gimpy leg would take him, trying to get himself somewhere where he could breath normally again, where he wouldn't be constantly reminded of exactly how many people had died here. How many people kept dying, how many people would keep dying as long as these games went on. It was a futile effort. It was hard enough not tripping over the fucking things. Part of him remembered that these were his classmates, these were people and as much as he'd hated most of them they hadn't deserved this. The rest of him was just irritated. How the hell was he supposed to pick the broken pieces of revolution back up if he could hardly walk?

...How was he supposed to pull the revolution together, anyway? In all honesty, Garrett had no idea what he was doing. Liz had been the brains of their effort, for the little time it was an assembled effort and not one girl getting shit done on her own- something he was still sore about. What had she done, anyway? Broken some cameras...done some shit with uh transceivers or something Garrett really hadn't paid much attention to the technical details of the whole tunnels deal. Garrett could break cameras, but how far would that get him? As far as he could tell it had mostly gotten people's collars blown, not to mention Garrett himself still had his collar and could be popped off at any time. Which didn't really make him feel any more optimistic about this.

He had to do something, but what? Storming the compound was suicidal, he'd be dead before he even got near it. Breaking more cameras would be stupid. He couldn't do all this technical shit Liz did. All he could think of to do was go back and find the death squad, but that would be suicide too, considering that their weapons were a goddamn sword-cane (which might be dangerous in the hands of a non-idiot), a goddamn axe (which might be dangerous in the hands of a non-fat chick) and his fucking netgun, which was so completely stupid that he honestly wondered why he'd been given it to begin with. What could he have done, if he'd actually had to stand in fight?

For a little while, Garrett was able to remain hopeful. Maybe Liz and Belle were alive- maybe they'd killed the death squad, somehow. Maybe that's why there wasn't a squadron breathing down their necks right now; it was the only good reason he could think of for why they were allowed to remain alive while openly planning rebellion. So they, the three of them, this little ragtag group of nothing in particular, they just wandered for a while. Occasionally Jeremy or Fiona would ask where they were going, what they were gonna do, and Garrett said- they were waiting. As much as he loathed the analogy, he felt like a soldier without orders. Doomed to wander until he got some damn orders or until the enemy shot him down. For once in his life he had to admit- he wasn't fit to lead. He couldn't punch his way out of this. He needed Liz.

Fuck. I am SHIT at this. Absolute shit. What did I think I could do? If I'd never run into Belle and ended up with Liz and them, I would've just run around doing nothing all fucking game. What is there to do?

Wait. They waited. They waited all day. Slept at night, and woke up to the news that Liz Polanski was, in fact, dead.

So there was that.

They wandered some more. Belle was still alive, somehow, or at least her death wasn't announced, so he held on to the slightest ounce of positivity. Maybe Liz couldn't help them anymore, but Belle was smart, she could figure something out, maybe. He hated this helplessness but he admitted they needed help, especially when he turned around to call for Fiona and found she wasn't there. They'd gotten separated in the trees somewhere and now it was just him and Jeremy goddamn Franco who still wasn't good at shutting up and who Garrett still honestly wanted to introduce to his fist. With Fiona gone, they could talk about the whole tunnel fiasco openly, but he didn't bother. That would involve Jeremy talking more, and besides, what was there to say? That the death squad was probably after them now? Maybe. That Belle might still be alive? It was so unlikely that Garrett tried not to think about it. That this entire thing was pointless, and that they were both probably better off going their own ways, trying to live this out...?

...

I'm a fucking idiot. It's useless. It's all useless. I should just send him off, stop dealing with him, let him try to live through this shit...all I'm doing is putting us both in danger. But...but...

But he couldn't give up. He just couldn't. Not even when another day passed, another announcement went by, and he heard the name Mirabelle Nesa. So she was dead, too. Not a surprise, but it didn't exactly lift his spirits. But somehow he couldn't find the heart to send Jeremy elsewhere, to give up, to say out loud- "okay, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, let's give up." There had to be something. Maybe someone trying to do the same thing as them. Maybe that's all he needed to do, was find them. They had to exist, somewhere. As much as Garrett didn't want to think about spending time with more fucking people, the thought was enough to keep him with his head slightly off the ground. He was exhausted, his leg hurt worse than ever, but he knew what he had to do, now. And he'd do it, Jeremy Franco babbling in his ear or not.


They stumbled down the beach- or rather, Jeremy walked. Garrett stumbled. It was hard, getting his footing properly on this sand, and more than once he fell, pulling himself up, refusing Franco's help. Just a little further was the thought he clung to. A little further to what was irrelevant. Just, as long as there was a destination in mind, as long as he could pretend there was a goal, he could-

Boat.

There was a boat.

Garrett jumped, very nearly collapsing on his bum leg before automatically getting into a fighting stance. Then realizing that his fighting stance would be useless against a boat- or any of the doubtlessly weapon-carrying terrorists that were on it- and raised his weapon instead. Then he remembered that his weapon was a fucking net gun and settled for looking alert, watching the damn thing. No one was getting off of it. No one was shooting him. It was a ways down the beach still, but the fact he didn't hear gunshots was kind of reassuring. He didn't bother running, though it crossed his mind. His leg would give up on him before he got the chance.

He did, however, hear a voice. It was hard to miss.

"Good morning, death island."

That's fucking cheery.

"We're here with your friendly taxi service, offering an all-expenses-paid trip back to the good ol' USA for all of you non-murderous sorts out there. Killers, players, and cannibals welcome too, for the bullet-in-the-head special, if you want the easy way out of this."

He felt his leg wobble. It was hard enough standing when he wasn't having his every thought about the future shattered.

"But wait! There's more. Come now, and you get to give Mr. Danya a nice big 'Fuck you', plus you get a free Happy Meal when we hit shore. This is a limited time offer, though, so you better move fast, 'cause the seats on this boat are hot, and once they're gone, they're gone. Oh, and if I find out you murdered someone on your way here but weren't on my happy little list of sociopaths, I swear I'll put a bullet straight through your skull."

...

Garrett just stared blankly at the boat, trying to process what was happening. They weren't terrorists. This wasn't another death squad. This was the exact opposite of a death squad. This was a rescue team. How that was even possible...it was impossible to comprehend while he tried to think of something suitable to say. He looked at Jeremy, looked back at the boat, and said the most suitable thing he could think of.

"Holy fuck."

((Eiko Haraguchi continued from Feral Intelligence))

For the second time in Eiko's life, she found her destiny radically altered. Machinations of powerful men beyond her control had diverted her from a path she had found all but certain twice now, and the experience had left her drained and listless.

Years and years and years ago, Eiko began her ascension into the business world. Somehow her father had pulled off a miracle, applying just the right amount of guidance to following in his footsteps. Any more pressure and it would obviously feel like pressure, turning Eiko into a burned-out rebel and a loser destined to obscurity and a wasted, undignified life. Any less pressure would have withered Eiko's work ethic, turning her into a slacker, no doubt a filthy otaku as well, and giving her much the same future. But Masaru did everything right, and they worked together to make her the best student she could be.

When every other student slacked off, Eiko persevered, cramming with the best of them, and excelling even by Japanese standards. She didn't mean to insult her new American friends, but their curriculum was a walk in the park by comparison, and if she didn't end up graduating as valedictorian, she would have been astounded. Not that she would ever know, of course. Just when she reached her highest point of triumph, when she was on the cusp of entering the Ivy League, a one-in-a-million chance robbed her of her future, and took her to a world that didn't care about grades or networking or anything else she excelled at.

Each day weighed on the last, crushing her like slabs of stone. The more time passed, the more her goal of preserving her reputation looked like an absurd pipe dream. She knew enough about the game to know that the good died quick and the rest compromised and compromised until they were damned.

Eiko was no exception. She lost her composure. She neglected her hygiene. She became callous instead of gregarious, calculated how much her allies, other human beings, were worth to her, and in the end, she started thinking about how to be cutthroat. She made a mad dash to get a glorious weapon, abandoning all pretense of civility and acting like a vulture, but was beaten to it by a far stronger predator.

Hartmann broke her, and after she broke her boat anchor of a weapon, she committed herself to the darker path. Hypothetical scenarios ran through her head, of the sort of students she would run into, predators she would have to run from, less hardened students with weapons they weren't using, weapons she could steal and use on them. She didn't care anymore. Anything that would help prove that she was better than Harris, better than Hartmann, better than anyone on the island, anything that would help her get revenge on them, that was fair game. She'd seen death. She'd make herself kill. Or so she thought.

If circumstances had changed, if she found easy prey, if the rescue boat had arrived a day late, if Eiko hadn't felt the overwhelming need to sleep, if she had been shot as she slept underneath a tree, she wouldn't have gotten a second chance. But she was spared, and when she heard the news, she didn't believe it.

She didn't have to kill after all?

At first she thought it was a trap, or a sick hallucination, the last gasp of her sane and rational mind attempting to save her. But no, she realized the minute she set foot on the beach. It was really there. If she was sane, she would have run toward it with tears in her eyes and thanked the soldiers profusely.

Yet still she sat, standing like a ghost on the horizon, wondering about the dreams she had. The dreams were dark and vivid, and she hated to admit, but they were some of the best dreams she'd ever had in her life. Could she really deny that part of her? Did she really want to abandon the pursuit of sweet revenge?

SLAP.

Eiko frowned and glared at her feet, her hand and face stinging from the impact. Was she mad? In that moment she'd forgotten where she truly belonged, and it wasn't here. As she walked over to the boat, stumbling on the occasional sand dune, she started to smile.

Soon she would see her father again.

Yeah, holy fuck was a start. Holy fuck would do for now.

Okay. Deep breaths now. Check the facts first. Have you killed any people, Jeremy? No. Not even one? No! Have you kicked the shit out of any defenseless injured girls while screaming at them about how they're whores and sluts and whatever else? Yes, one- hey, that's not fair, that's not one of the conditions for getting on the boat! Haha, yeah, you're right, you caught me there.

On the other hand, you did kick the shit out of a defenseless injured girl while screaming at her about how she was a whore. And a slut. And whatever else.

So there's that.

And that might give Jeremy a bit of pause (hahaha, sorry, just laughing at the concept of Jeremy actually stopping to consider something, sorry, go on) when he heads over to the boat and asks for his happy meal. Hard-assed special forces guy, eyes narrowing, safety clicking off, all I got you on tape, motherfucker. I saw what you done. That's enough to make any dumb fucker stop and think.

But it wouldn't actually happen, would it?

No, maybe not... maybe not a bullet between the eyes. Other things, though. If he made it back to civilization. People at school saying fuck you, Franco. Awkward nights at the dinner table at home, pretending like it hadn't happened. Like they hadn't seen shown the footage. Hadn't seen it a dozen times by now. All those great moments in there, which one was gonna be their favorite? And don't you fucking look at me when I'm talking to you! Wow, yeah. That one had seemed a lot more clever at the time.

And- awww Christ. There wasn't- fuck, there wasn't gonna be any ruckus about whether they were getting on the boats, was there? Aww, fuck that, Jeremy had already been fast-forwarding to his shitload of problems waiting for him once he got off the island, he didn't need this shit creeping up on him right here and now.

Garrett was- Garrett was gonna take this, right? Had to, had to. Nobody's enough of a dumb stubborn fuck to say no to something like this. Yeah, yeah, you go and talk up your revolution that you're planning to start any day now any moment now, you put a crown of thorns on your head because hey, look at you, you're the world's douchebaggiest Christ metaphor, but the second something like this falls into your lap, you drop all that shit and start running for the boats.

So bring that up to him, Jeremy. It's gonna suck, because best case scenario is him calling you a retard and saying he's already reached the exact same conclusions as you, but you gotta just go ahead and do it anyway.

"You, um- just so we're on the same page, Garrett- fuck, we're taking this, right? Like, we're literally heading down there right now, soon as I'm done talking we are running straight for that beach, yeah? I mean, look, I know you got your revolution going on here, but, fuck, look at it this way, the revolution just happened, it happened right now, good guys won, and we're getting the fuck off this island. Right? We're in agreement on this. Say we're in agreement on this."

Do you think that was maybe a bit over the top or

Garrett watched the boat. Automatically overcautious even though as far as he could tell, it was real. Not a trick. Why the fuck would Danya fake something like this? Killing kids off wasn't part of his plan, he wanted to see a bunch of teenagers go to shit and kill each other- well, the guy had said only non-players allowed, maybe they were just trying to round up all the boring kids, drown them out at sea, or just shoot up the cabins when they all seemed good and safe...or maybe they'd sent this boat just for him, and Franco, and Fiona had she been here. Maybe they'd thought, let's lure the rebels into a goddamn trap, make 'em think they're safe, kill 'em all...

But that wasn't it. He was a paranoid fuck, yes, okay, Survival of the Fittest would do that to a kid or a man, even. But even he realised- this was too good to be true, but it still was. If Danya wanted him dead, well, he had a fucking death squad for that, they'd done a good enough job on Belle and Liz, hadn't they? What did he need a fake-savior-boat for? He didn't. This was the beautiful thing. This boat wasn't a trap. This boat was the result. Liz and Belle and whoever else had been fucking with the system- they brought this boat here.

The revolution was complete, and he hadn't even gotten a goddamn foot in the door.

Franco was jumpy. Like he had something to hide, even. What it was, Garrett didn't know and Garrett didn't care- Jeremy hadn't killed anyone, he knew that much. So, unless Franco had been pulling some major sketchy shit behind Garrett's back, he was getting right on that boat, off to his Happy Meal or whatever the fuck it was the guy had said. But when he spoke, when Jeremy spoke, he was still jumpy and he seemed almost- was that right? Wait, did he really, honestly think there was any chance Garrett wasn't getting on the fucking boat? Okay, sure, revolution, it was over. There was no better outcome. Everyone who mattered was going to get off the island. That was, everyone who wasn't already dead.

The killers could go get fucked, far as he could tell.

But dammit, Franco. So like him. When the going gets tough, the whiny pricks get going.

"Jeremy Franco."

Oh my god saying this out loud felt so fucking good.

"You are a fucking idiot, you know that? Jesus, this is what Liz and Belle were fighting for. This is what we wanted. This was the best possible fucking outcome. Couldn't have asked for more. What the hell else could I do if I stayed? I'd bet money that if there are boats out here, there's a whole team up in the compound keeping the rest of Team Terrorist Asshole busy. So we kind of missed the boat- I mean, not literally, but...you know what I mean. Revolution, done. Time to get the fuck out of Dodge."

Okay so maybe calling him a fucking idiot wasn't necessary. They were pretty much in agreement. But after the last few days, now that the end of dealing with this fucking kid was in sight, he kind of had to.

Garrett started moving at top speed, and it hurt like a bitch, but there was a boat right there, and it wanted him in the worst way. Besides, he wasn't about to let Franco beat him in a foot race, even if he was crippled. Fuck it. But soon enough, both of them stood by the boat, looking up at the big man and his big gun, and Franco probably wanted to talk but whatever, Garrett cut over him.

"Garrett Hunter. This is Jeremy Franco. We're not on your fuckin' list, but feel free to check if you want. And..."

So he'd been thinking. So the revolution was over? Not quite. The revolution was on their shores, yes, but there was still the compound being stormed. There was still getting these boats out of here unscathed. There was still getting home. It'd be so easy to just relax and think oh, right, going home now, all's well, game over, but it'd be just as easy to die before he got there. Besides, he was still bitter. Bitter that he'd done absolutely shit all.

He had to rectify that, or he'd never live it down.

"...I don't know about Franco here, but if there's anything I can do...anywhere I can fight, send me there. I want to help."

Garrett Hunter was not taking no for an answer. This was his moment. Please, let this be his moment, because he wasn't getting another.

It didn't take long for someone to show up, luckily. Waiting made Nate a bit nervous. He was feeling a little twitchy, feeling a little like maybe there were better things he could be doing with his assault rifle than just standing around holding it. He was feeling just the littlest bit regretful that he wasn't attacking HQ right this moment, getting his revenge in a more direct and satisfying fashion. Saving lives was important, but Nate wished he could have been there to personally ventilate the smug fuck in charge of this whole sick show.

So it was a welcome distraction as the boys made their way up, even if they were a reminder of how relatively inconsequential this job was. Still, Nate could hope some killers showed up. His warning had been fair enough, loud and clear enough, that anyone with sense should stay away. He figured that any big killer who actually turned up was now totally fair game. Besides, they wouldn't be able to get everyone clear. The least he could do for those left behind would be to remove a couple of the cruelest and most dangerous psychos.

But he had to focus on these two boys. He had to figure things out, see if they were coming or not. He nodded at the girl manning the fancy equipment, and she got working, preparing things. Nate could tell these boys weren't on his blacklist. He knew that list like the back of his hand, knew Lombardi's stupid red streaks and Brooks' sick grin. The confirmation, as the boy called Garrett shared their names, was superfluous but appreciated. He wanted to fight, eh? Nate liked this guy already.

"Well, well," he said. "Welcome to our first couple lucky visitors. I think I can probably find somewhere to put you to work. I mean, if you wanna come and all. If you're having a blast here and have some kinda sick obsession with running for your life, maybe not, since we can't leave anyone once we get their collars off. But, man, there's a chance we're gonna be in some deep shit if some sore losers decide they want our boat or something. What's your load out?"

Yeah, he could find something for this boy to do. Nate could use every able hand. They might not get to drive their boat up Danya's ass, but that didn't mean they were going to just sit around twiddling their thumbs.

There was another girl there already, too, looking like she was on her way.

Never a dull moment.

"I think I can probably find somewhere to put you to work."

This was the important bit. This was the crucial bit.

Garrett Hunter was going to fuck some shit up.

Unless this guy meant work, like, steering the boat or some shit. But it couldn't mean that, that would be stupid, obviously they had a guy steering the boat, people swabbing the deck or whatever, that hardly qualified as helping, and Garrett had said fight, hadn't he? Yeah, he had, and this guy would've rejected him outright if that wasn't what he meant by help. Yeah, okay, overthinking time was over- the question was, what could he do? Where? With what? It wasn't as though he had a weapon that wasn't a fucking net gun which honestly didn't deserve a word as badass as "weapon" to describe it. Were they gonna give him a gun? Not that he gave a shit either way. Guns weren't his style.

Though if you're gonna be off fighting terrorists, you've gotta fuckin' make guns your style.

...Jesus, "off fighting terrorists", sounds like some Counter-Strike shit.

"What's your load out?"

It took a moment for Garrett to figure out what the hell he was talking about. "I haven't got shit, really. I have this bullshit net gun-" he held it up- "which I'm gonna go ahead and guess isn't worth shit against terrorists. Or anyone else on this island. I mean...if Maxwell Lombardi comes running down this beach and you need someone to beat the shit out the limey bastard, I'm all over it." He grinned. Couldn't help it. The prospect of a real fight cheered him up, as did the prospect of beating Lombardi's head in. "Except that he's probably got a gun, so probably not, but hell, a guy can dream."

He handed in the net gun. Honestly, he liked this guy already. He could tell from the look in his eye that he was itching for a fight just as badly as Garrett himself. As he stepped up into the boat he turned around for a long look at this godforsaken place. He'd lost things here, of course, but he'd found them. He'd found he didn't hate Belle, he'd found there were girls worth fighting with, he'd found there was really shit worth fighting for. Fighting for the sake of fighting was one thing. Fighting for the sake of starting trouble was pretty much the same. But fighting to save people- that was some superhero shit, wasn't it? That was real. That meant something.

God, what had he been wasting his whole life on?

"I'm ready." Garrett looked away from the island. That was the past, now. His immediate future was gonna be a bloodbath, but it was gonna be a hell of a lot of fun.

Liz had started this revolution.

Garrett was going to end it.

B138, GARRETT HUNTER: ELIMINATED

((Harun Kemal continued from The Ballad of Ackbar))

Harun Kemal wished he'd been a better runner.


But no, instead of spending all those years of mandatory gym in Minnesota actually doing exercise...


He decided to spend them trying to dodge it through any excuse he could come up with.


And, if Harun was too late for the boat and missed it by five seconds, well, that'd be the price he had to pay for being a fat lazy fuck.


When Harun had first heard the....what was the phrase they used..."friendly taxi service" arrive on the island and made their presence known with a rather boisterous, to-the-point advertisement of their presence, Harun had been in the rather undignified position of trying to distract himself from the horror of seeing a friend get blown to pieces right in front of his eyes by trying, in vain, to wash himself. He had no soap or anything else like that hidden untouched within his bag, so it was really just him wetting himself with murky water he found in a small stream-river-puddle thing.

But, hey, at least it served the purpose of cleaning off the blood and the other gunk and grime associated with murdering one of your friends and spending a week (approximately; Harun never was good at keeping time) living rough on a murder island. It also served the purpose of rather gratuitously exposing Harun's nude body to the world at large, despite his attempts to preserve his modesty, but, hey, the American public had seen him piss and shit; they'd seen everything Harun didn't want them to see already.

And, when Harun first heard the words "Good morning, death island" projected across the island in a voice and style that wasn't Danya, his first instinct was to freeze on the spot in fear and anxiety. Then, he felt a brief and all-too fleeting rush of inappropriate glee spreading through his body, as the possibility of being able to return to America and simultaneously both continue his life and start afresh dawned on him. Then, that was replaced by a jarring feeling of guilt and sadness, at how his life was still pretty much scarred permanently, and how most of his friends had died so unnecessarily, some (like Roland) shortly before rescue arrived.

And then all that was replaced by good old paranoia. It obviously wasn't a trap by Danya; it was a completely different voice and Danya had no motive to do such a stunt. But, then again, it may have just been an entrepreneurial psychopathic student who'd been able to get a megaphone and was now leading all the weak little lambs into a massacre and....

And oh shut the fuck up Harun. It's the only chance you got. Now get your clothes on, the public's seen enough of your penis.

And so, forsaking drying his wet skin and quickly pulling his dirty, unwashed clothes back on again, he climbed to his feet, absentmindedly slung his bag on his back (in such a manner that was both uncomfortable and stupid-looking), and gave a very brief glance around his surroundings to check he had everything and there was no player hiding in the bushes, before sprinting (or, more accurately, fast-walking) out of the clearing he was inhabiting towards the general direction of the voice.

As he ran towards the beach, so many thoughts ran through his head. The part of his mind susceptible to paranoia and conspiracy theories continuing bringing up the possibility that it was some form of trap, and a larger part of his brain was still stuck in survivor's guilt mode, but overall every brain cell in his skull was dedicated to one task; heading towards the voice before it was too late and getting the fuck out of dodge.

When Harun emerged onto the long, sandy beach, he looked around, immediately becoming disappointed. No boat or massive group of jubilant survivors in front of him, just sand, more sand and a shitload of sea water. Overcome with a feeling of depression and disappointment, Harun was about to turn back into the island's sprawling forests and carry on moping and pondering the worthiness of his continued existence.

Thankfully, Harun was one of those people who could miss something glaringly obvious right in front of him, and only notice it on the second or third glance.

In this case, it was the third glance before he noticed, at the opposite end of the pristine beach, something painfully obvious.





A boat.





A fully functioning, genuine boat.






A fully functioning, genuine boat that almost definitely was not a figment of imagination, and appeared to be surrounded by a small number of people, one of whom that did not appear to be one of Bayview's unfortunate students (though almost definitely looked too young and too...informal to be a member of any government agency, American or otherwise.)



And, at that point, despite his injuries, despite his lack of stamina, despite his hunger and his thirst and his long-running emotional scars, Harun shoved all those negative feelings aside, and for the most time in days, hell, months, he felt genuinely happy, genuinely excited and genuinely optimistic about his future.

It wouldn't last, but, hey, can't he have one moment?



"HELLO!"

Waving his arms around like an incompetent dancer, the elated Turk ran towards the boat at a surprisingly brisk pace.


"Hello! It's Harun Kemal! Are you the guy who did that whole announcement thingy with the death island and the Happy Meals and the...erm...yeah."

Having made his point, Harun stopped talking and paused for breath, his muscles aching. He must have looked like an amusing sight; a tall, large Turkish boy in a dishevelled state and with bandages around the fingers on his left hand, running towards a mere boat with an uncharacteristic level of joy in his tired, hoarse voice. Still, that didn't matter. Harun had survived. The antisocial nerd with an obsession for politics and a preference for video games over social interaction had survived, despite so many of his friends, acquaintances and enemies not.

Ohshit depressing thought steer away from that.

Suddenly, the thought occurred to Harun; he'd killed. They said no players. Now, he was sure to the casual observer his...unfortunate final interaction with Rashid looked like self-defence, and it made Harun look totally sympathetic, but Harun couldn't be too sure. Maybe they decided that because he hadn't cried enough over it and had poked Rashid's body disrespectfully with his sword that he was not worthy of rescue.

He hadn't been shot on sight. That was a good sign. Good place to start.

But, he couldn't be sure.

"Erm....I'll be honest. I don't think I'm on your list, but..." he gulped. The next sentence came out of his mouth rather fast, just in case they heard something incriminating but decided not to hear him out. "I killed a guy, Rashid Hassan, but it was in self-defence and he was my friend but he tried to steal my weapon, and, like, I can't prove it and I'm not really good at explaining things but...erm...yeah."

His voice faded away, and he stared into the ground.

Luckily, for Harun, he wasn't on the list.

He wasn't a bad guy.

He was safe.

B142, HARUN KEMAL: ELIMINATED

Well, for now, at least, but you can't let little details like the chance of Danya's men successfully counterattacking spoil a good mood, y'know?

((Simon Telamon continued from ... Because I Can't Make It On My Own))

"Βλασφημία αυτό. Ηλίθια τσάντα!" (Damn it. Stupid bag!) Somehow, in the hurry of leaving, and his tranquilizer-induced stupidity, Simon hadn't really come out as best as he could have. After patching up his arm, he checked the bag to find food, food, more food, water, and two strips of bullets. Once the drugs wore off, it came to him: either (a) that girl he had killed had only been given ammunition, or (b) in the rush to leave and the haze of the dart, Simon had neglected to pick up the corresponding gun, if it had even been there to pick up. As such, he was in the exact same position as he was when he entered the Ranger Station, except now he quite possibly had an entire group of people on his ass.

So naturally, he was, once again, alone and completely ...

"Good morning, death island."

Great. Danya (or at least one of his goons) was back.

"We're here with your friendly taxi service, offering an all-expenses-paid trip back to the good ol' USA for all of you non-murderous sorts out there. Killers, players, and cannibals welcome too, for the bullet-in-the-head special, if you want the easy way out of this. But wait! There's more. Come now, and you get to give Mr. Danya a nice big 'Fuck you', plus you get a free Happy Meal when we hit shore. This is a limited time offer, though, so you better move fast, 'cause the seats on this boat are hot, and once they're gone, they're gone.

Wait. seriously?

"Oh, and if I find out you murdered someone on your way here but weren't on my happy little list of sociopaths, I swear I'll put a bullet straight through your skull."

And there was the catch. Simon had a chance to escape ... if he could justify the deaths of Tyler and ... Nancy, according to Dead Girl's bag, assuming it came up. Only way to find out was to risk it, though ...

About an hour later, Simon approached the end of the tree line, he saw what was going on: there was a boat on the beach, supervised by five armed people who were definitely not students and four students, distinguishable by the collars on their necks. Given the fact that one of the students was actually on the boat, it seemed like ...

Apollo came to me. That dream he had had at the Ranger Station - it wasn't a delusion, it was a prophecy. The whole taking off the collar thing in fact was possible, if these guys could give what they got, and given the choice, for Simon at least, one would have to be insane to turn down escape. Simon stepped out onto the beach, ready to get off the island and finally fight like a warrior, if the Furies didn't decide to remind anyone of Tyler or Nancy.

"Hey. Looking for more help?"

MALE STUDENT #41: SIMON TELAMON - ELIMINATED

"Good," Nate replied to Garrett with a grin. "If it looks like shit's about to go down, I'll make sure you get something better. In the meantime, you can use that to nab anyone unfriendly who comes by and kick 'em until someone with a gun gets there."

Garrett wandered towards the boat, and the girl with the gear chased after him, getting to work on his collar. Nate didn't bother watching. If it blew, he'd hear it, and he'd know that they were all utterly fucked. It'd mean Danya was still on the ball, and, in all likelihood, Greynolds and the others were heading their way with all the high-tech weaponry they could ever desire. Much as he wanted to get Danya back for everything, Nate really did not feel like tangling with the death squad.

The was no explosion.

Another boy turned up. Harun, he was called. He introduced himself, explained that he had, in fact, killed somebody. Self defense, though. Whatever. He wasn't on Nate's list. Good enough. Nate hated murderers and players, but couldn't begrudge someone actions necessary to save their own life. Sure. He didn't have to respect them, didn't have to think happy thoughts and remember to send them cards on their birthdays. He just had to let them get their collars off and hop on the boat. Easy as pie.

"Yeah," he said. "You're cool. Golden. Fine. Whatever. Go over there."

He gestured distractedly to Garrett, then looked away, already focusing his own attention on the next person. This guy looked like he'd seen better days. He was clearly wounded and winded. He also didn't identify himself. That pissed Nate off. He liked having things nice and easy. He knew what everyone on his list looked like, but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate a heads-up. He was probably just tense, though, stressed by this all. It didn't help that these people seemed to think this boat was going to drive straight off to HQ to join the fight. Nate would have loved nothing more than to start some trouble, but these students had been trapped on an island, malnourished and abused, for over a week. They wouldn't be in fighting condition.

Maybe they would be able to help later. Maybe not. Nate didn't know. That wasn't his part of this.

"Yeah, yeah, come on," Nate said to the boy. "Over there."

He was about ready to let business as usual resume, when he realized something. If a killer showed up now and he shot them, he'd probably catch hell for it later. He'd probably get called reckless or unfair or something, never mind how badly each person on his list deserved a quick death for their crimes. The thought of even one of them walking away from this sickened Nate.

So he'd give them at least a bit of a warning. Picking up the megaphone again, he called out, "This is your captain speaking again. As always, if you want to live, choose STAR airlines. Boats. Whatever. Anyways, the following people are not invited to the party:

"Maxwell Lombardi, Reiko Ishida, Raidon Naoko, Hayley Kelly, Ema Ryan, Kris Hartmann, Ilario Fiametta, Liam Brooks, Rachel Gettys, Quincy Jones, Peter Siu, Jimmy Brennan, Nick LeMonde, Teo Weinstock, Janet Binachi, Ericka Bradley, Alex White, George Leidman, and Joe Rios, all of you are not invited. Unless, of course, you want to die."

There. He'd fulfilled his duty, and, if he was lucky, maybe provided sufficient goad to get any of them who were nearby to actually come argue.

Hey, Garrett, no worries. Jeremy's pretty zen as far as getting constantly shit-talked goes. Fuck, all things considered, you actually have the patience of a saint here. How many days of traveling with Jeremy now? Like, two? Two whole days?

Fuck, somebody pin a medal on this kid.

And hey, it'll go great with the badass Rebel Alliance uniform Garrett's about to get for himself. Haha, what a lovable, predictable fucker. Guy sees a revolution, first thing he's got to do is lift up his leg and mark his territory. Perhaps that is too subtle of a phrasing.

Garrett, you are literally peeing on this revolution.

Alright, well, enough jokes for now. There was this badass special forces dude, and there was this piece of paper that'd been burning a hole in his pocket for days now, so go ahead and put that jigsaw together.

"Hey, uh- lookit here, these are, uh... this is what Liz used to... fuck, you probably know more about it than me. Point is, uh, you think we can get something going where we leave a bunch of these behind, distribute them and shit? Y'know, for all the guys who won't be able to make it here in time."

"Nah, I wouldn't leave those around if I were you," said badass special forces guy, whose name was probably something manly-as-fuck like Brock Hardcastle. "The terrorists figured that trick out and patched it. Left another hole, though, and that's a part of why we're here. I'll fill you in later."

"Oh". So he took it back. "Fuck, man. Then this is a souvenir."

Brock didn't seem to mind.

So that was all moral obligations fulfilled, huh. All tasks at hand cleared, time to hop on a boat and take what's assumedly a leisurely ocean cruise. Time to just kick back, find the snack bar or whatever shit, and go nuts. Nothing on the horizon but calm seas and bags of peanuts. Maybe find a Take5 bar in there if you're lucky.

Yeah.

If you're lucky.

((Jeremy Franco continued in Elizabeth))

((Jeremy Franco continued from Elizabeth))

Huh? Oh, shit, sorry. Drifted off there for a second.

B105, JEREMY FRANCO: ELIMINATED

((GMing of the STAR members done with permission from the staff))

The guy on the boat was approached by a girl. After about a minute,

Beep. The collar came off. Just like that. Meaning that this rescue attempt was probably not bullshit. Especially as the guy that made the announcement accepted both some other guy as well as Simon before making an announcement.

"This is your captain speaking again. As always, if you want to live, choose STAR airlines. Boats. Whatever. Anyways, the following people are not invited to the party:

Maxwell Lombardi, Reiko Ishida, Raidon Naoko, Hayley Kelly, Ema Ryan, Kris Hartmann, Ilario Fiametta, Liam Brooks, Rachel Gettys, Quincy Jones, Peter Siu, Jimmy Brennan, Nick LeMonde, Teo Weinstock, Janet Binachi, Ericka Bradley, Alex White, George Leidman, and Joe Rios, all of you are not invited. Unless, of course, you want to die."

Simon breathed a sigh of relief. That was all the confirmation he needed. He felt a little bad for Nick, but then again, he did try to kill Simon. As Simon approached the boat, one of the armed guys asked for his bags. Simon took out the tire iron and the ammo and handed it to the guy.

"Everything else in my bags is issued provisions. Don't think I'll be feeding anyone to death." He walked a couple steps before turning around. "Also, I'm Simon. Telamon. There were a couple other Simons in the game, but I think I'm the only one left." He walked towards the girl with the gear, and she did some technical stuff which Simon had only the basic idea of, namely that after a minute ...

Beep. There was a soft click as the collar released, and Simon pulled it off - for real this time, as he got on the boat, as he rubbed his neck where the collar used to be, and stared for a second at the now (finally) useless piece of metal on the beach.

Σας ευχαριστώ, ο Απόλλωνας, ο Θεός του δοξαριού ασήμι, ο Δίας, το Λόρδο του σκοτεινού σύννεφου θύελλας, και Παλλάς Αθηνά. Θα θυσιάσουμε το επόμενο γεύμα μου σε εσάς. (Thank you, Apollo, God of the silver bow, Zeus, Lord of the dark storm cloud, and Pallas Αthena. I shall sacrifice my next meal to you.)

(( Jay Holland continues from The Stoner Always Dies))

Jay Holland walked down the beach, his posture terrible, his head slumped as if he were a man walking towards his own execution, rather then rescue. He'd given the people on the boats a small wave as he'd cleared the tree line, to signal his intents were harmless. He still couldn't make out who exactly was there, but it was a fair number of people.

Shit.

Off to his right, laying sprawled in the sand... A girl. He swallowed hard. He'd seen dead bodies before, Maria... The boy at the fair. The David killed by Janet. But this one seemed to hit particularly hard. The girl was so close to salvation- true, she'd probably died earlier on, but still. Just a few days and she'd be on that boat, not laying face down in the sand. That bitter hatred arose in him again. Jay stopped walking, staring at the corpse.

With a hint of hesitance in his steps, Jay walked over towards the body. As he got closer he realized just who it was- Brown hair, beads and colorful jewelry. His heart sank. Sapphire McLeod. They'd shared classes, never ran in the same social groups. Member of that Christian group. A nice plain girl.

"Shit." He whispered, bending down and rolling the girl over. Mercifully, her eyes were closed. Gunshots to the chest. He grimaced as the smell of decay hit him. Jay turned away, unable to look any longer.

What was he even doing? Hayley and Janet were watching- he had a boat to catch. He gave one last look down at the corpse before rising. He'd never been the best with words- he supposed an eulogy or something would be appropriate, but he didn't have the time and he didn't have the willpower.

Something gleamed in the sand. Jay's curiosity peaked, he bent down, snatching it up. A Tamagotchi. Why did she-

Her weapon. The fuckers gave her a joke weapon.

Sadness overwhelmed him. She'd been fucked from the start. Sapphire McLeod hadn't been given a choice.

Jay pocketed the item, shouldered his bag and continued on his way. It was light, and it wasn't too long until he was on the shoreline, looking up at the ship, and the imposing men on it.

"Uh." He began, before craning his neck, looking behind at the others boarding and already aboard the ship. Jeremy Franco. Harun Kemal, another boy, swearing in a language he didn't know.

Pretty decent haul.

It was a terrible joke and he didn't bother to laugh. Jay cleared his throat. He wanted to look back toward the treeline, back towards his friends. He didn't know if they'd already left or were intent on watching him go. He wondered what would be worse. He hoped to see them again. He prayed it would happen- in real life, not on the screen. He'd watch their run. The rest of the world probably saw them as villains, and they'd need some hometown support.

Don't look. Don't look back.

He stared down at his feet, guilt washing over him in tune with the tide.

"I don't suppose I can hitch a ride?"

B132 - JAY HOLLAND - ELIMINATED


----

A short while later, Jay sat in the back corner of the boat, his bag tucked in close. He'd isolated himself from the rest of the passengers, aside from a few greetings he hadn't said a word to anyone. He'd sat down and the others had left him to it.

There wasn't much in his pack. A spare change of clothes, the Tamagotchi, which was dubbed Mimi for some reason. He'd renamed it Cheech and had gotten to work feeding it and cleaning up its poop. The others must have thought he was crazy, and he accepted the idea wholeheartedly with a small grin.

He didn't know what would happen next. The rescuers hadn't been very clear with the next step, but he assumed they had it under control. And if not, well, at least they'd fucked Danya over some.

He wasn't okay with it. Not in the least, but he kept it inside. The others had enough to deal with, angsting wouldn't do any good.

If I just smile, I guess they'll think it's all okay.

It wasn't much, but it was the best plan he'd thought up the entire game. Say some witty things, pull a few jokes, smile and make things easy for everyone. Make things easy. Something ever a brain dead stoner couldn't fuck up, right?

He supposed he should get started. Maybe he should start up a conversation, Franco would probably be more then willing. The kid had never been one to let things like death-games and killing ones friends get him down. Maybe he would make a flag. Hell, if this was their ship, it'd need a flag. And a name.

A stupid name. Something stupid that an idiot stoner would come up with.

The S.S "Dat Ass"

He hoped the others would mind him hoisting up a flag made of red panties.

For the longest time, Eiko stood there, watching a motley crew of surviving students walk up to their saviors and get their shackles removed. She recognized two of them, a belligerent fist fighter and an overenthusiastic boy who called himself a businessman. Then again, she thought, perhaps she shouldn't judge him. At school she kept a fancy case full of business cards to hand out to any and all acquaintances, even her close friends. She winced a bit as she recalled that heavy dose of pretentiousness from her past life. Would she ever be able to hand out cards with a straight face again?

The three boys on the beach got their collars off, got their bags checked, and hopped aboard the boat. It was her turn now. She willed herself to move forward, told herself that this wasn't a trap or a mirage, that she was really allowed to go home. Her next few steps down the beach were taken at a sprint, but then she realized that these heavily-armed people might get the wrong idea if she rushed them like that. So she came to a clumsy stop and walked the rest of the way.

Before she got there, she heard another announcement from the man with the megaphone, the list of those who were beyond redemption. Only two of them got her attention in paricular. First came Hartmann, and she couldn't help but crack a wide smile at hearing it. She had given up her chance to exact personal revenge on the madwoman for humiliating her, but when she really thought about it, she didn't have much of a chance for that at all. The knowledge that she would live and Hartmann would die was a great consolation prize.

But then she heard Peter Siu's name, and her smiles faltered. She walked up to a woman standing near the boat. "Peter's not coming, then?" she asked.

The woman looked up at Eiko and shook her head. "He killed three people. It would be hard to justify that even if he didn't do it in cold blood."

Three? Eiko thought back; she might have heard Peter's name on the announcement once after leaving him. "I saw him kill Lucas, he did it to save me."

"I know," the woman said. "But then he shot Jessie Anderson and Jackie Broughten without provocation. Jessie because she told him she was trying to meet Liz Polanski, and Jackie because she mouthed off to him. We can't forgive that. He stays here."

Eiko frowned and deliberated on this new information. It didn't match with what she knew about Peter, though it did explain why he might have left her. He didn't want her to see what he thought he had to do.

"Idiot," she mumbled. "We could have left together if you stayed with me."

The other woman looked confused. "I suppose you're right," she said, "but it can't be helped now. You have any weapons?"

"No. They're all broken. Can I get on board now?" Eiko's voice started to get a sharp edge to it.

"Okay, okay, just hold on and I'll get you settled." She removed an odd device from her belt. "Now hold still."

Eiko closed her eyes and felt something push her collar into the back of her neck, then the entire thing fell off. Her hands rushed back up to her neck and felt nothing but bare skin, rubbed raw though it was. The open collar lay on the ground in front of her. "Thank you," she said, walking over to the boat and getting on, picking a seat next to Franco.

"Jeremy," she said as a way of greetings, for once forgoing the use of an honorific. It was a special occasion, after all.

G079 - EIKO HARAGUCHI - ELIMINATED

Now to play the waiting game. Eiko clasped her hands tightly together, and looked around for anything that could change her fortunes yet again. She would never feel safe again, not until she was safe at home again.

((Acacia Salinger continued from Everyday is like Sunday))

Good morning death island.

That was what she had woken up to.

She hadn't been able to find the others, after losing Hayley and Ema and whoever else they had been with, she had attempted to get back to the cliffs. It shouldn't have been too hard, they were, after all, at the southern tip of the island. Just using her compass would have taken her there. Then she realised that she had lost her compass, along with her map, her gun, half her clothes, all of the spare insulin that wasn't currently loaded into the pen, the blood sugar monitoring device. It was her only saving grace that she had been in a hurry to leave the beach and had just thrown it into the bag with everything else.

The down side was that it was her long lasting stuff. Which was fine so long as she didn't eat anything. Well, as far as sshe knew anyway, the fact was that she didn't really understand how all this stuff worked. She injected long lasting, the stuff in the purple pen, in the morning and evening. The fast acting was just before a meal, or just after if she'd eaten too much. Acacia had no idea if they were interchangeable, she'd saved herself from ever having to find out by always having far more with her than she needed. And she was never far from a pharmacy where she could get more if she lost it. She had been prepared for every situation, except this one.

So, after taking an inventory of her belongings, she discovered that she had no food, one bottle of water, one pen of long acting insulin, one sweater, some mascara, a magazine she hadn't even read yet, and a duffel bag with a large hole in the bottom of it. The lack of food didn't matter anyway, without insulin she couldn't eat anything. But the not eating made her tired, and so she lay down for a sleep. And that was when she had been woken up by the voice.

At first, she'd thought it was an announcement. Another day where all her friends turned out to have died in the night and she hadn't been able to do anything to save them. But it wasn't. It was rescue. Someone was coming to save them! Haphazardly, she scrambled to her feet, and nearly fainted as she pitched over sideways. Need to eat something. She rifled through her bag again, her fingers grasping a small bag of boiled sweets that was nestled inside the soft blue sweater. They were slightly melted, and definately not in one of her favourite flavours, but she ripped the bag open and poured the lot of them into her mouth. They were sticky and sweet and she felt queasy as her saliva turned into syrup and swirled unconfortable around her mouth. Hesitantly, she tried to chew them, and her teeth, weakened by days of not having time to brush them, recoiled with pain and Acacia made a stifled cry, muffled by the sweets.

Please take me! she thought weakly to herself, as the voice, that God-like voice, tole them that murderes weren't allowed. "I'm NOT a murderer!" she cried out to the silence, a bird nestled in a bush somewhere nearby flew away. "He wanted me to do it, he wanted me to survive. I didn't want to kill him," she whimpered, leaning heavily on a tree to try and haul herself to her feet. Swaying slightly, the sugar slowly started to take hold, and she started to walk.

It was the slowest walk of her life.

Minutes ticked by. 6 of them. An hour. She walked in the direction that she reckoned the voice had come from. You definately passed that leaf before! Keeping on going.

Trudging. She'd never really understood that word. But this was what trudging was.

Thirty more minutes. Huh? It hadn't been coming from that far away, surely. Once she tripped over a tee shirt that actually belonged to herself, she realised that she must have doubled well back and be back at the cliffs already. But the sea was... behind her? The boat must be near the sea.

The voice spoke again. It was so loud.... Sounded like he was stood right behind her! Acacia turned around to try and find him, but he wasn't there. What she did see was a bird, which had a pair of her underwear perched jauntily on its head. Confused, she cocked her head to one side at it, and narrowed her eyes. A slip of white cotton and pink lace, one of her favourites. And now a bird was going to take it away and build a nest with it. Acacia laughed, there were so many more important things in life. Like staying alive, and finding the boat.

Sugar'll kill you slower than insulin will. Some girl she'd met at clinic had told her that. The girl had been hospitalised the week before because her sugar levels were out of control; apparenty she'd only been diagnosed a year previously. That was why she knew so much about it, this was a big thing for her. For Acacia it was a way of life, something she didn't even need to think about. The girl (what was her name? Mia or something) asked Acacia how long she'd been diabetic for, and Acacia had shrugged. "Fourteen years," she said after a pause. It hadn't been a hard puzzle to solve, she just had to take her current age and subtract one. She couldn't remember a time she hadn't know, probably thought that all kids had to start being jabbed with needles fourteen times a day once they turned a certain age. She wondered how her parents had explained that one to her.

David had been nice about it, she could remember that much. David kissing the bruises on her stomach better and distracting her by pulling faces. Hugging her when she'd had a hypo and mixing glucose sachets together because she was too small to reach the tap. Being nice, protective.

If David were here, everything would be okay. Tears ran down her face as she thought about her brother, leaving at the airport in his desert sands uniform, a single badge pinned to his breast, a rucksack that drowned him strapped securely onto his back. He laughed and joked with the other guys, a couple of them had leered at her and David had punched them away protectively, laughing as he did so. They knew he was only playing, they knew his sister was well out of bounds. And her Mom had gripped onto her hand, and her Dad had that stoic expression like he was trying not to cry.

And at the last moment, when they were getting on the plane, David had looked around, and for a moment they had all seen him as a seven year old, anxious about a thunderstorm, coming into Mom and Dad's room where a three year old Acacia had already wriggled between them. He had been wearing light blue pajamas with trucks on, and was clutching his toy dinosaur, Henry. When David was gone, Henry usually sat at his place at the table.

She wondered if her parents had put anything of her at the table. For the thousandth time, she hoped to God that her brother was okay.

And then, the bird flew away, her underwear still on it's head. She hoped that the baby birds would enjoy their new home of white cotton and pink lace, it would certainly be more luxurious than twigs and leaf. Smiling, Acacia turned around, and realised that she had been metres from the tree line that demarkated the beach. And there, there they were. Her saviours! There weren't all that many people there, considering how long it had been. Acacia wondered why so many people had stayed away. Were there really so few of them left? There were quite a few of them on that list of people that weren't allowed on the boats.

Thank god I didn't kill Ricky, she thought to herself. There had been moments when she'd been close to pulling the trigger, and she hadn't, and if she had she might have been one of the damned, forced to stay and fight for her life, when actually she was allowed to go home. Home. One's place of residence. I am going to go home.

She thought about her home. It was something she'd always taken for granted, having somewhere to live. Even if it was the small house in Indiana, or Julia's townhouse on Long Island, or the huge detached monstrosity they'd owned ever since they came to Minnesota, every time it had been Home and she'd always lived under the assumption that no matter where she was, she would be able to go back there. And then, this had happened, and she had been forced to accept the fact that maybe she wouldn't.

Stumbling, her pulse raced and her face white. Hands shaking as she walked up to the man with the megaphone, her hands up. She hadn't been on his list, but she didn't know if that list was exhaustive. Her words slurred slightly, but she had no idea what was wrong with her. Hypo, hyper, maybe just tired.

"Hi I'mmacacia. Didn't mean to kill Roman, he was dyingenway. Yougot any ninsulin?"

G018 - ACACIA SALINGER - ELIMINATED