Survival Of The Fittest

(Liz Polanski continued from Metalcrafting)

Liz's forge was sloppy. She had taken a trowel and dug a pit, lining it with charcoal, lighting it with accelerant and her precious lighter. A lid to one of the plastic buckets in the garage--hole cut through the plastic--had gone on top to contain the heat.

Liz crushed a couple of cans viciously with her foot, put them in a glazed ceramic jug, put the jug in the middle of the coals. The workmen's gloves were good; they kept her from burning her hands. Then the cap went back on the fire.

Aluminum took a long time to melt.

She had constructed a makeshift blower for her makeshift forge, using the plastic-bladed battery fan from a spray fan water bottle, inserting it into the ground, digging a little tunnel between it and the coal pit, and turning the fan on. It blew oxygen into the fire and kept the heat up.

Heat.

She would need nerve for this, and speed; she would have practiced scraping her collar with water on her knife (she had kept a river close, and filled two coke cans with water for safety), but her sloppy lean-to was the only thing blocking her from the cameras. She'd built a lean-to, badly, out of a knit blanket and several of the tomato sticks; it leaned more ways than it was supposed to, but it looked like convincing shelter, and looks were all that mattered. Liz didn't intend to stay.

I hope.

Aluminum took a long time to melt.

No people around. The closest forest to the garage she had found her supplies in was now a Danger Zone. She'd taken notes of the killers and the dead numbly, no longer much caring. Her food, her water, the rest of her clothes, everything but weapons, lipstick, lighter, pen and paper, was in a purple cooler, hidden in a garage in the Residential District. Her rucksack had been used to carry aluminum cans, charcoal, the accelerant bottle, the trowel the spray fan, and two handheld mirrors. One of Cyrille's tank tops, too, in case the fire was too slow to start, but the accelerant had lived up to its name.

Liz hoped her old clothes--sweatshirt and cargo pants, still soaking in a sink, rude shirt and underwear and bra--were okay.

Aluminum took a long time to melt. But it had melted now. Liz had cleared the ground for meters around, but still the smell of hot pine sap was in her nose. She snorted.

The plastic top was hot, and smelled. Liz kicked it off the top of the coals. Underneath, the charcoal was beautiful; orange on the fire's edges, then yellow, and near to the center, white hot. She removed the jug from the fire carefully, touching only the top edges. Unsurprisingly, though the jug advertised as heat-resistant and microwave-safe, her fingers burned. She took a moment to take off the gloves, pour a little water over them, used the rest of the water to douse the fire. It hissed and sizzled and spit.

No more time.

With a snort of ugly hesitation, Liz dipped her knife in the metal. The heat from it made her face burn, but on the knife, it was surprisingly beautiful; orange-yellow, like fruit juice, it clutched itself in droplets, rolling to the sides of the knife as she tried to balance it on her hand.

Her hand was shaking.

She had a mirror by her, on the soft bare earth, pointing at her neck, at the tiny radio port she needed to block. Maybe she didn't need this much metal, but she didn't want to risk trying for a smaller droplet. The metal was cooling fast, and she didn't know the response time of the terrorists, once they realized what she was doing.

The thought was dry. I hope this works.

She put the knife to the collar, to the hole, to her neck.

Pain.

Once, when she was small, one of her mothers boyfriends (he had only been there for a short time--the cruel ones never lasted long) had shoved a piece of glass in her hand and stomped it there. Liz was seven at the time. She had never felt pain like that before, or seen that much blood, when he shut the door, her mother passed out on the couch, and she was gasping with too little breath to scream. The blood was pouring from her hand, was pouring everywhere, and there was a throbbing in her hand that was alien and strange, and she didn't know if she could die from blood loss in a hand. It poured out so quickly.

Pain.

She scraped the knife off, trying to see if the hole was covered. It looked like it was. Was it? She scraped an idle drop of metal into the port. Too far. The metal hit her neck, and this time she screamed. Flesh burned. A smell like smoke, meat and ash.

My body.

That time, when she was a child, she had moved her fingers. Things were exposed, broken and cold, that shouldn't be out in the air. A shred of glass had borne under her skin. She pulled it out, gasping, choked shrieks petering to whimpers, and pain spreading, to her head, to her stomach, to her spine. Tears came out of her eyes. Throbbing, fear, this alien pain of hands on glass.

What am I doing to myself?

The other side now. She had to move quickly. Another mirror on the other side, this one fogged from the heat. Kick it aside, use the first mirror. Squeeze your eyes shut, metal hurts, don't scream like a baby. Another drop on the knife, tipping more this time; her hand was trembling wildly. But the metal was cooling, convenient cohesion, it stayed, miraculous, and she slapped it on her neck. On her metal collar. Clumsy hands. The metal spattered, and she screamed again, doubling over this time. She forced herself up again. She needed to do this right. The metal was dripping. She needed perfection.

Need it to work.

Thing had been broken in her hands, then, something important, something structural. She didn't know what it was, but there was fear, in her childish brain, shivering fear and somehow certainty, that if she didn't get her hand back right it would stay not right forever. Something would be wrong with it. Her fingers would be gone…

She pulled on a snapped finger determinedly. Pulling the bone back into place. Screamed. There were too many tears, but she didn't like crying now. Everything stung. Another bone, but she didn't have the nerve, it hurt, it hurt, but if she didn't do it, something wouldn't be right, her fingers would be gone, the structure would be damaged. Pull. Too much pain for a scream. Several marked gasps in a little girl. There was blood all over the kitchen floor right now and she didn't know what to do, didn't want to move her fingers…

My hands…

She used the knife to slough the rest of the metal into the port. Great blobs, dripping out. Clumsy hands. Some had already gotten on her neck. Make sure the port was closed, make sure the port was closed….

Let me live!

She had staggered, one hand on the kitchen table, to where the paper towels were. Her mother didn't believe in dishcloths. The paper towels weren't soft. They quickly soaked up too much blood. She tore it into strips, elbow and good hand, and wrapped the fingers in rolled up paper towel. Like a toilet paper roll. The paper towel soaked blood too quick. It sprang off as soon as she let it go. There wasn't masking tape close, and nothing was tearing with one hand; helplessly she wrapped the paper in easy-tear aluminum foil. Wrapped it tighter. It stayed. Wrapped the other finger. Tight. Try not to scream. It didn't work.

"MAMA!"

She never came.

Why?

Make sure the port was closed. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect, or she would die. Pain didn't matter now. Ash in the air, nothing. Pain. Perfection. Push the aluminum into the radio port. Sealed. Sealed once more, just in case. Metal splashed to her hand. Scream, the smell of char, cauterized veins. Breaking yourself. No matter. She could hardly hold the knife anymore. The other side, the other side, the metal hadn't dripped out the other side, this side and the other side, sealed by pain and perfection, mirrors speak protection, closed collar, Faraday's cage, let me live! but so much pain and it was worse now she wasn't thinking about the task she was thinking about her body what had she done to her body--

"Mama! Please help me! Mama!"

Why do you call?

Mama didn't come. Mama didn't come. Mama never came. She could call and call. She was hoarse. The paper towels were wet. Still, she didn't dare take them off, her fingers might get not right again, she couldn't shift them, she couldn't fix them again, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, everything hurt, her whole body, in sympathy for her hand, and the floor was cold, and she cried.

Mama!

Liz fell. The pain was too much. She couldn't hold. Couldn't stand. Had to gasp. Had to scream. Keep herself from putting hand to her neck. That would lead to more burns. Only more burns. She wanted water. Didn't know which Coke can had water. Her leg jerked. She kicked them over. Now she knew. Too late.

Did it work? Did it work? She had to know.

Pain making her head thrum. She wanted her collar to explode. End this.

Knife in hand. Crawl. Scream. Jerk it into the camera lens. Call out (to who?). She doesn't explode. Still the pain. Sobbing. Crawling. "Mama!"

There was something nearby she needed to get to.

Mama!

Mr. Kwong said later she had broken her fingers. He said she had made a makeshift splint. He said she was lucky she wasn't infected. He showed her what sticking plaster was, and taught her about casts, and bones.

Let me go!

And strong hands dunked her in the cold river water, in the cool, in the cool, and she breathed and passed out.

((Charlie DuClare continued from Day of the Dave))

How's this for a silver lining:

None of Dave's friends had died yesterday. None of Helen's friends had died yesterday. None of Winsome's friends (her name was Winsome, the poor scared girl, that's the sort of thing you learn when you have a few hours to fill with small talk, but not much else because she's still pretty quiet and she's still kinda shook up) had died yesterday. And hey, hey, none of Charlie's, so chin up chin up gotta keep positive gotta keep everything moving and everybody functional. They'll get to the river, the five of them, and they'll all still be alive and they'll all have each other and maybe just maybe if they all play their cards right, someone might end up cracking a smile before the day is over. Silver linings! Yeah!

Silver linings were sorta Charlie's job right now, since she'd sort of stumbled into the role of group leader- how the fuck did that happen?- and that was number one on the agenda. One of them being sad and broken? That was, that was maybe manageable that wasn't so bad maybe she'd get better sometime and it'd be okay? But if someone else started to fall apart, it was all over. House of cards starts to teeter starts to totter starts to slide and it all comes down and there's Charlie sitting with crossed legs wondering how, just how, just how it all got away from her and how she ended up alone again.

's a bit of a problem with the arrangement when the group leader is dedicating all her energy to small talk and half-funny inoffensive little jokes and adorable attempts to keep everybody's mood up, plus she hasn't really delegated any duties to anyone else (except for the walking-along-awkwardly-and-mostly-quietly duties, she'd delegated those to everyone else like a fucking champ). Problem goes like this: who the fuck is steering us? Well that's easy, silly, Charlie is steering, she's the one in front and everyone else is pretty much just following her lead, but the drawback here is that she's not actually sure where she's going.

There was actually a route that would have gotten them all to the river much quicker than the route Charlie led them down.

Please don't tell her that. She would feel so so stupid if she found out.

But after a long long while of left foot right foot just keep moving forward, they all finally made it somewhere that ever so slightly resembled almost there. And there was this sound- well, there were the crunchy footsteps, that was definitely one of the sounds- but off in the distance you could hear it you could definitely hear it. Could you hear it? Ssh, Charlie is trying to listen... Sounds like water! Sounds like a stream running! Yes! Yes! Victory! Good leader! Best leader! Awesome!

"Guys, wait, can you hear it? Sssh, listen!" And they all did and you could hear a bit of running water, you could hea-

Screaming. Oh.

So she took off running towards it and it wasn't so far off and she was pretty soon she was there, right there with the screaming in front of her, the screaming was coming from a girl who- what the fuck did she do to herself like, oh God, oh Jesus Christ, it just smelled like burning and it looked all wrong on her neck and for all Charlie knew the girl's collar was going to explode at any moment. But she had to be brave, she was the leader for now, nobody had looked confident enough on the trip for her to seize the opportunity and shunt off the mantle of leadership onto them, she had to be brave even though she'd maybe probably just used all her bravery up by running to the screaming and not away from it. She had to take action.

"I- Holy fuck! Wha- Dave, fucking do something!"

Courage.

((Dave Morrison, continued from Day of the Dove.))

Dave was, all things considered, not doing all that bad. Sure they'd seen a dude get chainsawed, thrown goth chicks into mirrors, been threatened a couple of times, and heard the ever-growing list of names being listed off, and had to scare off a psychopath with vision issues brandishing a tire iron, but for the most part, they'd been kinda chilled out, the group they'd gotten together. He was sure other people were going through hell right now, but, here he was, the only guy in an increasingly large group of chicks, all headed off to the nearest river to bathe. Come to think about it, he was doing pretty great, actually.

He'd spent most of the day following Charlie's lead as she lead them on their root march to the nearest river, which had seemingly taken them halfway across the island. Dave didn't really mind, though, they'd managed to avoid running into any nutjobs. Dave paused as Charlie asked them to listen. They had to be getting close.

"Huh?" Shit. Screaming. Fucking Screaming. "The fuck?"

The group pushed forwards, coming to a stream- Fuck yeah, they'd actually found something- and the prone, beaten-the-fuck-out-of girl lying by it. The screaming had no doubt come from her. Was she still alive? Charlie promptly freaked the fuck out and shouted for Dave to do something.

Yo, Dave, you okay there? Seem a little spaced out, bro. Yeah, Charlie's fucking shouting at you to do something. The problem was, well, that Dave honestly didn't know what the fuck to do right now. Shit, he had to do something. Anything.

Dave ran forwards and knelt down beside the girl. Who was she? Fuck, didn't matter. Just had to do something. Anything. Right, er, check for a pulse. Dave grabbed the girl's wrist and put two fingers up to it. She still had a heartbeat. That was a start. Shout to Helen. She's the med student, right? She knew this shit. Right, now do what she just suggested.

After a bit of effort, Dave managed to lift the girl, taking the step down into the stream. It was only knee deep but Dave struggled to keep his footing. He bent down. Submerged her in the water. Tried not to drown her.

Hoped it would work.

((Isabel Guerra continued from Day of the Dove))

Isabel marched silently along with the group as they left the green and went in search of someplace to bathe. Bathing sounded good. She was dirty, the top of her head was greasy, her curls were frizzy and she was disgusting. Her face was stiff from all of the tears.

She didn't feel much like talking. As soon as they had left she pulled her ipod out of her bag and left it on shuffle. She couldn't hear anything outside of her music. She made a little world for herself where she could think. It was just as well, she was sure that if Dave tried to speak to her she'd snap at him. They had walked for hours, but she didn't mind. She actually sort of liked the exercise. Isabel began to get hungry again, but she almost didn't even care enough to eat. She was comfortable in her walking and she felt like stopping to eat would distract from her comfortable, numb world of one foot in front of the other.

And then they stopped. Charlie yelled something and Dave ran forward. Isabel picked up her head and tugged the ear buds out of her ears. There was a girl. She looked pretty badly injured. She just stood and stared as Dave took the girl down to the river. What else could she do? Dave was the muscle and Helen had mentioned previously that she was going to a good university to be a doctor. Isabel instead trudged over to the curious things that were beside the girl. A few soda cans were on the ground. She picked one up, it felt heavy. Isabel tipped it to the side and a bit of water came out. She put it down and picked up a knife. The knife had something lumpy and strange on it. She brought it to eye level, turning and inspecting it. She turned back towards the girl in the river.

It looks like she's got quite a story.

[[Winsome Clark continued from Day of the Dove]]

The group had been walking for what seemed like forever before they finally found the river. Charlie, that was her name, the loud girl, had been making jokes and comments for most of the way. Winsome hadn't really paid much attention to them, although she'd answered when they'd asked for her name. She felt numb, closed off, like she was floating along behind them in a bubble. Words came in slow, difficult-to-understand streams, and she often didn't try to decipher them. Even the few words she had spoken, giving them her name, felt raw and wrong in her throat. Speaking wasn't okay. Speaking was how they found you.

So she drifted along behind them, wrapped in the huge sweater that she thought might be the boy's, eyes on the ground because that was where they were supposed to be, she was a good girl, she was a good person, she was good in the eyes of her God and she knew this. The dull pain in her chest was spreading, but slowly, she thought. She was not particularly hungry. She was thirsty, but didn't want to waste any more of their water than she already had. That would not be good.

And then they had heard the screaming.

She had followed, of course she had followed, because they would protect her and she knew they would protect her but the screaming cut through her, to the bone, made her whimper and then they were emerging by the water and there was a girl there, screaming, so loud it cut through Winnie's carefully constructed cage of silence and vibrated in her head and there was a smell rising, an awful smell, like the time Winnie's grandmother had leaned on the stove and burnt her arm. Charlie was shrieking something and Dave was rushing forwards and it was all suddenly busy, so very busy, colours blending into one another, shapes blurring together. She backed up a step, breathing loud in her ears, heartbeat pounding, suddenly hearing everything not wanting to hear not wanting to see the girl in the water the smell the hiss of cold on hot and she had to do something, had to do something but she didn't know what she could do.

Hurt.

The girl in the water was hurt.

When Winnie was hurt, Thea had given her a shirt. That would - that would help. Somehow. It would do. She yanked at the sweatshirt she was wearing, pulling it over her head, snagging on unhealed scabs. It came off in a jerk and she threw it at the two struggling figures by the water - hadn't meant to, but wanted to get it off her, wanted to help as fast as she could, and there it was done and now she could go back to where she was crouching hard at the base of a tree and breathing, just breathing, rebuilding her silent walls one by one.

((Helen Wilson continued from Day of the Dove))

This is your time to shine.

Odds were she was never actually going to become a doctor, Helen was fast realising this. She'd barely even made it onto the first rung of the ladder, getting accepted into a well respected pre-med course. That didn't mean that she knew anything, a basic knowledge of first aid that was from her time in the Girl Scouts rather than from medicine. In fact, as the screams wafted towards them, she was immediately filled with dread, and seconds later, regret at having told them anything. Because now she was going to have to do something.

That was what came with bragging (and that was essentially what she'd been doing, in a subtle form), eventually you had to live up to those expectations.

Still, as Dave ran forwards and got her in the stream, Helen followed him even as he called out to her. Perfect. That was just the thing to do. Run a burn in cold water for ten minutes, and out in the wilderness a stream is the best thing to do. Still, helps not to drown them, and determined to be helpful, Helen took off her shoes and clambered knee deep into the water as well, bending down a little, trying to minimise how much of her got wet but also trying to get a good look at the girl, also trying to remember who she was.

"Liz," Helen said in as confident a voice as possible, a confidence she really didn't feel at that point in time. She waved a hand in front of the girl's face, she seemed to be completely out of it. She looked up at Dave who was supporting her in the water, and spoke directly to him. "We need to keep the burnt bit in the water but her face and as much of the rest of her body as possible out of it, we don't want her getting hypothermia. Perhaps if we lift up her legs, that might bring her round, though..." she considered all this for a moment. Burns were painful, even the tiny ones she'd gotten in the past (mainly out of clumsiness around ovens and campfires and the such) had stung for days. Helen looked at Liz's closed eyes, and chewed her bottom lip.

"Though perhaps we don't want her to..." she continued after a beat. "Liz," speaking to her 'patient' again. "Liz can you open your eyes?" She wasn't responding to voice. The burn on her neck implied that she probably wouldn't be responding to pain either. What came after response. DR ABC flitted through her mind, she'd completely bypassed D for danger. Response failed. Airways came next. Helen tilted the girl's head back to open her airways then listened for B, breathing. Watched for ten seconds; she was definately breathing.

Then her mind went blank, what happened if they were breathing? You were supposed to put them in the recovery position and wait for help, but here, help wasn't going to be coming.

"She's breathing," Helen said by means of explanation. "We need to keep water running over the burn for ten minutes after this," looking closer to the burn, then at the contraption Liz had made close to the stream, her mind started whirring, and her eyes widened as she came to some realisation of what the girl was doing. "Wait.." she said incredulously, indicating the forge, then at the mangled collar and burnt neck. "Did she?"

"Liz, Liz can you open your eyes?"

Liz didn't want to open her eyes. Sleep had always been a refuge for her, one of the few. Some nights, some years, she was an insomniac, curling up sideways in bed and sweating, but when sleep came, it was rare safety, cool and dark.

It was too cold to open her eyes.

More black. More fading. She wanted everything to go away.

Wait.." Someone was holding her. A woman? Yes. It was a woman's voice. "Did she?"

Did she what?

It was dark again.

And then something hit her face. Water. It was sweet on her mouth, and too cold. Her eyelids stung to pull apart.

Flickering eyes. Everything was blurry. There was a woman holding her, someone she could vaguely recognize, but names weren't coming.

And she was put gently on the ground.

"Liz? Liz?"

Her throat hurt. What to do? She needed to cough.

Eyes wide open.

"Liz!"

And she began coughing, cupping her hand, coughing up tough mucus, curling, spasming into a ball, and her throat hurt and her throat hurt it hurt worse than it had ever hurt before and she was gasping and trying to think pain is just a message but instead her gasps were turning into weak, jerking screams.

"Hey! Hey! Up front!" Someone was snapping fingers in front of her face. Too close. Liz winced.

And things were coming back to her. Charlie DuClare was a cheerleader, nasty kid, directed a few pointed remarks at Liz. A coward. Why was she here? And Dave Morrison, asswad jock. Everything was misplaced.

Charlie DuClare was yelling at her. "What the fuck did you DO to yourself?"

Liz's head was right by a camera; she had to make sure not to swing it up to quickly. Unbroken. Great. Where was her knife? Some girl, dark-haired girl, had her knife. Near her was the ballpoint she had stolen from the house with the crimson bedroom.

Charlie DuClare. Bitch. Show her.

"This is what I did."

It came out in a strangled whisper. And she punched the pen into the security camera lens.

The reaction was immediate. Charlie DuClare jumped back and shrieked. Asshole jock began cursing. Helen Wilson's mouth (that was the doctor, yes?) fell into an O. Behind her (why hadn't she seen that there were two people behind her?) the tall, dark-haired girl frowned, and Winsome Clark went pale.

But none of this was very important, because Liz's hand hurt really, really badly now. And she was trying not to react, not to make noise again, but instead she dropped the pen and her skin drained and her hand fell limply onto a sweatshirt (sweatshirt?) which she grabbed like it was some kind of teddy bear. And everything spun around again.

A lot of people were talking. Liz felt overexposed. She wanted to put her hands over her ears, curl into a ball, and scream until everything went away. She hated moments like this. People wanted answers and she didn't have answers and she didn't have answers just aluminum and a collar and currently a lot of pain and she wanted everyone to go away and leave her alone.

Although when she thought about it logically, she realized that they'd probably saved her life, and if they went away, she'd probably die. This didn't help her comfort level.

And her stomach pulled, and suddenly she was very glad she hadn't eaten for a while, because she dry-heaved painfully, once, twice, put her hands over her ears and her thread hurt again and she didn't scream because screaming wouldn't do anything right.

Keep her knees on the sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was safe.

Charlie DuClare and Dave Morrison and Helen Wilson and Winsome Clark and Isabel Guerra were staring.

Liz choked. "What do you want?"

Maybe time to freak out now. Maaaaaybe.

Well, by some liberal definitions of the word, Charlie had already started freaking out. There was that one moment where their new friend Liz had killed a camera with a pen, which had prompted Charlie to let out an alarmed little shout, not- not a shriek, definitely not a shriek and if anyone told you that she'd shrieked then they were... wrong. It was a bit of a weird-as-fuck situation, and nobody could blame Charlie if she just decided to get the fuck out of there before something dangerous happened, but... no, she was gonna stick it out, try to keep calm. Do her best. Her friends needed her to, right?

"Umm... okay. What we want is we were just trying to get-" Wait wait wait. Before something dangerous happened. No, too late for that. New friend Liz had just killed a camera with a pen. You didn't even have to watch SotF to hear about some of the things that went down on previous runs, some of the things like Did you guys hear that some kid was going around breaking cameras like he was rebelling against the system, and then the guy who runs it all just pressed some buttons? And he just flat-out killed some kids that didn't even have anything to do with it, just to punish the guy who was breaking cameras? Huh. About that.

"Okay, wait, sorry. Before I explain, I- we- we're a little concerned about the camera-breaking, I think. I mean, if- well, since you did... something to your collar and now it's... not working anymore? You can live through it just fine if Danya pushes a button with your name on it. We don't... we don't have that luxury, is all. So if you could... not..."

Liz blinked. Liz said "sure". Liz made a face. Huh.

That was it? Sure? And, well, the hell did that face mean? What a- okay, you know what, fuck it, not worth it, just go ahead and explain so you can get everyone out of here. They're all (probably?) relying on you to get them out of here, so this was not a time to get carried away. Not a time to wonder if a word and a face meant something bad, meant something nasty, meant something worth starting a fight over.

"Uh. Okay. Right. So all we were doing was we were trying to make it to the river, trying to get ourselves clean after, what is it, four days now here. Then all of a sudden I hear this screaming so we go decide to check it out and we-" Wait. Oh. Oh. Oh God. The face, the one word. That's what it- oh God. Oh no no no.

It hurt for Liz to talk, didn't it? Her neck looked like it'd been stuck in an oven so her throat must- oh God, how bad did it have to hurt just for Liz to gargle out a sure? You poor thing you- you big stupid fucking poor thing, why didn't you just nod! Nodding is even less words or- or if it hurts to even move your neck, just give a thumbs up! You don't need to fucking kill yourself just to say yes!

Don't say of that, Charlie. Don't ever ever say any of that. Instead:

"Okay. Liz, what's important is... we're not gonna hurt you. We're gonna help you whatever way we can, okay?" Kinder tone, gentler tone. Less shouty, less exaggerated. Not one she was that used to, but eh, whatever. "We, uh... we found you right by the river, and we... we thought you could use some help. That's Helen, she's our med student and she's the one who actually knows what she's doing and I think you... you maybe owe your life to here. And there's Dave, he was the one with the idea to dunk you in the water, so- so God knows he helped out a lot too. And that's Winsome, she gave you the sweatshirt, and... well, I think you and the sweatshirt are getting along pretty well already."

A little smile. A subtle implication that maybe the people just named deserved a bit of thanks. So why wasn't Charlie on the list? She'd been the one that had first heard Liz, she was the reason they all found her to begin with, right? So she maybe deserved a share of the gratitude, yeah? Weeeeeeeell, fuck that. For one, putting herself on the list would mean that Isabel would be the only one not on. The only one who hadn't helped. All alone. And Isabel did. Not. Need. To feel all alone right now.

And for two, Charlie didn't really feel like she needed any thanks right now. She kinda felt pretty good about herself anyway.

"Sure." She croaked. And, oh God, her throat hurt.

Burns. You burnt your throat. It looks like it's been put in an oven.

So maybe talking wasn't the best idea.

"Uh. Okay. Right. So all we were doing was we were trying to make it to the river, trying to get ourselves clean after, what is it, four days now here."

Ugh. Charlie was talking so loud. Liz wanted to cover her ears; the cheerleader's voice was grating. Instead she let a piece of hair drop over her eyes so the other girl couldn't see she'd closed them.

"Then all of a sudden I hear this screaming so we go decide to check it out and we-"

Charlie cut herself off mid-sentence.

"Okay. Liz, what's important is…"

The cheerleader was speaking in a more reasonable tone of voice now. Somehow this made Liz's shoulders untense.

"We're not gonna hurt you. We're gonna help you whatever way we can, okay?"

Was Charlie being honest? Liz hoped the cheerleader was being honest. There was no way she could defend herself. That said, someone had saved her life. That had to count for something.

"We, uh... we found you right by the river, and we... we thought you could use some help. That's Helen, she's our med student and she's the one who actually knows what she's doing and I think you... you maybe owe your life to here. And there's Dave, he was the one with the idea to dunk you in the water, so- so God knows he helped out a lot too. And that's Winsome, she gave you the sweatshirt, and... well, I think you and the sweatshirt are getting along pretty well already."

So. Dave had saved her. Helen had doctored her. And Winsome had given her the sweatshirt.

Hunh.

Maybe people turn nicer on the island?

That seemed like an incredibly poor assumption to make.

Breathe, Liz. Breathing was hard. Breathing stung. Breathing made her throat rattle and catch, and made her want to cough up more black mucus, but no, no, that was more painful. She kept her breaths shallow, nervous. It was easier that way.

She made the motion for pen and paper.

It was Isabel Guerra, the tall girl, who gave her the pad from the crimson bedroom. The pen was in her hand. She had forgotten about it, when Charlie was talking. The tip was slightly smashed, but it would do.

She picked up the pen. Even her hand felt weak. Burnt too. She didn't know if you were supposed to bandage burns.

THANK YOU, she wrote.

She pointed it at Charlie.

Charlie frowned, and pointed at the three who she said deserved thanks. Dave, Helen and Winsome.

Liz obediently pointed the message at Dave, Helen and Winsome.

Then she began to scribble. The the others gathered around. Liz was very glad she could fix her eyes on the pad.

I AM GOING TO WRITE DOWN HOW TO TURN THE COLLARS INTO FARADAY CAGES.

IT'S PROBABLY PRETTY OBVIOUS, BUT IF YOU GUYS WOULD SHOW OTHER PEOPLE, THAT WOULD BE GREAT.

ALSO, IT PROBABLY WORKS BETTER WITH A PARTNER. I WAS STUPID.

IS THAT OKAY?

There was a long silence. Liz didn't know how to break it. The people who had rescued her were looking at each other. There was some eyebrow raising going on. Interpretation was difficult.

Finally Dave leaned in, and spoke slowly. "Hey, see, that fucked you up so no thanks to that, but if you need someone to stop people killing you, I guess I could lend a hand."

Liz bit her lip. She was probably supposed to be grateful.

And after a moment she was, surprising herself. She wasn't sure she trusted Dave, but she had been fairly certain no one would stay with her while she recovered. The terrorists were smart, and murderous, and Liz, it was probably obvious, had zero idea how the game went from here.

No. She had one idea how the game went.

I NEED TO GO TO THE TUNNELS.

IF I GET THERE I CAN SMASH THE RADIO RELAYS INSIDE AND THE UNDERGROUND AREAS WILL BE SAFE TO USE.

She swallowed. It hurt. This was a risk. Telling people where she was going could backfire.

On the other hand, they could help her. A large group would be safe, maybe. And she would be defenseless alone.

Her hand went to her neck instinctively. There was nothing she liked about being defenseless.

Helpless. Stupid girl.

She would raid corpses on the way. Maybe find a gun she could use. Again, she had no supplies. Only Cyrille's tank top.

Great.

One more thing to write. Bent down over the pad. Kept her hair over her eyes.

I WON'T SMASH CAMERAS WHILE I'M WITH YOU, UNTIL YOU ASK ME TO, IF YOU ASK ME TO. OKAY?

((Sorry about how long it's taken D:))

Dave pulled the girl out of the water and set her down by the riverbank, before himself climbing out of the river. He was soaked to the skin- as to be expected, really- and breathing heavy, but he'd be fine. The girl they'd have to worry about.

"Collar shit?" He leant in to Liz's notepad. "Hey, see, that fucked you up so no thanks to that, but if you need someone to stop people killing you, I guess I could lend a hand."

Okay? Dave nodded in agreement, he was up for th-

The intercom blared, but, instead of that douchebag Danya, it was... Mr. Kwong? The Math teacher? Why the fuck was he talking to them? Oh God, and he'd just put out a bounty on the very girl he was standing over. Great. Just his fucking luck, huh? Oh, and anyone who helped her would have their head relieved from their shoulders. Amazing. That'd have been good to know before he threw her into the river, thanks.

Oh shit and they'd talked about being told her plan by pad causing explosions and sending people to kill them and shit that was what she was doing right that very second. They had to get out of there before they exploded or the "bounty hunters" started showing up.

"Er, scratch what I said earlier... This is some shit you've gotten us into, Lizzy." Dave looked down at her, writing and stuff. "Now, to be honest, I'm gonna pass on the whole "Kill Liz and recieve a fantastic prize" deal, but sorry, I'm not gonna stick my neck out to protect yours."

He felt just a little bit like a douchebag after that, though.

"Best of luck, though." Dave reached into his pocket, pulled out his kitchen knife. Dropped it beside Liz. She was sat there, white as a sheet. "Oh, and, uh, keep the sweater."

Isabel looked down at the paper, then back up at the girl. A quick glance around the group, down at the paper, back to the girl. She closed her eyes and shook her head. She stood up, taking two slow steps back, head still shaking.

The terrorists are going to get her. If they weren't one hundred percent sure of what she'd done before, they sure know now that she's smashed a camera with no consequence. They're going to be out for her blood. I've seen this show, Danya isn't a good loser. There's nothing to stop him from sending five heavily armed guys to the island, having them walk right up to Liz and shoot her in the head to take out a possible hiccup in his game.

And just like that the speakers screeched and the voice of a man who wasn't Danya came on. She looked up and listened. When the announcement was over she closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, opening them to look at the group.

"…..well that was a bit much."

He had said pretty much all that she thought he would say, though the hunting down of allies and the random explosion of collars was unexpected. They had covered all their bases and so swiftly crushed Liz's plan that Isabel almost gave them a slow clap. Isabel looked away from Liz, she wasn't looking at anything in particular, but she couldn't look at the girl. It was difficult to look at someone who had had their hourglass turned upside down and was running down to the last grains of sand. She was dead alive, and if someone didn't kill her soon, Danya would do it himself. Isabel heaved a heavy sigh and looked down at Liz's shoes, still not at her.

"You had to have expected that, though. You spat in the face of dangerous people and you couldn't think that they weren't going to retaliate."

Isabel walked back to where she had left her bag. She opened it up and stuck her hand inside. Next to the bag was the knife, the knife she had dropped that belonged to the girl. A special prize to anyone who killed her, and she was as good as dead anyway. The thought crossed her mind briefly. Her hand found metal and she pulled it up, close to her.

Carefully, steadily, she walked back to Liz.

"Sorry."

She dropped a tin of crackers in her lap. Isabel couldn't kill someone for trying to escape a bad situation, but she also couldn't stay with someone who was clearly done for. Still, she felt bad and giving her something helped assuage the guilt.

"But, I can't stay with you. Take this; you'll need it more than I will."

She turned and walked back towards her things, picked up her bag, but turned suddenly.

"I hope I see you again. I really do."

((Isabel Guerra continued in The House of the Rising Sun ))

She kept waiting for them to come. The words. The very specific very awful words that were about to come- they were about to come, right? Something along the lines of And for those currently with Ms. Polanski, you have two options. Either you kill her right here and now and receive your reward, or I blow your collars for collaborating with her. Maybe that. That would be bad. Maybe And for those currently with Ms. Polanski, you have already collaborated with her by saving her life. I will be commencing the punishment now. That would be worse. So which one was it going to be? Was it- well, no, was that really gonna be worse than... well, think about it this way, she wasn't gonna kill Liz even if ordered to so it'd just be the same as- but could she maybe count on someone else in the group to, like who could maybe- oh fuck Jesus no she wasn't really thinking that like how could she even, fuck, no, that way would definitely be just as bad because fuck, it's-

The words never came.

Instead there was just this little reminder that if Liz stayed at large for a while and if Charlie and the rest stayed with her throughout all that time then maybe Danya would send some men to kill them. So if they all just said goodbye to Liz then they'd be fine right? It was- it would be okay, things would be that okay. Danya wasn't gonna get spiteful on them, Danya was gonna let them all live even though they'd help throw a huge hole into his game. Charlie felt a little... no, not grateful. Desperate as she was for a few more moments of peace, she wasn't gonna let herself be grateful to Danya. But... relieved. That was it. Relieved.

Was that a bad thing?

It probably was. It was probably a very very bad thing that this girl right next to her this girl who hadn't done anything wrong she had a death on her conscience now and she had Danya talking about how he was gonna send men to kill her and Charlie's biggest thought was Well that's a relief. It was probably a very bad thing and a very shameful thing and she probably ought to be feeling some guilt right now. For shame, Charlie, for shame. Where is your guilt, where is your shame, where is your head bent low and your hands folded all contrite all ready to make amends for your awful crime.

To be honest? Charlie was having a pretty hard time feeling guilty about it. Still too much relief.

So maybe later.

For now, it was... yeah, Isabel was already leaving, they were already leaving. That sorta went without saying. It'd be nice to stay, maybe, if there wasn't the bounty on her head. It'd be- Charlie would've kinda liked that, even if it meant making their group even larger and harder to manage. Liz was a fucking weirdo, so Charlie's track record on the island so far meant that they'd have become fast friends. Little flashes in her mind's eye: Charlie defending Liz from some bully by slinging a stream of horrible nasty words their way. Charlie working up the courage to ask Liz for help with her science homework. And a hug.

Those never happened. Those won't happen. Oh well.

So it was time to leave. And from the looks of it, time to toss some parting gifts to Liz. Tiny little things that were definitely not gonna be of any use once trained men with big guns started coming after her. And after all, it was- oh, here's the guilt. Good timing. Really really good timing, so... yeah, Charlie was gonna leave her something too. Opened up her bag. Wondered what would seem the most heartfelt.

The mirror. The little handheld mirror that was her weapon, that was her first and only line of defense against bad scary men, that wasn't the shiny gun she'd wanted but was her weapon anyway. Give that to Liz. Make a little speech about how you can't do shit with it, but Liz, wow, she's such a fucking MacGyver that within ten minutes of getting her hands on it, she'll set up some Morse code lasers to alert satellites to our presence and get a space shuttle to land on this island and rescue us all. Give her a shy little smile at the end, implying that you're being kinda goofy but you're also kinda worried for her and you also secretly do hope that she gets us all rescued. Somehow.

So Charlie did... she did part of that. There was a little mirror at Liz's feet right now, maybe she'd notice it and maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she'd pick it up after Charlie and the others were gone and maybe she'd do something with it, maybe she'd get just enough use out of it to throw another wrench or two in Danya's game. So the mirror was there, the gift was there, the thought was there. But the little speech and the little smile and the little bit of encouragement when Lord knows Liz needed some? But the words?

The words never came.

(Charlie DuClare continued elsewhere)

"After all, we wouldn't want anybody refusing to play ball, would we? "

Liz had never heard Mr. Kwong be sarcastic before.

He's alive. He's alive. I thought they'd killed him. Why is he alive?

She was frozen, pen down, perfectly white.

"…should anybody successfully kill Liz Polanski, they will immediately be awarded a weapon from our very own stash of best kill prizes as a bounty. Miss Polanski. If you instruct anybody, verbally or by any other method, in your techniques, we will immediately detonate their collar. If we see you persisting in trying to break our rules, we will detonate collars at random. If you remain at large, we will send in a team to hunt you and anybody found to be allied with you down."

Why did they keep him alive?

"We may also-" Mr. Kwong faltered. "We may also see fit to eliminate your beloved teacher."

Liz's neck felt weak. She dropped her head to her knees. No, no, no, no.
Danya was apparently effective in his terrorism. Why do they have him? Why do they-why do they-why do they--

Liz hated when her thoughts interrupted themselves like that. It was Mr. Kwong, of course, who had taught her how to manage it. Count factorials--start at eleven--or no, powers of three--

"It has also come to our attention that Miss Polanski has recklessly destroyed one of our cameras, as a punishment, we will now detonate a collar," there was an indistinct murmur across the PA. When Kwong spoke again, he sounded horrified. "What!? No! I - you can't make me-"

Don't! Liz tried to yell. It came out as a choked whisper. No intelligible sound. And pain. I'll stop--I'll stop--don't hurt him--please--

There was a thud over the loudspeaker. Liz dry-heaved.

"I... I will be commencing this punishment now," a second of silence. Mr. Kwong's voice was pained. "B148, Daisuke Nagazawa, eliminated."

Boom, Liz thought. And somewhere, someone's collar exploded.

This is your teacher, Kwong Lei, signing off. Kids I believe in-!"

And the cutoff.

Kids, I believe in--

An echo, pounding at her forehead. Liz, I believe in you. He had said that so many times. So many times. Liz, I believe in you. I would never give you a problem you could not solve. Liz, you're brilliant. These universities don't know what they're getting. Liz!

She was holding her forehead, squeezing it to get the sound out. Her face felt drained.

And there were people around her. They had saved her. Go away, go away, go away!

"Er, scratch what I said earlier... This is some shit you've gotten us into, Lizzy." It was Dave, the big football player, looking down at her. "Now, to be honest, I'm gonna pass on the whole 'Kill Liz and recieve a fantastic prize' deal, but sorry, I'm not gonna stick my neck out to protect yours."

Not going to stick out my neck out to protect yours. Liz gulped. She hadn't thought of people trying to protect her. You're a douchebag, please leave.

He dropped something beside her. Something heavy. A knife. Said some words. She could keep the sweater, apparently. Good. It was less noticeable than Cyrille's red hoodie.

Isabel Guerra, the big Spanish girl, was next. "Sorry." She looked pained. "But I can't stay with you. Take this. You'll need it more than I will."

She dropped a tin of crackers by Liz's lap.

And Charlie, the cheerleader, dropped a mirror.

Liz picked it up. I can use it to look around corners, I guess.

Their expressions were funereal. Ugh. Go away, go away, go away. Too much human emotion around her. She needed to think.

Dave dragged Winnie away. Charlie and Isabel left droopily. Helen Wilson was the last to go; Liz had to look at her and mouth "please leave" before she took the hint.

Heart pounding, echoing the trees. Her throat had never hurt so much. Her rescuer's steps faded, obscured. Liz watched them gone, eyes focusing till it hurt. Go, go, go. Go. Please go.

And then they were gone. Liz's head could stop pounding now. The message--she could remember most of the message. She went through the contents, word by word, line by line.

I would never give you a problem you could not solve.

If she could think of it as a problem, she could solve it.

This meant she had to figure out what solving it entailed.

I want to escape, and to live.

That had been her old goal. Now, with third-degree burns on her throat and a bounty on her head, it seemed far-fetched. And, to be honest, it seemed tiny. If Danya had decided she was enough of a threat to pull out blackmail, a math teacher, and a new announcement for her, presumably he thought she was more of a threat than a single escapee would warrant.

I want Danya to lose the game.

It was true. She hadn't cared about Danya until just now; he had been a deterrent to her goals, not a human, not an opponent.

Now she hated him.

It was a game for him. For her, it was more than variables. It was her body, her life. Mr. Kwong, his life. For the first time in her life, she understood what people meant when they called someone 'callous'.

And Danya knew that. That's why he had used Mr. Kwong on her. For her, it was more than variables.

Then make it variables.

A game would be comfortable. Liz Polanski was unfortunate in real life. But she rarely lost games.

So what did Danya want out of this game?

He wants us to all kill each other, until there's only one of us left, for the entertainment of television viewers everywhere.

He lost if the game stopped being entertaining, if the terrorists lost control of the island, or if more than one person survived.

Liz closed her eyes. It was hard to breathe now. Thinking analytically was important. Thinking emotionally would kill her.

What the hell is Danya doing?

He wanted control of her. She had something--powers, information--and he wanted control of it. And it was important enough to him that he made a special announcement, offered bribes, revived a math teacher, and began detonating collars in order to establish that control.

Must suck for him. Detonating collars. One less unit of entertainment value.

She stored that thought away for later. Concentrated on breathing. Eyes still shut. Powers of six, now.

What is Danya assuming?

He was assuming that she was benevolent. That she didn't want collars detonated. He was assuming that she was benevolent. That she cared about Mr. Kwong dying. He was assuming that self-preservation was her secondary goal. There's probably a reason for that. He was assuming that she would and wouldn't do certain things.

He wants to scare me as hard as he can. He wants to trap me with my own personality.

There were math problems, Liz's favorite kind, where if you looked at them one way, they seemed impossible. Unsolvable. Nada. Zip. It was only when you played with the assumptions, did something clever, thought of (-cotx cscx) as dy/dx (cscx) or cotx as 1/tanx, that suddenly the problem came clear, easy, slippery, solvable. Liz's mind lived on those problems.

And this was one of them.

He lost if the game stopped being entertaining, if the terrorists lost control of the island, or if more than one person survived.

Easy. Easy. Easy, easy, easy.

She picked up her pen, the one she had dropped when Mr. Kwong's voice had come on the loudspeakers. Rubbed it painfully with her fingers.

If you let emotion get involved now, you lose.

Picked up the pad. She couldn't stop herself from writing slowly.

MR. DANYA, I THINK YOU'VE JUST GIVEN ME A WAY TO WIN YOUR GAME.

(Liz Polanski continued in another thread)

SHIT. Shit, fuck, shit.

Helen's blood ran cold. That was Liz being outed over the tannoy, that was their Math teacher telling them to kill her and be rewarded with a shiny new weapon. Shit. She reckoned a free ticket home would be a more effective incentive for killing her, if that were the case Helen doubted that she would be able to stop herself. Clearly Danya didn't quite have them pinned down; if he wanted her dead that badly he should give them what they really wanted, and that was escape.

They had to get away from her. Helen had no desire for a fancy bazooka or whatever the going weapon might be, despite her poor draw, but she had even less desire to be killed for helping her out. But she couldn't leave, Liz was her patient, God only knew the full effects of the burn. But what could she do?

Perhaps if one of the others were going to help Liz out too she might have gone with them. But just her, and a girl she hardly knew with a price on her head? However much she wanted to disable her collar and somehow get home free, somewhere in the deepest recesses of her heart she knew it wasn't going to happen.

Also, what happened once you were free of a collar?

Sure, it meant that they could no longer blow your head to smithereens. It meant you could hide out in a danger zone. But, at the end of the day, they were all still stuck on an island that the authorities seemed to be unable to find, and Helen knew that Danya had no shortage of armed buffoons to come and kill any dissidents if the student body didn't do it for them. Hadn't that happened last time? The game wasn't as infallible as they thought it was. Countless times over the last couple of years, Helen had considered looking it up on the internet; ways to disable a collar, how to survive Survival of the Fittest. You know, just in case. But she never did. And now she was regretting it.

Ten minutes of her time, that's all it would have taken.

Dave, Charlie, Isabel, they were making their excuses, leaving the area. They were right, of course, the longer they stayed here with none of the cameras on them the more likely they were to get their heads exploded. Helen's fingers fluttered to her collar as she dithered. I want to stay. But I can't. I just can't. Liz was looking at her, mouthing, pointing after the others. Helen nodded, some kind of mark of solidarity. She didn't have anything to give her, her drawn weapon was beyond useless in this situation, drawing attention to herself with a glowstick was probably the last thing that Liz needed.

You know where she is going. You know her plan. You can meet up with her later.

Her plan was set in mind. Let Liz go and set things up in the tunnels. Accidentally on purpose wander back there again later, the tunnels were where she's started so she knew where they were, Helen felt that she had a pretty good hold on the layout of the island now. God knew she'd walked across the lower part of it enough times now. Turning to walk away, Helen paused and turned back to Liz, eyes shining with a thin film of guilt.

"If I were you," she said in a soft voice. "I would stick to the danger zones as much as possible. No one else will be able to get you there, and it's pretty much the only way you'll be safe until someone rescues us." Positive thinking, that's the way forwards. The others were getting away, Helen picked up her bag from where she'd dumped it, and chased after them.

((Helen Wilson continued in House of the Rising Sun))