Survival Of The Fittest

((Julian Avery continued from Radio Nowhere))

Some folks pray for rain, some pray for douchebags.

No points for guessing which category Julian was in. Okay, admittedly, getting rained out wouldn't be the worst right now. Crowd all the kids into the dugout till there's sunny weather again, take a bit of a breather. Maybe slip some poison into that murderer's lemonade while nobody's looking? Maybe.

But yeah, no, mainly it would be nice for a douchebag to just fall out of the sky right now.

Cause let's not make any bones about it. Julian had something to prove right now. To himself, and to- no, mainly just to himself and definitely not to anyone else. Had something to remind himself about, because careful observation revealed that despite several claims of it, he had not actually done much boogeymaning recently.

I mean, do you count that stuff with Raidon? He did have a very angry face on for most of it. And he was saying some pretty scary things, so if the little ones at home wanted to cover their eyes and ask if it was okay to fast forward past this part, nobody could blame them.

But he didn't actually do anything. Didn't kill Raidon, didn't raise a hand against him.

And in the rare moment where moment where he stopped commanding himself not to, he thought of Raidon as a friend.

Do you count that stuff with Max? He did swing his sword around and he did throw a lot of big angry punches – and some of those punches even hit. He hit the scariest murderer and the scariest murderer bled. And he'd walked away from it without becoming another tally mark. So that had to be a signal, right, to all the girls and boys at home, that he was the big scary something that would come eat you at night if you didn't say your prayers.

But he didn't actually kill him. He just patted him on the shoulder and said something that, if you looked at sideways and squinted your eyes, was sorta clever.

So they didn't count.

So he wasn't really convincing.

So fix that.

Which couldn't be that hard, could it? Like, half the fucking people left on this island were psychos or something. Walk in a straight line in any given direction, and eventually some fucker with a machete will pop out from behind a corner and shout ooga booga booga.

Or, alternatively, just stand right where you are and watch exactly what you're looking for tumble down to meet you.

Say what you will about God's reliability, but if you ask him for douchebags he will deliver.

((Maxwell Lombardi continued in Into The Jaws of Hell))

...Well well, look who it is?

Admittedly, Maxwell partially expected to bump into Mizore's other guardian shortly after he'd dealt with the first. It wasn't as though it was an unlikely prospect or anything, seeing as the two of them seemed to be such close companions last time they met.

But, nevertheless, Maxwell was still quite surprised when he stared over of a rocky outcrop onto a pathway twelve or so feet below his own to find his dark skinned enemy standing there with that same exquisite sword in his possession. He hadn't spotted the young Brit just yet. Good, Maxwell always preferred it when HE was the one making the ambush, rather than finding himself on the receiving end of one.

Only question now was how he should go about it. Hmm, I could always just pop around the corner and shoot him in the head. Quick, simple, and pragmatic.

Although... I have to admit, shooting a guy armed only with a sword sounds a bit too unsporting to be any fun. Sure, I've done that tons of times in the past, but now that I happen to have this very nice yatagan it'd be a shame to waste such a perfect opportunity to finally make good use of my swordsmanship skills. This fellow doesn't seem like the kind of man who knows how to wield a sword properly, but regardless he should pose a good enough challenge to make this interesting. Yes, I like the sound of that...

With a cruel smirk on his face, Maxwell put his guns away and unsheathed his Turkish sword, it's blade glinting in the sunlight as he stood up and called down to the boy beneath him.

"Good weather we've been having, wouldn't you say?"

The boy turned to face him, Maxwell smiling smugly as he pointed his sword down in his opponent's direction.

"In case you're wondering why your partner's taking so long, I'm afraid its because I've sent him on a little trip off the edge of the cliff. But don't worry, I'm sure you'll be meeting him soon enough."

On that note, Maxwell slid down the side of the mountain onto the road below him, standing several meters away from his dangerous adversary. Whilst Maxwell was more than a little confident in his ability, the fact still remained that the boy before him was more than a little dangerous. Plus, there was always the off-chance that he happened to be a skilled swordsman himself, not that Maxwell believed that his skills outmatched his own. Either way, the fact remained that he had to be careful. One wrong move and he could very easily find himself with a sword's blade embedded in his lungs.

"Then again, who knows. Maybe you'll get the chance to avenge your fallen comrade or some bullshit like that. I don't really care either way, just as long as you prove to be an entertaining challenge."

There was an especially sadistic glint in Maxwell's eye as he raised his sword and motioned his adversary to make his move, almost as he was enjoying this entire endeavor.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Charge."

Julian was more than happy to oblige.

Maxwell immediately dived to the left as Julian made his first swing, the young Brit returning with a quick counter-attack which the other boy only barely managed to get out of the way in time. Following this, Julian made a series of his own strikes against Maxwell, each of which he managed to parry with varying degrees of success. However, his attacks showed obvious signs of an untrained swordsman, and soon enough Maxwell found the opportune moment to lunge forward to catch his opponent off-guard. However, Julian managed to block Maxwell's otherwise skillful attack, their two swords making a distinctive noise as they clashed against one another.

They circled one another for a moment, watching each other with eager and fiery eyes. Maxwell's in particular showed all the signs of someone who was enjoying this conflict far more than any human really should be, a wide and malicious smile on his lips as he tried to figure out when was the best time to make his strike.

An idea suddenly came up, one which he acted upon almost immediately. He made a feint to his left, only the then swing his sword to the right, swinging right at Julian's waistline. The other boy jumped back, bringing his sword up to block the next attack Maxwell made before going on the offensive again. Eventually, after having their weapons clash against one another for the next couple of minutes or so, the two found themselves in a deadlock as their swords pressed against one another. Each boy looked each other in the eye as they attempted to overpower the other, sweat running freely down their heads as they tried desperately to disarm their opponent.

It was at this point that something happened which Maxwell hadn't taken into account. Something which, whilst he wouldn't realize at the time, would end up turning this entire fight into one of the worst mistakes he'd ever made in his entire life.

(Alice Boucher continued from Vitriol)

Alice Boucher shot him in the back.

It wasn't hard. He was just…standing there. She didn't even need to use the machine gun. Just the handgun, Brock's gun.

He was using a sword. Pressing his sword against another boy's sword. A real honest-to-God swordfight. Had they both lost their guns? Probably.

She shot him in the back without thinking twice. It was the correct thing to do.

Obviously correct.

He doubled over. Alice thought about shooting him again, but decided not to. A bullet in the back was a painful death. He deserved to die painfully.

Because you're one to think about what people deserve.

But that didn't have the sting it usually did.

I'm not the one to think about what people deserve. Nor is anyone here

She had heard the announcements. The boats, gone.

I'm not getting back home. I'm going to die by the end of the week. For all those who want justice…my death will be justice enough.

That included herself.

I'm tired of hating myself.

So kill the players. Find your purpose. Do what Sarah couldn't do.

Transcend her. Be better than her. Stop being haunted by her ghost.

She would stop being haunted by her ghost.

And she had shot Maxwell Lombardi in the back, and that was good.

He turned on her, violently, ignoring the boy he had just been swordfighting with (Julian Avery?). He probably wanted to carve her up with that sword. She would shoot him again, if it came to that, but now he let him stalk toward her.

His face was white with pain and rage. He clutched his back with one hand. And Alice, Alice could feel hysterical laughter behind her eyes.

Is he going to ask me to shoot him once more? End it, so the death isn't so painful?

She wondered if Maxwell Lombardi would swallow his pride enough to beg that.

She wondered if she was the kind of person who would accept that request.

We'll see soon enough.

Maxwell at first wasn't entirely sure what exactly had happened. All he knew was that something had hit him in the lower back, something which was causing him to be in more pain than he could have ever possibly imagined. And whatever it was, it had packed enough of a punch to send him doubling over, knocking Julian onto his back in the process like a series of dominoes.

As he clutched the spot where he had been hit with his hand, his face twisting in horror as he felt blood pouring from the open wound, there was only one terrifying conclusion which Maxwell could come to.

He'd been shot.

Somebody had ACTUALLY shot him! Not grazed his arm or something like that, but genuinely fucking shot him in the back!

And naturally, Maxwell was NOT pleased about that.

Who the fuck did this... Who the FUCK just shot me! Son of a bitch, I'll tear his fucking face off!!!

He turned around, his eyes aflame in sheer rage, to find none other than a black-haired girl with a gun staring at him with a self-satisfied expression on her admittedly pretty face. A face which Maxwell recognized almost immediatly...

...YOU!

Alice Boucher. The French bitch who had stolen what was supposed to be HIS best kill award.

He remembered how she had come in at the last second, shooting wildly at him whilst yelling something in that idiotic excuse for a foreign language. That time, she had only grazed his arm, but even so she had still managed to colossally piss him off the next morning when it turned out that immediately afterwards she killed Sarah herself and took all the glory for her smug little self. So the fact that she'd now just fucking SHOT him was just the chocolate icing on the cake of hatred she had already prepared herself the moment she stole what was supposed to be his.

Fucking BITCH! You think this is funny, do you? Think you can just take me down THAT easily, you fucking whore?!? Well, it seems you've made one fucking mistake... You're not the only one with a gun here.

A with a hateful look on his face, Maxwell dropped his sword and quickly grabbed George's handgun and aimed it at the French harlot, pulling the trigger three times in a row. Whilst two of them missed, the first one hit her squarely in the shoulder blade, sending the thoroughly shocked Frenchwoman onto her back as she recoiled in sheer agony.

Seeing that at the very least put a weak smile on Maxwell's lips, one which quickly turned into an expression of agony as he remembered the vicious injury he had just received. Was this wound actually fatal?!? Maxwell hadn't the slightest clue whatsoever, but at a guess he didn't feel as though it had hit anything particularly vital. His kidney, maybe? Either way, the fact remained that it still hurt like a motherfucker, and unless he dealt with this mess quickly there was a very likely chance of him winding up with a nasty infection.

Fucking slut... Well, at least I know SHE won't be any trouble anytime soon. Now I just need to deal with the nigger and I'll be all-ARGH, FUCK!!!

The moment Maxwell turned around to face his supposedly fallen opponent, he caught something out the corner of his eye and only barely managed to move out the way in time to avoid Julian's sword from slicing his face in half. However, he hadn't quite gotten out of the way in time to COMPLETELY avoid the blade, which slashed him across the right side of his face across the eye and the side of his lips.

Half blinded and in a state of absolute agony, even Maxwell could tell when running was the best option to ensure his survival, and after firing off a couple of wild shots in Julian's direction wasted no time in stumbling as fast as he could in the opposite direction. Down the mountain pathway, leaving the two injured students to themselves as he left a thin trail on blood behind him.

Little did he realise that his next stop would also be his last.

((Maxwell Lombardi continued in Retribution))

And the sound of footsteps getting distant-distant-gone meant it was over.

One very bad man, running to no particular safety, with enough new holes in him that his body was gonna have a hell of a time keeping his soul in till nightfall. One very bad man, running to his grave and he doesn't even know it. And he'll be so surprised when he gets here, and he'll be all What did I do wrong? I followed all the directions. I did everything I was told.

And it hurt a little to laugh, but Julian just had to do it anyway.

"Shit... I was getting pretty tired of him kicking my ass. Real glad to put that chapter of my life to rest."

He was saying that to her, of course. Saying that to himself would just be weird. No, no, it was to his quiet little savior. It was to the girl who'd shown up out of nowhere and done a much better job of putting an end to Max than he could've ever managed. It was to... to...

"Alice, right?" Good with names, that Julian.

"Oui- Alice Boucher, yes." She sat down, brushed her knees. And he fell over backwards, nice view of the sky. "Julian Avery?"

"Yeah. Merci." Good with languages, that Julian. "You go around dropping killers often?"

"Not often. Only once before this."

"Well, shit. You wanna?"

"I... I think I do, yes."

Which was good enough to make him pick his head up and give her a look. A strange sort of look, one that probably resembled the one she was giving him back. And he heroically plopped back down again.

"Huh. Fuck. That was easy."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, you're... excused, and shit." And he picked himself up, which usually hurt a little less. One motion at a time, palm to the ground to brace himself, keeping his expression nice and level cause Max hadn't done shit to him and that was the only truth anyone was gonna see.

"But I mean... shit, I wish it was easy as that. There's a couple of things I need to make clear before you go ahead and join up with me... we'll see if you still want in after I'm done. Yeah?

"Most important thing is that this isn't about doing good. This isn't about being good. You start walking down this path with me, you're not a good guy anymore. You're a killer. There's no redemption in it. It's about being the biggest monster, the one that's scary enough that it eats up all the others when it wants to.

"Biggest monster dies at the end of the book."

And everything was so quiet.

"You still in?"

Shot in the shoulder.

Ow.

She fell backward.

Sword-boy--Julian Avery--slashed him in the face. Well, that neatly solved the problem of him shooting her. She was--less okay with dying, now that she had a reason to live. Feeling was coming back into her mind, stinging, like fingers warmed after the cold, but it was feeling. She was Alice Boucher, she was going to die, but now she was alive, and she had a purpose again.

And I'm not going to die to a man in an obscene suit.

Even now, with pain burning through her shoulder, she could still wonder how a European could allow himself to be seen--on live television, no less--in such poorly-tailored clothing.

Conasse. Bitch. Yes, Alice Boucher was back again.

And there was pain burning through her shoulder and it hurt, God, it hurt, but she couldn't do anything but celebrate.

She should go back to Joe Rios and hug him. Wouldn't that be a surprise?

"Shit... I was getting pretty tired of him kicking my ass. Real glad to put that chapter of my life to rest."

She giggled a little. It was hard.

"Alice, right?" Had he been in student government? She had never paid attention to school politics. But Julian Avery was one of those men who talked to everybody. He'd even talked to her a few times, not that he'd ever gotten anything out of it.

"Oui," No, wrong, that was the wrong language. But her shoulder hurt. "Alice Boucher, yes." Not Alice Blake, that one had escaped. Or was dead. "Julian Avery?"

"Yeah. Merci." His accent was foreign and atrocious, but she appreciated the effort. "You go around dropping killers often?"

It took her a moment to parse that.

"Not often." She said it slowly, expecting it to feel inaccurate, and was surprised when it didn't. "Only once before this."

"Well, shit. You wanna?"

Yes. But she shouldn't answer over-hastily. Killing was bad, after all. "I…I think I do, yes."

She hadn't realized he had flopped down next to her until he picked his head up and gave her a strange look. She examined him back. What sort of person asked that kind of question, after all?

Julian Avery.

"Huh. Fuck. That was easy." He said at last.

"Excuse me?"

He picked himself up. She took that moment to focus on the pain in her shoulder, willing it to the back of her mind, because obviously he was going to make some kind of speech.

When she looked back, he had picked himself up, and was in pain.

"But I mean... shit, I wish it was easy as that. There's a couple of things I need to make clear before you go ahead and join up with me... we'll see if you still want in after I'm done. Yeah?

"Most important thing is that this isn't about doing good. This isn't about being good. You start walking down this path with me, you're not a good guy anymore. You're a killer. There's no redemption in it. It's about being the biggest monster, the one that's scary enough that it eats up all the others when it wants to.

"Biggest monster dies at the end of the book."

"You still in?"

And everything was quiet.

Yes. Yes, she was in. She was already beyond redemption. Julian Avery's speech was--unnecessary. Perhaps it felt like a splash of cold water on her face, but if he had been heroic about it--that would have been wrong. Warm, but wrong. We aren't good people. We can't pretend to be that.

How long, how long, since she had thought about Brock Mason?

She couldn't live purposelessly. Not anymore. And God help her if she was going to die haunted by ghosts.

Prop yourself up, Alice. Sit up now, good posture, that's right, sit up now, and look him in the eye, because you have something to say.

Because this is redemption.

"I'm not a good person." She started. Her accent was too strong, her voice was hoarse. "Unlike you--" she could make this guess, because this was Julian Avery, ever-friendly Julian Avery, "--I never was."

The Nazi gun was around her waist, weighing her down. Making it hard to sit up.

"I've killed before. Not players. I was never credited--I never did the actual death--but I helped Sarah Atwell with her kills, in the beginning, when I was too scared to do otherwise. You know the names Brock Mason, Chris Carlson? You must know--I am their murderer, as much as she was. And then she realized what she was doing, and took me on a suicidal quest for redemption--to kill Lombardi, who was even then the most prolific killer on the island. She thought if we did that, then we would be--better. And so we split up to find him, and she found him alone, and he--and he dissected her, and raped her--she was still alive--and that was the one kill I was credited for. I slit her throat and was given a gun for the trouble, because she was scared and she was dying--"

Alice could feel her voice rising to hysteria. She clamped down on her tongue. She had no idea why she made that confession--certainly the viewing public didn't need to hear her side of the story.

Get it off your chest.

And the ghost of Sarah was a little more gone.

"If you think any two killers have the same motivation for what they're doing on the island, you might be an idiot. I'm already a monster--I've no need to turn myself into one. I will do this because I look for redemption--not because I expect to live, but because doing this--doing anything--is better than sitting in a corner, hoping to God to survive and wishing I didn't have to think about what I've done."

Breathe in. Breathe out. And here I thought I was an atheist.

Now let's see what happens.

And so she didn't get to see the end of the book.

There was a flash and a crack and silence. A girl fell down and didn't get back up.

There was nobody around to care.

I care.

There was pain in her chest, close to her heart. She realized, numbly, that she'd been shot, that if she looked down at where her hand had pressed the wound, she'd be bleeding now. Her hand would be wet. Blood really had the same texture as water--it wasn't sticky, when there was this much of it, it didn't gum or cake.

He had shot her.

Why did you do that?

There was no desperation to the question, just tired curiosity. She had made her confession. He had shot her. She was finally alright and then he shot her, shot her much too close to the heart, and she was dying.

That was incredibly sudden.

Maybe he was off his nut. That would explain a lot. He had seemed very friendly.

Julian Avery. Always friendly.

Things were fading now.

She was supposed to go into death peacefully. She had been prepared for this. She no longer had Sarah's tasks. No longer had any of her own. Any further living was just delaying the inevitable, her own death, my own death--

I miss Mama.

She had cursed Mama on camera, Mama and Papa, for sending her here.

I miss Mama so badly.

Please, I want to go home!

That hurt, that hurt worse then her chest did.

She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home, real home, to France, where there was good bread and no ugly road signs, and where she wouldn't have to feel ashamed of her own shattered English, her over-formalities--

Don't think about home.

She wouldn't think about home.

She had to say something, to the cameras, to the viewing public, to this Julian Avery who had just shot her for no reason, to her Mama and Papa, who were watching because they must be watching, they must be watching, right?

This stupid boy was staring down at her, with a look like surprise. You're an idiot. You just shot me. You can't possibly be surprised by the fact that I'm dying.

She wanted to rub her eyes, but had the feeling it wouldn't have the effect she intended.

"Mama." Her lips were dry, and hurt to crack. "Papa."

There had to be something more to say.

G016: Alice Boucher - DECEASED

Look, look, I did it.

To nobody in particular. So nobody in particular clapped, patted him on the back, told him what a bang-up job he'd done.

Well, fuck, somebody ought to. Because, come on. Max Lombardi was finally dead because of him. All those checkmarks next to Max's name. All those grieving parents at home who'd known exactly how it was going to end when Max stepped into the same frame as their kid. Nobody else was gonna get put on those lists. Show of hands: who'd thought that son of a bitch had been invincible?

And all the hands in the world shot up in Julian's head. And it was magnificent.

There was one hand that wasn't raised. Belonged to Alice Boucher, who was having a bit of trouble working up the enthusiasm to do it. Huh, couldn't imagine why...

Well, here's why.

When you offer someone a chance to be your partner, you have a certain amount of expectations. You hope and you wish and you pray that you'll like them, that you'll work well together, that your goals and your methods and your favorite sports teams will match up. But you can forgive your partner for not meeting those hopes. You expect that they won't turn out to be the exact thing you've been hunting. You expect that they won't tell you that they're already a monster, like that's something to be goddamn proud of.

Is that too much to ask for?

And a part of him wished it'd happened differently. That he could've looked at the situation a little more calmly. Well, see, it is actually a pretty serious thing that you are this monstrous, and I should maybe kill you for the rest of the island's safety, but you seem like you are sorry for what you did so instead I will point out that killing a dude is usually not considered a valid route to redemption. So I am gonna withdraw my offer of partnership, sorry if that is a dick move or anything.

But that was never going to happen. That would have been forgiving. So that would have been unacceptable.

A kid on an island whined and shouted and broke what wasn't his. And he called it a manifesto.

He kept saying partner, didn't he. Pretty loud, pretty strong, but every time there was this little voice that said otherwise. Said no. Said replacement. Said it very softly from the hole in his stomach getting bigger, getting bigger, getting this pretty shade of dark red.

The thing about Maxwell Lombardi was that he was very good at killing people.

And a part of him actually considered adding another checkmark next to Max's name, but even Julian had some limits to the amount of melodramatic bullshit he could tolerate from himself. So he turned to the nearest camera and he stumbled a step forward. And he started to do what was almost definitely the exact opposite of melodramatic bullshit.

"Um, hi. I was hoping I could say this all right after killing Max, but, you know... shit happens. This is to... anyone who saw me take Max down and was all 'yeah, Julian's kinda a badass'. Umm, fuck you. That's... mainly what needs to be said here. Fuck anyone who thinks I did anything right. You're not helping anything. And this, I dunno, this might all be redundant after Alice. But all I'm saying is if I'm down there and I see any of you wearing a t-shirt with my face on it, I will haunt your ass."

And it hurt a lot to laugh, but he just had to do it anyway. Had to show everyone what kind of guy he was. Kill a girl in cold blood, laugh at your own jokes. One hand still holding a gun, one hand held against his shirt trying to keep all the blood from coming out at once, one face doing its best impression of mirth. This is how to lose friends.

And God, wouldn't it just be great if he meant any of that? To command the world to remember him at his worst and to mean it. To see everyone cursing his name at once for what he'd done and to not mind a bit. That would be the greatest freedom he could ask for.

But he was already walking, wasn't he. In a straight line that he knew was going to lead to Raidon. In a direction he'd chosen at random, but the one he knew was going to take him where he wanted to go. He was going to put his left foot forward, right foot forward, till he found Raidon and he delivered his most important message.

I'm not a coward. See? I'm not a coward.

And courage was the man with a gun in his hand.

Or, fuck it, it didn't even have to be Raidon. Anyone would do, anyone to hear and to listen and to know who he was and who he wanted to be.

Or, fuck it, it didn't even have to be that message. Any message would do, it could even be just to say that he'd lived and that he'd tried.

And he was walking in a straight line, a little slower than the minute before, ready to say anything to anyone, ready to say the words that'd make it hurt just a little bit less.

And he was walking in a straight line, a little slower than the minute before, and he was gonna find that anyone sometime soon.

You already know how that ends.


B098 Julian Avery: DECEASED