Survival Of The Fittest

((Permission from Clubelle to post this two-shot. This does not count towards the thread limit. Permission also given from ZombiexCreame to GM Tim.))

((Colin Falcone continued from Bloodgarden.))

Colin fled. His attack had been a success. For a few brief and shining moments, he felt atop the world. The pain was but a dull ache upon his stomach, his arm, and his knee. The limp he now carried slowed him considerably, but Brook did not appear to be following. His arm was useless, for upon attempting to use it, it would not respond. Why did he feel sorrow for the appendage? It was not for his health, but for the song that flowed within him. His skill, his art, would never grace human ears again. Even if Brook had not committed his heinous act, not a soul would hear the strums of his guitar. He had known somewhere in his heart that he would never see a mainland again. That he would die somewhere on this island.

Heck. He may have acknowledged it.

He could never have been prepared for it.

Slowly, as he aimlessly limped, the pain began to return. At first slowly, it soon became too much to bear. To stand was too much to ask, yet on he pressed. He knew not where he was going, nor why he was. He just, somewhere in his mind, knew that he couldn't rest yet. That it wasn't time. His mind was conflicted however, as he felt his shirt; rather what remained of it, snag upon a tree. His body jerked, a soft ripping of fabric reaching his ears. Off balance, Colin stumbled to and fro, a strange game of pong between the trees as he attempted to find the balance that would never be found again. Each tree left another mark. A scrape, a splinter, just a throbbing palm. But with each one, he pushed himself with more fervor. His left arm hung by his side, widly flailing as his body's weight led him stalwart to the north. His vision melted to gray, the forest before him slowly becoming fuzzy.

Yet without a hint of warning, something of a beauty from the works of Homer opened before him. A clearing, a view to the ocean. Vivid beauty, glimmers of a fresh dawn's light bouncing off of the colors his mind could not comprehend. This one picture, as the trees broke, the slight tinges of color that he could still percieve, the reflection of a rising sun over a westward sea. This was the natural beauty he had wished to see once more.

That and the beauty of one certain man.

But before he could even complete his thought, before he could spend a moment to take in the scene, he felt his body falling. The cool, salty air rushed about him, his skin tingling at the sudden rush. His eyes closed, as he refused to watch the ground go closer.

His body gave way to relaxation, things important for life beginning to shut down.

And with a thud he did not hear, and a pain he did not feel, his body landed in the beach grass, upon the dunes, with only a few feet between himself and the sea.


To his own surprise, his eyes opened yet again. Was this heaven? Was there truly a God that he had forsaken? In awe, he stared at the grays and whites of the clear sky above him. Completely unable to focus, his mind was nothing but a string, tossed about by the waves.

It took only a few moments for pain to return to his body. His knee throbbed with a fire he before thought impossible. Nearly as bad as when he was initially shot, his ability to move destroyed by Brook's singular instrument of malice and death. His sides were next, as the dull pain rolled with an almost surreal quality to it up his body. A sharp spike, reminding him of what he had felt a few hours before. The pain continued to return, toes to tip of the head, from his shoulder down to the wound on the arm becoming alight. His lower arm felt nothing, and by this point had become a sickly shade of green that he could not see. The world before him was a blur, as he strained with every fiber of his being to look before him. Back into that sea. Back into that beautiful, tropical sky.

But his efforts were interrupted. A crackling that he had heard so many times before in his dreams since his arrival here. But it sounded so far away. The PA. Heralding the voice of Danya.

Surely a just God could not let such a man, such a memory taunt one so. Perhaps he laid in hell. Or perhaps by some miracle, he had awoken with one final chance. One last opportunity to speak.

And as he strained to listen to Danya's words, as if he were underwater, he heard a few names that he recognized. He heard the name of the man who had inflicted these wounds upon him. He heard the names of those in which he once held a passing interest.

But the name of the one man he cared about right now was not present. A small smile cracked across the dying boy's lips. His dry, chapped lips opened, much to the chagrin of every nerve and receptor of pain upon his entire body.

"Good… He made it out alive."

A cough was elicited, and something warm began to dribble down his chin. Without even being able to look down, without the ability to wipe it and raise it to his eyes, he knew in his heart what it was. It was blood.

His breathing was labored. And slow. For the past few minutes he had been hearing a voice, seemingly hundreds of miles away. But suddenly, something crossed his vision. A face, one with features he couldn't quite identify. But even in death, with his systems failing, he could still recognize his best friend.

"Tim..."

His voice was so weak, and each time he spoke, it made his entire chest burn as if the sun itself was trying to break free. Realization came upon him, all at once. He could see the ocean… He was leaned upon a tree. His friend had found him in his final hour, and done all that he could. It was because of his friend that he could watch the ocean fade away, as he floated towards a choir invisible.

The greatest, and only gift he could have asked for. His best friend by his side… And true beauty before him.

He knew that his time was fading. His life was washing away. He had one final moment, one final show. He didn't want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to see his parents once again. So many wants, so many desires, so many things he had resigned himself to never see again. But upon the beach, the words he sang rang true still. He was meant for the stage.

And Colin would be damned if Danya could stop him; even in death.

And so his mouth opened, one final show. The encore beyond the curtain's call. His final show, to an audience of the entire world. Every single eye in America was on him. His voice was but a whisper, but Danya would easily meld the audio of the camera in the Oak upon which he lie, with the visual of the camera hidden in the dune before him. Every word would be heard.

"Sea salt tears... Swimming round as the rain falls down."

There had been so many choices. But his time was little to few. He had to choose one song... One song to speak to his mother. To his father. To his friends, to his family. To anyone who cared, to anyone who would listen. He had one final shot. He had to make it a doozy.

And somewhere in St. Paul, a couple huddled around their Television, the small box radiating an image similar to the one Colin could perceive. The old 60's television that Colin had loved to watch as a child would be the one to show his demise. To a pair of parents, who had not been able to dry their tears for hours.

"Mister post man...

The cough he had tried to hold in made it's way through. He ignored the interruption however, and pressed onward. He would not be denied his final encore. The one song that would bring his life full circle.

Do you have a letter for me?"

Each and every single letter was a strain. It hurt more and more to continue. But he stayed true. He had to finish... Danya would not deny him his pride. Brook would not deny him himself.

His mother's lips pursed. A soft, beautiful voice, which had not sung in 13 years, echoed through the otherwise silent room. The voice of mother and son, joining to create a harmony, the beauty of which would never be matched again as his soul left the mortal coil. One last opportunity to sing with her baby boy. One final chance to say goodbye. She knew exactly what he was doing. And her husband stood in awe and horror, watching his only son, the son he could never hold in his arms again, tell that he loved, apologize for all the berating and pain... Watch as he passed on. So many regrets. If only he had listened to his son sing... The beautiful sound he had finally heard echo from his speakers four days before... Maybe he would still be alive.

"Mister post man, do you have a letter for me?"
"A letter for me..."
"From my own true love... lost at sea."
"Lost. At. Sea."

The final words were barely a whisper. Even a microphone as sensitive as the ones the organization could afford could not pick up.

A mother wept, heaving sobs. Tears rolling from her cheeks, as those of her first born finally dried.

A friend, his arms wrapping around a dying boy. A final feeling, of warmth and comfort. A soft, heavenly noise echoed through the mind of Colin Falcone. The trumpets of the angels welcoming him from his pain, freedom.

His physical body left behind, a final drop of blood rolling from his maw. A final message left for his friend that he did not order. That Colin's conscious mind was already in the great beyond. Yet still, with his final throes of life, without having the mind or the power himself to do, he said a final word to his friend. A group of words in fact. One that he had once vowed never to say. For petty fear, for fear of embarassment. Even death could not keep this fact from his friend.

Carried on a whisper, the air slowly flowing from his lungs upon his passing. Too soft for anyone but the man, passing his last comforts to hear.

"Tim... Love... Yo...u..."

B018 - Colin Falcone: Deceased.

((Timothy Questiare continued from Stay Frosty))

It had all happened so fast. Even Tim wasn't sure what had happened and what had led to him being... here. Here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and God knows what else? Probably bodies and killers and not Colin. Tim had searched for his best friend for hours... hours and hours. A few times, he almost felt like breaking down and sobbing, but he stayed strong. It would be okay, Colin was fine. His name hadn't appeared in any announcements or anything. Everything would be just cool. Not knowing that Colin had previously though the same thing, Tim was tempted to pull out his cell phone and shoot his friend a text, but... Oh, right. No reception... Bummer.

Tim realized he was lucky as hell to have met up with Colin to begin with. He could only assume that most people on this island have spent most of their days searching for their friends and girlfriends or boyfriends... Many of them died without even seeing them for a final time, but Tim? Tim was so lucky. He had Colin since the very beginning; the two of them located each other whilst fumbling around in the darkness of the tunnels. It was such a miracle.

And now Colin was lost. Tim tried to recall what had happened in such a short amount of time... The two strode off to go find Jacob. But where had Jacob gone? That's right. He went to find his bag. Colin ran ahead to find the house where Jacob had entered, and Tim stayed back... He rubbed his head, the details becoming blurry... He felt stupid. Why hadn't he just stuck with Colin? Why had he run like a little baby? And that's where it ended. Colin motioned at him to follow, but shortly thereafter, gunshots had rang through the still air. And just like Victoria ditched Alice, Tim ditched Colin, but only assuming he would soon follow!

He wasn't a ditcher. He didn't leave Colin because he wanted to, but... Fuck, he was stupid. Tim had a GUN, Colin had nothing! For Christ's sakes, Colin was probably dead, and Tim would feel completely at fault. "I really hope I find him soon..." He had returned to the town center several hours after the fact, but Colin was long gone, Tim would have to assume. And now he was here in some wood, wandering around helplessly. He hadn't run into anyone, but he only wanted to see Colin or maybe Jacob right now.. Anyone would ease his worry and paranoia. His guilt.. mostly guilt. "Please Colin... Please show up.. I want to apologize, like, a billion times!" He squeezed his eyes shut and small pricks of tears appeared in the corner, but he quickly willed them away. He didn't want anyone to see him cry over someone that was probably alive and well.

Tim took a deep breath. He could do this. His classmates had no problem with searching the island for their closest friends, so Tim could do it too. He had a gun, he would be okay. Pulling out the gun from his waistband, he held it tightly as a comfort, moving through the ever-darkening wood. "...Colin?" he pathetically whispered out, almost positive that he would never see the lovable Colin again. He had been given a chance to stick with Colin, and he honestly just threw it away. Maybe he didn't deserve to be by Colin's side, he was too good.

Tim kept walking, never letting his feet slow for a moment. The sound of rushing waves met his ears, and a salty smell entered his nose, causing Tim to perk up for a moment. It was familiar, and he was reminded of when he and Colin made camp on the beach a few days ago... They had saved Jacob. The ocean was so pretty, and for awhile, Tim didn't want to leave. But right there, there at the edge of the wood, was the edge of the ocean... Beautiful and shimmering. It was true naturalism at its finest: nature didn't care if people were getting slaughtered, kids were being tortured, people were being blown up because they placed one toe in the wrong locale... Nature only did what it did best: be beautiful. He let his pace slow for a moment as he watched the water rush to shore, the sight of birds fluttering in the pleasant breeze. Tim wanted to stay here, but something caught his attention at the corner of his eye.

There was a figure, and Tim slowly looked over, but he didn't recognize the person at first. At first, he thought it was just another student. But... he was so rough-looking! Some part of Tim was able to feign delirium and pretend that this person was not Colin. This wasn't Colin, it was just another of his classmates, beaten and disheveled, obviously on the verge of death... Not Colin. Definitely not Colin. Tim should just turn around and leave now, but he couldn't. His teeth pressed into his bottom lip, and he took a small step towards the boy. The boy that might... possibly... be Colin.

Christ, what had happened?

Shot, stabbed, beaten, broken... It looked nothing like him. Tim had just been separated from him for a short while, right? How could he look like this? How?! His face was bruised, and his nose appeared broken. His shirt was ripped and bloodied, several wounds were apparent on his torso, although Tim could barely see the stab marks himself, just mere glimpses of them through Colin's ratty shirt. His knee was bloodied, his arm hung uselessly... Tim's mouth gaped. His tongue felt dry. Guilt POURED into his guts, a heart hammering painfully in his chest. Bah-bum. Bah-bum. It was all he could hear.

The body that might have been Colin fell to the ground, and this was the only thing that tore Tim from his little moment of absolute shock. He covered his mouth for just a moment, took a shuttering breath, and darted forward, immediately running to Colin's side. After a closer examination, Tim was forced to admit that, yes, this boy was indeed Colin Falcone. And yes, indeed, he may not even wake up again. It was all Tim's fault, he should have been there for his best friend! Why had he been so stupid?

Slowly and carefully, Tim lifted Colin and brought him over to a nearby tree, carefully placing him at the foot of it, his head resting upon the soft bark. There was so much blood, so many entrance wounds that Tim wasn't sure where to begin or what to do. What fucker had possibly done this to poor Colin?! How could someone have tore into Colin so viciously! He hadn't hurt a fly! ...Except maybe Tony, but that was just self-defense and a life-ending favor. This was... this wasn't... This was just plain cruel.

Pulling a spare shirt from his bag, Tim used it to carefully sop up the blood from Colin's face and then used it to cover his knee. He had been shot there. That much was obvious. Shuttering, Tim looked away, his whole body shaking violently. He didn't exactly have a blood-phobia but looking at all of this blood was making him feel seriously ill. Christ, what could he do?!



The announcements played but Tim barely listened. All of his focus and attention was on Colin, trying to patch him up and keep him comfortable. Some small part of him was trying to convince himself that if he tried hard enough, Colin would be okay. He would get through this, his wounds weren't that bad, right? He would be alive, just in a bit of pain. Tim would take care of Colin, he could protect him. Colin would live, it was so obvious.

When Colin awoke, he coughed blood and spoke Tim's name. Tim tried to ignore the blood, but he was positive that blood-spittle was not a good sign. Carefully holding onto Colin's hand, he gave it the lightest squeeze possible and smiled at him. "Colin... I'm here, alright? Everything's going to be okay." He went on and continued to lie to Colin, telling him false pleasantries, such as, "Your wounds don't look fatal" and "Just rest and you'll feel better," but Tim was sure that Colin knew at heart that he wasn't okay. And Tim at heart also knew the same thing, but he didn't want to admit it. Not now. Not when Colin was breathing and blinking and talking right in front of him.

Tim wanted to interrogate his dying friend. He wanted to ask him who did this to him, and once he found out, he would kill that pathetic bastard. He knew that revenge was wrong, but he was so over morals and values. This was Survival of the Fucking Fittest, and if he wanted to get revenge on someone who hurt Colin so badly, he could sure as hell do it! Anger pulsed through his veins, anger and sadness. He wanted to make someone pay for this!

But he didn't because Colin was singing. And if Colin was singing, Tim would listen, his mind focused on nothing else except the melody of his best friend's voice. But this was not just some song.. It was.. Tears came to Tim's eyes, and he quickly wiped them, because this was the very first song Tim had heard Colin sing when they first met. Back at the Cafe, the two of them sipping coffee and talking about some band they would start, and Tim would play the tambourines. And he did! For three shows, at least. He had fun, but that was beyond the point.

The point was, this song... was the first song he'd ever heard Colin sing, and the last song he would ever hear Colin sing.

He embraced Colin in his final moments, even when the song was over, even when Colin's breath was so labored and ragged, only to be heard for a few more moments. Tim couldn't deny that the end was coming, that he would soon lose the closest friend that he had at the moment, the only one who would ever understand what he had gone through. Colin whispered three final words and was gone, the air gone from his body.

And Tim didn't blush with embarrassment or shake with the shock of death. Instead, he whispered, "I.. love you too, man," and pressed a brief kiss on the cheek of his dead friend.

Tim sat with Colin's body for hours, embraced with a stiff corpse that was dead and rotting, but he couldn't leave. Not now. Not yet.


((Timothy Questiare continued in Lonely American Nights))

(Topic concluded)