Survival Of The Fittest

((Peter Siu continued from Peripeteia))

Walking properly had become a chore over the past hour or so. It wasn't his leg; he'd bandaged that back up properly. Brandy just had this way of being fast acting and particularly high in alcohol volume.

Dawn had come with the daily announcement that Peter had gotten used to. Back at home, a long time ago, Peter hadn't been much of a morning person. Now, the hours seemed to bleed together and sleep was fleeting enough that those things didn't matter anymore. Each morning, Peter was already awake and ready to add names to the list of the deceased and the list of the murderers. It was a matter of pragmatism; he needed to know who to protect and who to protect them from. He never spent much time pondering the names beyond the fact that they were called; he would process the information afterward.

This morning was the first that he couldn't just file it all away as it came. It had been quick; it had been unexpected. A name that he hadn't been ready for. A name that Peter hadn't wanted to hear.

William Hearst.

The other names were a blur. Given time, Peter would be able to piece it all back together. But right now, Peter couldn't do it. Peter didn't even want to. He just wanted to drink. To put everything away.

Sure, it had been surprising when some of his other friends had been named. Peter had, on some level, been ready for that contingency. Sure, it had hurt when Tiffany had been named in the announcement. But Peter had already witnessed the death and expected it. This time was different in more ways than that. Peter had left Eiko to fend for herself just to be able to get a head start on finding Will. He was going to find Will and keep him safe too.

Peter had failed. He'd screwed up and now Will was dead.

So he drank.

On the plus side. The fucking Polanski bitch was dead too.

More reason to drink.

Time had ceased mattering. Probably an hour had passed since the day's start was marked. Peter pushed his way through. At some point, foliage thinned out and Peter found himself walking past the treeline. The ocean stretched out in front of him, the sun casting its glaring light off its surface. About twenty feet away, there was a small building from which a simple network of wood extended out into the ocean. It looked to be quite the place to have a view and relax.

Someone was doing just that.

Just a few feet from the end of the docks, Peter could see somebody perched on top of a large crate. It looked like they were facing outward, but it was hard to tell with the glare. Slowly, Peter swaggered his way up the dock. The side pocket of his backpack where he stashed the pistol was in easy reach. Not that Peter could hit anything with it in his current state of mind. Still, there was always the intimidation factor.

"Nice view out here, eh?" Peter drawled as he stepped closer, hand raised above his eyes to block out the blinding light. Only when he stepped closer did he notice who he was addressing.

"You."

It was so long ago now, yet Brendan was still contemplating why on earth he was here. The island docks.

To be more specific, Brendan was now sitting on the end of the pier, the closest he could be on this road of wood and nails, in the second and quite likely last set of clothes he would ever wear, on top of a large metal box.

((Brendan Wallace continues from Tabula Rasa))

Almost immediately after leaving Jamie and all doubts of dying behind him, he'd come across a river. Silently, with a general consensus inside his head that he needed to get the blood and human remains off his clothing, he stripped down, bathed, and threw all his old clothes downstream. Everything he used to have on him, except for the various things stuffed snugly in his bag, could be found in Poseidon's gift shop. Well, bar a few things. His notebook. His locket. Various flotsam and jetsam he'd retrieved from the deep pockets. Yes, that...still included Sarah's panties.

He wasn't sure how proud he was of still having those.

So now, new clothes. They didn't make a new person, though. Anyone who saw him would still see a killer. A once-friend. A target. There wasn't much he could do to change that line of thought. He told himself there were the little things he could do, but no. No way of hiding what he'd become now.

He'd noticed something pretty bag once he got all dressed up. The gash on his legs, the stitches that kept him together, were looking pretty worse for wear. The skin around them looked loose, almost as if they were just...there. Not helping him stop bleeding, which had miraculously started up and stained the murky river water.

So...he just wrapped the bandage around it again, and hoped it would just stop hurting.

So what now, he'd thought. Where to go first? Where could he find the people he had all the more reason to look for now? Well...there was an extreme long-shot he could grab onto, but a long-shot was better than sitting on the edge of a river, watching your pants snag a large rock and tear open like a slit throat against the current.

He'd fumbled the silver locket around in his fingers, just taking in the memories he'd long since exhausted. Australia. Those two special special people, one which he'd personally replaced in his mind as that special someone.

Oh.

Wow.

Looks like he had remembered that girl after all.

But stuff like that wasn't what was finding him his resolve; nostalgia and regret. It was the here and now. Decisions, important decisions. Like going to that one location that held that wide longshot, and waiting for the inevitable to become real.

He pulled out his map, twirled the locket with abandon around his middle finger and shoved it in his new pocket, and set out a course.

Of course, that was long ago, through bad landscape and bleating sun. Now, he sat on a familiar gun in a silver box, just waiting for someone to show up. He remembered arriving to the site of two dead hockey players and a dark shape beneath the lapping waves. He bit his lip, and moved on. He saw the box, set outside the bait shop with chipping wood and gaps underneath it missing as though dropped from a great height. He opened it up, knowing full well that it had to be empty, but no, there it was. A gun. A familiar gun. He remembered snapping it shut and pushing it towards the water, ready to do what he always intended to do once he found something like this, in the back of his mind where his unruly emotions lay.

So...now he wasn't quite sure why he was enacting a simultaneously smart in theory and stupid in practice decision. He decided against throwing it to the ocean, but he kept it here, underneath his posterior, while he waited for the percentile of his friends left decided to come.

He waited. A long time.

But it wasn't like he could control who showed up. Kris Hartmann, the girl he only knew as the one responsible for his whole string of cowardice and bad decisions. Maxwell Lombardi. Wouldn't that be fun. Of course, it could be anyone. But of all the people he would have chosen to show up here, the person he least expected or desired had to. Of course.

Peter. Siu. The same person who wanted him dead a day ago, and the same person who smacked him his reality. The same person who told him he was a coward who didn't deserve to live, the same person who really told him how it was.

Anyone but him.

"You."

It seemed Peter felt the same way. And considering the terms on which they parted, it was hard to place blame on Peter for that.

Rather than speaking almost immediately, he felt his fingers through his now less-deep pocket and found silver. Oh. That thing. He brought it out, and...were it some cliched story, it would have shined. Instead, it was dull, most definitely not shiny, and just sort of swung there. Reminder. He moved his arm forward, just a bit, so it swung itself over the water.

It fell through.

And all the stuff that was ever said about the important things in your life going through slow motions was false. It fell no faster than anything else he'd ever dropped in his life, and let off no bigger a splash than a human body. Not that he knew, he suspected someone who had seen that certain phenomenon would have a better basis for comparison. That stuff, irrelevant stuff, shifted back to the background.

He turned around on the metal crate. Mirrored his reaction, only much less malice.

"You."

It was only full of fear.

A small trinket on a chain was withdrawn from Brendan's pocket, and he casually let it drop into the water before turning to face Peter. There was a small splash as it hit the water, but the silence had already been broken by Peter's approach. Brendan's voice seemed to echo Peter's, but there was a different edge to it. Not that Peter could fault him; the last time the two had talked had involved Peter sticking his gun right up to the other boy's head. That sort of thing tended to leave a bad impression.

"We meet again," Peter said flatly, but he couldn't keep the smile from creeping onto his face. Drinking tended to do that to him. The induced smile was almost impossible to wipe off for more than a moment. It was a big part of why he ever did it. It was easier to smile and easier to talk. It took away the uncertainty and the hesitation. Everything was just okay with it.

He needed it to live. He needed it to run away.

At least Brendan gave him something to run to.

"So, where were we last time?" The gun was drawn from his backpack's side pocket slowly and deliberately. He made no motion to aim the gun at the other boy, but kept his body tense for any sudden movements. "Ah right, Steven Hunt. Y'know, I'm sure Jackie was right about you shooting him by accident, but let's hear it from your own mouth." As much as Peter would have loved to keep his voice as cold steel, the alcohol providing plenty a warming effect with its signature smile.

It was never, as Peter had learned the hard way some years ago, just good enough to think that he'd understood somebody else by trying to piece things together. There was always another side. Another story Another viewpoint. The only certainty was to get it from the source. Sure, the source wasn't always reliable; the gun could fix that problem easily though.

The muscles on the side of Brendan's lips twitched. It was his natural reaction in any normal situation to having a gun drawn on you. Emphasis on normal. What counted as normal in here, of all places, flew right past recognition.

But other than that involuntary flicker of a smile, he didn't move a muscle. When you're in the right mind (still, he had no idea what counted as right here), you know your bearings, your circumstances. Which is something Brendan knew, if you move when someone has a gun trained on you, your chances plummet like a body in the ocean.

...again with the deceased metaphors.

He listened to Peter. There was something almost lyrical about his words, his attitude. That contempt in his voice still lingered, his sense still obviously honed onto perverting justice. Otherwise, why would he have his gun out? He knew Brendan, the way he reacted to what happened back in the caves should have been plenty of evidence to prove that he had no intention of harming Peter. But times changed.

So...

"And what am I supposed to say, Peter? Is it going to change anything?" Brendan said. He turned his head slowly towards his bag, hanging out a few feet away against one of the many wooden poles that held up the pier. No, no way he was getting that gun out...impossible. He wouldn't do it even if he could. No way. Absolutely no way he was letting himself have a gun in his hands again. It wouldn't happen. No way.

...no way.

That tone of voice was one Peter was quite familiar with. Every other time his parents made a point to criticize his study habits or his late night outings, it would be met with the same tone. Defiance. After all, what did they know. They didn't understand, and they never tried. Just always criticism heaped on criticism. What right did Brendan have to say those words back? It was infuriating. At least Peter was trying to give him a chance to explain himself.

"You're supposed to answer the goddamn question, Brendan," Peter barked back. "If it didn't matter what you said, I'd have shot you already. Save my breath and yours." He made no motion to raise the gun. His heart pounded, each subsequent one coming faster than the next. From a small place in the back of his mind, he recalled that he hated this feeling; too hard to think straight and keep a handle on things.

Brendan turned to look to the side, at the water stretching off along the coast. There was an opening there; it would be simple to point, click the safety, and plant a bullet in the other boy's head. He was a killer after all. A cowardly one who hadn't been able to come clean with what he had done. He hadn't deserved to live.

That had been yesterday. Now, Brendan's voice held something else. There was still the fear, the uncertainty, and the weakness. But also, there was some strength, some confidence. Maybe it would be enough to keep him afloat, but Peter had to be sure.

"You know what it would change? You tell people it was an accident, and they might just be that little more likely to forgive you. You man up and accept the responsibility, and they might end up showing you some respect. This isn't about finding a reason to kill you here. It's about finding a reason to keep on living."

He didn't know whether to stand or not. Seemed Peter was genuinely interested in what happened to Brendan, in his own special way of saying it. The kind that involved insulting his manhood, at least. Those kinds of genuine affection just gave him so much incentive to do what he said, really. No, really.

Course, said 'incentive' didn't stop him from talking back. He turned back from the bag, in the wee hope that he could get there, but Peter's hand were obviously too fast for that. You didn't get two kills under your belt for being slow, unless you were just plain unlucky, or lucky, whichever, like Brendan was.

He scoffed at his attitude. This guy really wanted answers? He needed answers, did he? Not his exact words, but...really? No, nobody spoke to Brendan like that, not even his parents. No one gave him that attitude.

"Yes, because as we all know, you're such a big 'shining beacon of inspiration' to the entire island about how good it feels to know you've killed someone, Peter!" Brendan even orchestrated his own hand movements where he would originally put inverted commas in a story. 'course, not a story here. Just up to him for emphasis.

"You know what, you didn't ask for it, but I'll just tell you everything that happened, okay? How's that? Fine enough for you?" Brendan stood up, a groan of disagreement echoed as the wood creak under his feet.

"Okay, let's start from the beginning. I was wandering around, days ago now. Uh, letsee...day six? Day five? Day I don't give a flying-whatever? I...you wanna know who I found? Remember...Liz Polanski? Guess you do, you're probably like that girl, the one who killed that friend of my friend...Madeline? Doesn't matter, you're probably like her, wanted her dead? Well...guess you got your wish now, huh? You hear her name on the announcements? I was there for that...wait, I missed something, oh right, I found her, I helped her to where she wanted to go, and then...they showed up."

Throughout this, Brendan's feet had taken it upon their non-sentient selves to walk slowly forward towards his executioner on pier.

"You ever meet Carla Conners? She was a nice girl. She followed us, the...death squad, I guess they're called, saw her, and blew her head off, right in front of me. Remember yesterday? That shirt I was wearing? I...yeah, that wasn't just Steven's blood on me, okay? It was her blood. Everywhere. I guess you know about blood." There was a small pause in his rambling, but he shook his head.

"That doesn't matter, I guess. So anyway, they were right there. They were close enough to touch me, shoot me, they told me to run, I...I guess I did, most of what happened next was pretty much a blur. I did run, yeah, and then it got dark. I think I ran pretty far into the mountain, because it got really cold, and...yeah, you don't wanna hear that, I guess. I stopped, somewhere, and I tried to get my light working, cause I had two of them...I had two of them, yeah, cause there was this time, back on the first day, I think, that Clio chick killed that bible freak, blew his head right off," A brief pause, as he tried to revise what he just said to someone he probably shouldn't be subtly insulting.

"Sorry, not bible freak, whatever you wanna call him...I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about back then, yesterday, when I found out I'd fallen into some jock's dead body, and there was...there was...there was...so much blood everywhere, his skin tore off and stuck onto one of my hands, that's...not a nice feeling, at all. And...I don't really remember what I was thinking, but I heard footsteps, and I thought...someone had followed me."

Brendan stopped in his stride, only a good few metres away from Peter now. His hands had wormed their way snugly into his pockets, and he wasn't sure whether or not he was close enough to the executioners axe in the most metaphorical of senses here. He turned away, towards the beach. He saw another jock's body, decomposing and bloody brown.

"I...wasn't thinking. I thought...you know, death squad, Liz...there were other guys there, there was...Mirabelle, that's her name, and...Garrett, uh, Franco, and...that's all, yeah. I thought they might have been there for me too, cause...being part of that, just...hoping I could get off of here without having to see any more of my friends die than I already have, I-I guess that was a bit too much to ask for, really, I mean...I once said I never watch the show, and that's true, I think, I just read about it online. Lots of stuff online, I used to basically live there...uh, right. I...I thought that maybe because I was part of this thing that...I was important? Somehow? But...I thought they'd followed me. That death squad, or terrorists, or Danya's soldiers, or whatever, but...I wasn't thinking."

His hands didn't feel right trapped in the linen lining, and they snaked their way out to the salty air.

"So...then you came along, and then...I..."

Brendan curled his bottom lip into his mouth, wetting the red with saliva and trying to find the courage to say what he needed to say. His arms covered his stomach, and he turned back towards Peter.

"It was an accident."

One more small pause.

"There."

He could feel the wind start to pick up, and felt so exposed, so very very alone and exposed.

"Is that what you wanted? Just for me to say that?"

It's said that a person's eyes are a window to their soul. Peter never believed that, largely on account of him being incapable of reading people's emotions through their eyes. Instead, Peter subscribed to the idea that people's words, the things they said and the way they said it, that was what carried power. There were no ambiguities like that flash of emotion reflecting through a person's eyes or that nuanced movement in their body language. Words were the simplest, quickest way to understanding.

So Peter listened.

Brendan's words carried so much. A mix of emotions, weaving amongst themselves. It was constantly shifting, each emotion fading to give way to another for just a moment before changing form again. Defiance to indignation to uncertainty to fear and then back again at the start. The words painted a story, another facet to the life of this game. Only with it could Peter understand Brendan. Only with it could Peter make a judgment.

As the words came, Peter couldn't help but feel a touch of pity. Brendan had seen so much, but he'd been shielded from the worst the game had to give. He hadn't had to watch his closest friends die in his arms. He hadn't needed to make a decision that straddled the line of right and wrong. He'd made a mistake or several, and he was still standing. Peter couldn't tell if Brendan had gotten any stronger from his ordeals, but at least he was still breathing and talking.

Maybe that would be enough.

"Well, you didn't have to make it that hard," Peter said as he shook his head after Brendan finished his rant. The alcohol was losing its effect, leaving behind that hint of a headache to come and its accompanied bout of tiredness. "A hundred thousand ways of saying it, and you picked the one with the most words. But hey, at least you said it." Peter shrugged, taking one hand off the gun and letting it hang loosely at his side.

"Doesn't make it all better though, you know? If you think I'll just put this gun down and give you a great big hug and tell you everything's going to be alright, well, that's not going to happen. Stuff's just gonna get harder from here on out. You can't just sit around and wait for things to happen. That isn't living. Gotta have a plan for trucking forward."

Peter didn't know why it hadn't caught his attention earlier. Probably chalked up to the intense discussion with Brendan, or the fact that a buzz always scattered his ability to make observations properly. "On an unrelated note, what's with the big box?"

It was like a blanket of hostility was lifted from the docks the moment everything was lifted off his chest. The serration in Peter's voice spun into a wary friendliness. He wasn't speaking to him like a child that did something so very very wrong, and was trying to twist and thrive its way out of punishment. Brendan had come clean about everything wrong he'd done, everything he'd had heaped onto his chest over the last couple of days, and that iron maiden of internal punishment lifted its spikes from his flesh and left behind...a thank you.

At least the gun wasn't trained on him anymore.

"I know it's not going to get easier. If you've been through what I've been through...which you probably have, I dunno, you'd know that. Or...you do know that, I have no clue. But..."

Brendan looked back out at the sea again, just...trying to figure out how to finish his sentence without sounding like a completely lost soul. Which in all honesty, he had no clue if he was or not. He wasn't that good at looking at himself, judging Brendan Wallace through the eyes of someone else.

But his short musings were wrapped back up to reality, as Peter drew his attention towards that thing at the end of the docks. Yeah, that had to come up some time or another, didn't it?

He hid a smirk. From what he'd known of Peter through the days, he guessed that him of all people would probably be interested in what lay in that box collecting dust particles.

Of course, no way he was letting Peter have that. No way. Brendan didn't want it, but he seriously had no intention of letting it into the hands of anyone on the island, especially not someone who'd already killed.

"Oh, that. Best Kill Award, from two days ago. Rhory-" the name left an odd taste in his mouth, the girl who Erik mentioned every so often skewed a different image than the one Dayna left "-never picked it up, but I think someone got here before me and made off with it. Didn't leave a single scrap behind."

He avoided re-emphasis. Lying was...well, it was one of his strong points. He had to be convincing, cause he wanted to get rid of damn thing. But there was no way to do that if Peter was here, it would look way too damn suspicious, someone suspiciously pushing a metal box with nothing in it off the edge of a dock in a rather suspicious manner. Too suspicious.

"I-Well, I just came here cause...I thought someone I knew would have the same idea as you did, you know? But...you were the only one that came. Guess everyone thought they'd be too late, and...yeah I've been here for a while, and...yeah. I'm just gonna hang around, see if anyone else shows up, I guess. I'll just say the same thing I said to you...not the whole story, of course, but...you get the idea."

See? That was his plan, Peter, a plan for the future. Of course he didn't say how he'd basically given up all hope for survival on this rock. He'd given up all intentions of ever making it out of here alive, he'd given up ever watching television, or writing a story, or anything like that, ever again. Frankly because, well, he didn't need to know. It would have rendered everything Peter said about him moot.

So now he just had to sit tight, and see if Peter bought his story. Then he could dispose of the weapon in peace.

It had been an innocent question. Peter hadn't really cared about the crate; he'd just wanted to turn the conversation to something a little less heavy and awkward. It was a good thing he'd asked though. From somewhere in the recesses of his memory, the information of the previous day's announced award winner and drop location. Really, it should have clicked together sooner. Not that it mattered since the weapon had already been taken.

Wait, what had Brendan said?

"Whoa, whoa. I did not come here looking for the weapon. I'd actually forgotten it was here," Peter said, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. "I mean, now that you mention it, it would've be useful, but if it's already been taken...." Peter's words faded into silence, but one could almost hear the gears in his head turning and putting things into place.

Something didn't fit.

It was something in the way that Brendan said it. No, not the way he said it. The words themselves didn't match up with what made sense. Sometimes, these little inconsistencies could be chalked up to stress or being bad at communication, which Brendan was clearly not a paragon of. Peter would've let it pass. Even in a life or death situation like this, Peter would've been willing to trust Brendan. But the more he picked at the edges, the more Brendan's story would fall apart; what lay behind it was a possibility that Peter wasn't going to allow.

Peter focused his gaze back to Brendan. "Bullshit." Peter could almost feel him flinch at the accusation. Hell, he even looked guilty. "What were you thinking? That I'd just walk away and let you have a shiny new gun? Not after what happened yesterday with Steven." He made no move to raise the gun again. He'd already said he wasn't going to shoot, and he wasn't going to go back on that. Not unless Brendan tried some funny business.
How is lying about the award not funny business?
"I don't like being lied to, Brendan," Peter said, not bothering to conceal the vicious edge behind his words. "I thought you were running away from all this gunning and killing. Thought that was your angle. Clearly, it's not." Peter's body tensed up, preparing himself for any sudden movements from Brendan. It could've been an easily concealed weapon, and now was not a time to die. "But I already said I wouldn't shoot you. Not right now, and not until you give me a good reason to. So I'll give you one more chance: explain yourself."

How presumptuous of Brendan to think he was such a master liar.

He blinked in disbelief when Peter rebuked his somewhat flimsy story. Surprised, of course, why wouldn't he be when Brendan had self-assurance that he was pulling off a fantastic cover-up? That story was the only thing stopping Brendan and Peter clawing at each other's throats (and not in the mildly erotic way he saw on a Swedish porn video once...wait, that thought was completely random, huh?), and now that it was imploding around him like a flimsy house of cards. No jokes, he could almost feel crumbles.

"What's there to explain, really? Thought I could just..."

So now he really had to say what most people in Peter's situation would called "ridiculous", "stupid", or "mind-blowingly idiotic in this situation". To say the least, of course, to say the least.

"I thought I could just toss the fucking thing in the ocean and be done with it."

His own words caught him by the throat. He'd sworn. He hadn't sworn in such a long time, it felt oddly compelling and not-so-fitting to be doing it again. Actual words which his parents hit him over, words he'd hear banned in his own home yet thrown around like protestors with their paint cans everywhere else in the world. Just that little action made him feel a tiny bit less constrained. More freedom.

"You were right in what you thought, you know. I don't want anything to do with this thing. I was the first one here, nobody came. Guess I should have just said Rhory-" again, the name tasted bitter in his mouth, "-picked it up, but...guess that's too late now. I didn't want anything to do with it. I didn't find it where it was, you know, it was..." Brendan brought his thumb to his teeth and started chewing around the end of the only nail on his hands, raw like a sanded table, that wasn't to the quick. He looked over behind Peter, up towards the Bait Shop plus dead hockey player. Pointed, just because he felt he needed to.

"Found it over there. Moved it up the end there, all by myself. Don't wanna give me a medal or anything do you?...whatever, just...I don't want anyone to have it, okay? I was going to get rid of it, and make sure no one used it."

Brendan turned around, about to walk back up to his self-made dead end, where everything he had left lay, when he turned back around and smiled at Peter. The level of uneasiness captured on his face was enough to feed a family of fifteen, if uneasiness was a valued commodity in some shape or form.

"And that's the truth, by the way, I promise you that."

There were some really good people in the world. A subset of which was on the island.

There were some really stupid people in the world too. A subset of which was also on the island.

Peter had a healthy amount of respect for the former, and none for the latter. It made working with people who were a part of both subsets very confusing. Since the universe clearly aimed to make his life as difficult as possible, Brendan had to fall into that sub-subset.

Peter took a great sigh and and a great effort of will to not do anything more than run his free hand through his hair. As much as it was a perfect opportunity for his palm to meet his forehead, his favored hand was toting one very dangerous handgun. Also, he'd done enough damage smashing Brendan's ego to bits.

"That's not how it works, Brendan. Really, I admire how you want to do something good, and maybe stop more people from killing. Really, your heart's in the right place. It won't work though. You think throwing away one gun is going to change things?" There was no denying the harsh tone his voice had taken, and as much as Peter tried to rein it in, each word still seemed to bite through the air. Why was he saying this? Was there really any way to change things?

There was only one way to find out, right?

"You know what Peter, how about you just shut it and listen to what I have to say instead of just, you know, assuming?" Brendan snapped at Peter's remark, his curt smile didn't even wipe itself completely from his face, still there just looming over him.

"I've...I've been here as long as you have, I'm not completely naive. There's...I dunno, 300 weapons on this island? Of course I knew, I know, I-whatever, it's not gonna make a difference. I just..."

Brendan faltered for a second there, his own words weren't coming up right. It wasn't like Peter would think of that as a good response, so he just tried to cover it up. Deflection.

"Let me ask this Peter. Just one thing. Why are you acting like I'm accountable for you? Why did you just...you just, I dunno, want to stand there, insult everything I'm worth, act like you're better than me? Just-just tell me that, okay? You've killed, you killed...those two people, and-and that, what, gives you the right to do that? Do I need to kill someone else too, is there some exclusive two-kill club that you belong to that makes you better than me? Just..."

Brendan gave up pretending he knew what he was saying halfway through, and waltzed back towards the box and his bag. Not sure what was happening back behind him. He hadn't even given a crap to look. He strode fast, and he strode with confidence. he grabbed his bag, swung it over his shoulder.

But he stopped. Stared out at the ocean again. Silently. Took in deep breaths. Sighed dejectedly.

There wasn't any point in blowing him off again. Peter was the closest thing he had to a friend at this point in time, something assured. Everyone on the island knew he was a killer now, and he seemed to be the only person out of them who wasn't judging him on that. He was judging Brendan based on the fact that he was, in all essence, he was a pitiful weak excuse for a human being. Not on some moral high ground that made him better than him, they were basically the same. Both killers, both going through shit the other person couldn't dream of, and that made them the same.

At least, to the extent of the word. Wasn't as if Peter was gonna start seeing things in the same light any time soon now.

For a moment, Peter really wanted to hit Brendan for his idiocy. Here he was, being nice and helpful and not shooting his gun. Still, Brendan was asking stupid questions like why Peter was giving him such a hard time. For some reason, his reasoning culminated in the fact that Peter had killed more people than he had. Or something like that. It was stupid.

Peter pushed it back. Making a big deal out of it now was not going to be productive. Instead, he watched Brendan thunder back to the end of the pier and shoulder his bag. Something in his words had struck a chord. Peter had killed people, and Brendan didn't understand why. Misunderstanding led to tragedy. If Imraan caught up to him now, there would be a prime example of it right there.

Brendan needed to understand.

A few slow steps crossed the distance to the end of the docks. Brendan stood there, motionless, gaze cast out to the ocean. With his free hand, Peter reached out and lightly clasped Brendan's shoulder. Not as a threatening gesture, but one of reassurance. He could only imagine how afraid Brendan could be now. Over a week on this island, with death looming over their shoulders every moment awake or asleep.

"Do you want to know why?" Peter said, his voice now devoid of any roughness. Now, it just sounded tired. "Why people get killed? Why I have to kill them? I don't do it for myself." He took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts and arranging the words to come.

"There are maybe, what, a hundred people still alive on the island. How many of us have actually killed people? How many of us still have clean hands? Maybe half of us? And that number's going to keep going down. People will be forced to fight, forced to kill, just to stay alive. In the end, nobody will be clean. What's the point then, if whoever got off the island was just a cold and broken killer?

"I never planned on getting out of this alive. I don't deserve to be the one who gets out of this alive. I'm just a failure. Can't protect the people I care about. Can't stop a killer until it's too late. But there are people here that do deserve to live, and I'm going to do what I can to protect them. I'll carry the burden and all the hate, so somebody can get out of here and live.

"So help me, Brendan. I need the strength to be able to do this. That gun can be used to save lives. To save life. It's the only thing we can do. Please."

Peter's voice had cracked and faded from the presentation. He blinked back tears and took a deep breath to steady himself. He'd said a lot. Not a lot of words, but they were the ones that carried weight. With those words, he'd committed to something real. Not just the reality of the people he'd killed, or the ones to come. Not just the conviction of protecting some people worth saving. He'd committed to dying on this island, even if he had to do it himself.

Nobody wants to die.

Silence reigned in the space between the invisible ticking clock hands. The waves lapped up against the dock, but Peter didn't hear them. Leaves and branches rustled in the ocean breeze, but there was no sound. Under his hand, Peter could feel Brendan tense up, and then relax just slightly.

Another moment passed, and then Brendan turned and strode past back to the shore. Peter didn't meet his gaze as he turned: he didn't want Brendan to see the weakness in his eyes. He had to be strong if he was going to keep going. As "Take it," Brendan muttered as he passed. The footsteps cut through the air, the sound of creaking wood fading as Brendan kept walking.

Another steadying breath, and then Peter stowed his gun and stepped up to the crate. Now that he looked, he could see the marks on the docks where wood had scraped wood. With both hands, Peter opened up the crate and looked on its contents. A new sword and shield which he would use to protect whatever good was left on this island.
Okay, this thing is pretty damn sweet.

((Written on behalf of Inky))

He had no choice.

Brendan kept telling himself this. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, Peter would keep pushing until he got what was inside the crate. It would just be another volley of insults, and Brendan was getting sick of that. Why put up with more of it? Why even bother fighting?

So he let Peter take it.

As he walked down the docks, Brendan's thoughts wandered to what Peter had said. It was... reasonable? If Peter wasn't playing, was really trying to do what he said, then this wasn't all that bad an idea. He was going to fight to save somebody else. That was good, right?

His footsteps stopped. Brendan looked over his shoulder to the other boy at the end of the pier. He could've been lying. This might have all been a ploy to get to the weapon in that crate. And after that? Maybe Brendan would find himself a couple of new bullet holes. Hell, even if he hadn't been lying, Brendan had still killed somebody. He could be just as high on Peter's hitlist as somebody like Maxwell. It would be just a matter of minutes before Peter'd turn around and end it. It wouldn't matter how far Brendan ran if it came to that.

Brendan slowly and quietly lowered his bag to the floor and withdrew his other gun, the one that Peter hadn't taken. His hands shook as he took it out. This gun could kill somebody, just like before. Peter's back was turned, his attention still on the contents of the box. Brendan raised the gun, lining up the barrel with the center of the other boy's body.

He could still fight.

He thumbed the safety.

He could still live.

His other hand came up to steady his arm. There might only be one chance.

One chance to kill.

Kill

"accidents happen..."

Brendan had killed somebody already. All it took was pointing the gun and pulling the trigger. Just like last time.

A deep breath and on three.

One.

Two.



His knees buckled from under him. His arms dropped uselessly at his side. His eyes swam with tears.

Cold-blooded murder. How could he ever forgive himself?

The gun in his hand seemed to beckon, to call for it to be raised. Brendan shoved it back into his bag. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to touch it. He didn't want to kill.

He just wanted to run.

((PLACEHOLDER: Peter gets his new gun, turns around and chats with Brendan for a bit, then they leave together))


((Peter Siu and Brendan Wallace continued elsewhere))