Survival Of The Fittest

((Harun Kemal continued from Keep On Smiling.))

Harun stared at the battery on his iPod.

Damn it.

He wasn't asking for much. He just wanted to listen to a few comforting songs (but not soothing or relaxing, otherwise he'd lose his battle against the vile, marauding ailment called "just closing your eyes for five seconds and waking up five hours later with an axe in your face) on his iPod while he waited for the hours to pass, just to keep him distracted and keep his eyes open and hopefully prevent his mood from getting any worse. It was ultimately a futile effort to keep his spirits up, but with the battery having only a slither of power left (unlikely to even get through a quarter of an album) even that simple comfort was being denied to him.

The last announcements had been particularly harsh to Harun. Death was now claiming people he knew closely in larger and larger numbers. The activist club had lost another member, Madelyn Prowers, and Harun had lost another friend. And judging by Brendan having joined the ranks of the killers, it was possible he was no longer a friend. Mia Kuiper...one of the first people he'd met on the islands, a name that quite frankly didn't mean much to him before this whole fiasco...she too was dead. Rena Peters, the girl he'd met in the library before the trip and who he thought would have made a good potential friend. She too was dead. That wasn't even mentioning how Stacy and Sapphire, girls he'd been travelling with, arguably leading, just a short time ago, were now gone.

That was just the tip of the iceberg. He wasn't sure if Rashid had heard it; Rashid was lying at the back of gazebo, Harun unaware whether he was awake or still in dreamland.

Shoving further thoughts about the long list of deaths into the back of his mind, his eyes continued scanning the immediate horizon. Other than a few corpses, a large, grotesque fly with no sense of personal space and Rashid, who was sleeping behind him, there was no sign of life. No sign of a friend, an acquaintance or an enemy.

The lack of human contact was refreshing. Harun had long since thrown the continued intrusion of privacy the cameras represented to the back of his mind and accepted them as a fact of life. Hell, even if he'd have stayed behind in Minnesota, cameras on every street corner would have became reality if the Republicans won any more elections, which even despite the current political trends could become a reality soon. Heh, political commentary.

But, just because he was used to strangers on the other side of the world laughing at his blunders, mocking his patheticness and shipping him with Rashid (Harun was internet-savvy, he knew the chances of that happening would increase the longer they both survived), he was still not comfortable with one of his class-mates coming across him. Harun had been spending the last few hours fidgeting, panicking, going through torturous mood-swings, and he didn't want people to see him like that. No. Harun wasn't like that, at least not any more, despite the impressions appearances may give.

No, Harun was perfectly fine with the lack of human contact so far. He was perfectly fine without it, especially considering the relatively low success rates his prior encounters with everyone but Rashid had had so far. No, what was irritating Harun was because there wasn't a single edible-looking animal he'd spotted in the morning light so far. The already-meagre food stocks, even supplemented with the soups from Hermione and cautious consumption of gluten foods, were now basically non-existent, and Harun had decided, without consulting Rashid, to hunt for further supplies.

You can't suddenly get a brain wave that allows you to contact NATO and organise a daring and ultimately successful escape attempt on an empty stomach now, can you?

Oh, and you'd starve to death. That was a problem too.

Switching his iPod off (disrupting a song on your own terms was much better than having a battery death do it for you), Harun got back to staring at any nearby trees or such for any telltale signs of a rabbit or deer or something. He didn't feel like engaging in a more proactive search, and leaving Rashid on his own with only a packet of (so far) virtually useless Iowa-something pills was pretty mean. His sword-gun was lying dormant by his side.

Harun wasn't really expecting to have to do much preparation of the meat once he'd shot it. Avoid bits that looked disgusting, don't eat fur or bone, throw bits with a strange colour into a pile. He wasn't expecting to have to cook it; if he remembered correctly, meat that was fresh could be eaten raw. If there were further health caveats or pieces of essential information he'd failed to recall, well, he'd find that out when he began vomiting sporadically. He'd never quite learnt that technique of starting a fire by rubbing two sticks together, and quite frankly he thought his supplied lighter in the first aid kit would be incapable of starting a fire.

And so, Harun waited.

((Rashid Hassan continued from Keep On Smiling))

((BGM: D12 - "When The Music Stops"))

If I were to die murdered in cold-blood tomorrow, would you feel sorrow, show love, or would it matter?

Rashid was awake. He had been awake since he last left the logging road, comforting his sobbing best friend. Not only that, he was already standing up.

He just didn't want to let Harun Kemal know that, not until it was too late for him. He knew Harun couldn't see him as he approached, engrossed in the music of a portable music player that still hadn't quite run out of charge thanks to almost obsessive battery rationing. Yet what little charge there was left was more than they could say for everything else they had.

Can never be the lead-off batter of things, shit for me to feed off, I'm see-saw battling...

The food had run out, the bottle of pills that was supposed to be Danya's cruel joke of a weapon had run out meaning the water had already gone. Harun was sitting there watching for something - anything to shoot with his gunblade to find nourishment with because nobody to even Rashid's knowledge had yet to degenerate into cannibalism. Even his impromptu "toilet paper" that came with the pills had been used up. The only things the two had left were literally the clothes on their backs and what possessions they might have kept with them. And that wasn't counting the obvious - they, like the iPod, were all still on borrowed time.

Everyone was dying. On this island, that meant everyone was being killed by someone or something. Nobody, no club was safe from the madness that eventually overtook everyone that wasn't killed before they succumbed. If his mind had even thought of letting it slip at any point, it was quickly reminded of that every time he heard Danya's voice reading off each of the deaths like numbers on a scoreboard. Everyone would be a number, eventually. Rashid, Harun, everyone. Nobody escaped from it, and nobody knew if anybody really did.

But there's way too much at stake for me to be fake. There's too much on my plate, and I came way too far in this game to turn and walk away, and not say what I got to say...

The only thing everyone was playing for was a lower number than the rest. And the reason Rashid was only now sneaking up on his friend was because he found an opportunity to at least go with a lower number. Harun had left his gun-blade unattended. How could he ever suspect his utterly useless best friend to try to take it from him? For all Rashid knew, Harun was really just toying with him like a kitten before he finally decided to try a little cannibalism. No, Rashid was doing this for his own selfish defense, just like everyone eventually did.

The gun-blade was close now. He could see the blade glinting in the early morning light, the butt of the gun portion facing him like it was begging to be snatched-up.


What the fuck you take me for, a joke? You smoking crack? 'Fore that I beg Mariah to take me back, I get up 'fore I get down, run myself in the ground, 'fore I put some wack shit out-


He bent and knelt down just enough to reach for it. His fingers wrapped themselves around the butt of the gun-blade, lifting it just enough for Harun to notice. His arm jerked a bit, the gunblade being heavier than he expected it to. And wrapping his finger around the guard instead of the trigger wouldn't be good for his grip.

No matter, he figured, once it got off the ground and safely in both hands, all it needed was a good cocking before he could finally unleash his madness.

You gon' let him get away with that? He tried to play you, you can't let him skate with that, man I hate this crap.

Everyone went mad on the island. Every friendship went to the grave, either together or betrayed. Rashid knew that sooner or later and more often than not, it went through the latter. It was all part of how the islands, no, nature itself worked. Some kind of zeitgeist, unspoken rule not written in the Qur'an or any other holy scripture. Something everyone at home had no choice but to watch, including his mother, father and little sister.

The one thing he realized - and was determined not to forget - was that when this particular friendship and those that partook in it died, it would be on his terms, not Harun's.

This is crazy, the way we act, when we confuse hip-hop with real life, when the music stops.

Still nothing.

Harun's eyes swept over the area one more time, confirming that there was no hostile former classmate or potentially edible animal in the vicinity. Once again, negatives on both counts. Everything was still. Even he few clouds that were hovering up in the dusky early-morning sky were moving along at a sluggish pace. The few visible cameras he could see had their lenses fixed on one location. They were mainly staring at him, probably hoping that they'd get prime footage if Harun and Rashid, two of the most uninteresting students to have a good chance of getting into the final 100, decided to finally do something interesting.

Those cameras were about to get lucky.

Harun wasn't aware of how or why Rashid had managed to sneak up behind him and make a grab for his trusty yet unused weapon, but what Harun did know, judging from the scheming, devilish look on Rashid's face and also the fact he'd eschewed the basic pleasantry of asking for it, was that Rashid's intentions were far from peaceful or honourable. And so, Harun panicked, his mind a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts. However, one thought triumphed above all.

Oh shit he has your gun. RUN.

Instinctively, he turned around to face Rashid and keep him within his vision while simultaneously trying to slide away from him and scramble onto his feet. It looked almost pathetic, the feeble attempt the tired, groggy Turkish boy was making, but he was frightened and too surprised to react in any other way. Rashid had always struck him as a maverick, a wild card, but this? There was no way he could have been expecting this, no way could Harun have planned for such a situation.

Rashid was prepping the gun for firing. That much was clear. The looks of hatred and loathing he was giving Harun, the concentration he was putting into making sure the gun was ready for firing, the strong, firm, intimidating posture he was attempting to do. Making a feeble, half-assed attempt at crawling away wasn't going to work. That much was clear, even to Harun in his panicky, terrified state. It all made sense now. Rashid reading the manual, Rashid's semi-frequent outbursts, the relatively stoic nature he'd taken to the game. He was mentally building up to this moment, and Harun, in his trusting nature, had let him get away with it, and there was nothing he could do about it now except to pray and hope his end would be quick and merciful.

So much for being an expert at reading people, Harun.

He wasn't sure at what exact moment he decided a u-turn in his strategy was in order, but in just a few split seconds, Harun was on his feet, using the railings of the gazebo for support. But instead of turning away and fleeing with his tail beneath his legs, and hoping he'd be able to move erratically enough to throw Rashid's shots off like he'd originally planned, he charged at Rashid like a crazed bull, temporarily abandoning all logical thoughts and resorting to primal instinct, hoping to get Rashid on the ground and at his mercy before he could bring the loaded gun up, aim at Harun's face and fire.

Harun got lucky.

Managing to build up a surprisingly decent speed in the short distance between him and Rashid, his round head connected with Rashid's torso, resulting in a sickening but satisfying crunch-like noise, throwing Rashid onto his back, his head smashing against the wooden floor of the gazebo. Harun was as surprised as Rashid that his daredevil plan had actually seemed to work, and caused the suddenly-murderous Rashid to be at his (former?) friend's mercy. Harun was on top of Rashid, and, for the second time during his stay on the island, he had turned the tables on Rashid after the latter had acted aggressively towards him. Harun was doubtful that this scenario would have as desirable a resolution as the last fight between the two had had, but hopefully he'd at least be able to find out why events had taken the course that they did.

That was until he'd noticed Rashid still had the gun firmly in his hands, and was working through Harun's punches and blows to once again aim it right into Harun's face. Under his breath, Harun released a torrent of swears and curses in every language he knew, and once again let his instincts take over. His right hand put all its force into a strong, forceful punch aimed right at Rashid's ugly nose, and his left arm grabbed at the sword. Judging by the strength of Rashid's grip it was unlikely he'd let go, but at the very least Harun would be able to aim it away from his face. Harun had to grab onto the blade, as Rashid's hands were firmly covering the gun-component of the weapon, and Harun's fingers were digging into the blade of the sword; blood was being drawn, but that didn't matter, as the barrel of the gun was now aimed at the roof the gazebo instead of at his face.

The first punch Harun threw that connected with Rashid's face obviously caused pain for Rashid, and blood, whether it belonged to Harun, Rashid or both, ended up smeared all over his face and Harun's clenched fist, but, despite the strength Harun had put into the punch, it failed to destabilise his grip on the sword-gun. Rashid was still not letting go, despite Harun's efforts. All his senses and all his thoughts turned to getting the weapon out of Rashid's hands, and so Harun threw a harder, much stronger punch at Rashid's face. This one connected, and made a sickening, twisted noise Harun had never even heard in a film before, but Rashid was still alive and conscious.

His grip on the gun, however, was a different story.

Rashid dropped it in pain, and Harun immediately scooped it up, like how a desperate parent would pull their child out of the rubble of a destroyed building. His rightful weapon was now in his possession again, and Harun felt a hundred times knowing that. It occurred to him he had no idea what to do once his hands were on the sword-gun, other than that retrieving it from Rashid was necessary for his short-term survival. And, once again, his instincts took over before Rashid would have a chance to respond.

He quickly turned the gun on Rashid's face, and pulled the trigger.

((All GMing previously worked out with Goose beforehand, for those reading.))

Rashid smiled toothily as his friend got up. Surely the smaller boy would have noticed when he picked the gunblade up, but at this point, it was expected from the way Harun scrambled to his feet like a helpless small animal, all the way down to that helpless look on his face. All that confidence that little ratbastard had built up while wielding that gunblade was slowly melting away in front of him.

Oh yes, this time it would work. This time, he had the gunblade firmly in his hands with his target backed up against the wall (or rather, the railing). This time, he had finally pulled one over on the man he knew would double-cross him sooner if not later. Even if Harun decided to bolt, he would be the prey and not the predator.

All Rashid had to do was cock the damn thing and pull the trigger. Was that so hard to do?

CLICK.

He was only able to do the first when Harun finally decided to do something, raising the rather heavy and unwieldy thing to take the shot. Unfortunately, Rashid didn't believe Harun had really intended to do what he did right up until the moment right before his head was a split-inch from his torso.

"FU-" was all he could say as Harun's headbutt impacted square in his solar plexus and sent him straight back onto the wood floor of the gazebo. For a moment he thought the wood had buckled under him, and the two had fallen into the closed area underneath.

But he held on, his grip tightening in reflex around the gun-blade upon impact. He didn't want to let go, not when he was so very close. He didn't want to be as fucking useless as he was only a few days ago. His finger slipped toward the trigger from the trigger guard. Harun was diverting its aim with one arm grabbing the blade regardless of the obvious consequences to his fingers - no doubt a result of the adrenalin rush. The other arm sent its fist straight into his face. The only thing he could do was try to bring his other arm around to reinforce his grip...but that was already hard enough to do with the familiar weight of an entire scraggly teenager on top of him.

As the most rotten of luck would have it, deja vu had its own way of sneaking up on him, having its way with him and leaving him crying and curled up on the bedsheets while it smoked a drag and casually tossed him a twenty just for not leaving it dissatisfied.

CRACK.

It was that second punch knocked the wind out of him and the grip out of his hands. Hell, he even felt like his head had been nailed straight into the ground. His arms felt much lighter as Harun pried the gun out of his still-warm, living hands. He could feel his opportunity, his hope snatched away from him and turned upon him. There was little time to regret anything at all before Harun's own instincts took control.

POW.

And in that instant, when that gunshot rang out and sent fire and GSR raging into his jugular, he knew that he had failed. A numbing cold began to spread into the rest of his body, starting from the extremities and working its way up to his torso. Blood splurted and trickled out of the rather large wound the gunblade's bullet had torn out of his flesh. To add mortal insult to fatal injury, Rashid had actually enabled his own demise by making Harun's firing of that weapon a little bit easier.

Now, of all moments, would have been the perfect time to make amends with a deity. Although the obvious circumstances of being mortally wounded through a rather gruesome jugular wound would have exempted him from other duties, Rashid would at least have been able to slow his thoughts in the few seconds he had left to recite the same verses his parents had told him when he was born - and the same ones he would have to recite with whatever strength would help him do so in earnest sincerity upon his painful, very imminent death.

Yet rather than anything religious, his thoughts had instead rested upon the realization that there was nobody here to help him, no person, group or deity, the realization that his 18 years of existence had led him up to this crucial week, this moment where his attempt to double-cross someone was fatally reversed upon him. That all this - effectively - was for nothing. And rather than even try to utter the blood-splattered beginnings of the last Shahada, he instead uttered a blood-spattered whimper to the world. Or at least, to the boy that finally justified the silent paranoia he had stewing in him for the better part of a whole week. He raised his head - about the only physical motion he had the strength to do at this point, to glare at the man that killed him.

"F...fuck...I...knew..." he coughed and sputtered as his vision began to fade, "Fucking...use-...useless..."

After that, the only noises out of his mouth were his own reflexive death gurgles as his head landed back on the ground with a soft thump. The only thing he could see was the washy brown of gazebo's ceiling slowly turning to black as his brain began to shut down on itself. There would be a point - perhaps a few seconds - where his thoughts would recognize oblivion before they too dissolved, but it was already too late to care.

He tried to force a little smile as he found a twisted measure of peace.

After all, nobody ever said that a person could go out with both a bang and a whimper.

At the Hassan residence, the TV had been switched off the moment the gunshot rang out.

Voices in my head, I'm goin in' shock, I'm reaching for the Glock but the music stopped.

B144 - HASSAN, R - WASTED!

((Thread is now open without needing permission beforehand.))

It was a strange thought. A strange thought yet also somewhat...empowering (no, that can't be right) thought, knowing that that grotesque, sinister hole in Rashid's neck was because of his actions. It was a depressing, but simultaneously guiltily exciting, knowing that Harun had failed to defuse the situation peacefully and had instead caused the death of a man he, up until very recently, considered one of his best friends.

It was tragic. Rashid, a boy he'd always found a bit too outgoing and quirky for Harun's tastes, but they'd still got on well regardless (at least in part as a result of their shared faith), was now dead because of Harun's actions. Another member of the activist club was dead, and at the same time another was a killer. Unless his memory was dodgy, that made Roland, Sarah and Dutchy the only members of the group left who fell into neither category, and judging by how the island was treating everyone else, he doubted they were much better off.

The gun was still held firmly by Harun's bloodied hands. His skin was cracked, his nails were long, gritty and slightly broken in places, and his whole arm from his trigger finger to his shoulders were aching from the force of the gunshot's recoil, but he'd still held onto it, even though the immediate threat was over. It's weight was...different. Harun had gotten used to the weight of the gun with all six bullets loaded, and despite the tiny weight of the one bullet that had been lost, the gun felt...different in his hands, for some reason. Not exactly lighter...Harun really didn't know the words to describe it.

As he climbed back up to his feet and stepped away from Rashid's pained corpse, Harun casually propped his gun against one of the stronger-looking railings of the gazebo. His eyes never once left Rashid's corpse. Part of him was, somewhat illogically, half-expecting the remnants of his former friend to get off his feet and charge at him for one final, heartfelt surprise attack, and hey, stranger things had happened on the island. But, to be honest, Harun had to admit that the reason for his staring was probably good old morbid curiosity, like that time his cousin Tolga accidentally ripped off half his thumb while climbing over a fence, or the time there was a massive car-fire on the State Highway just outside of Minneapolis.

What Harun would not admit was the real reason for his staring. The fact that he was able to do this to somebody who'd wanted to do the same to him...it made him feel powerful. Strong. Confident. Mixed in with all the negative feelings he had, those "positive" feelings were small, insignificant....but they were there.

That wasn't to say he wasn't somewhat traumatised by what had just happened. That didn't mean he wasn't fearing the time he was read out on Danya's announcement, his deed made known to all his friends and acquaintances and his name joining the dubious and notorious list of people to watch out for. That didn't mean he wasn't ashamed, regretful and disgusted by the sickening wound he'd caused to his (once) trustworthy travelling companion and friend. That didn't mean he wasn't revolted by the blood all over him.

Oh God, the blood.

It hadn't dried yet, obviously. It had still at most been only a couple of minutes since it got there, and Harun still didn't know whether he had any open wounds of his own. The blood was all over his hands, his hoodie and his jeans, and he'd probably scratched his face once or twice since killing Rashid, spreading the blood further.

He moved to the bags, which had been left unmolested during the fight, and pulled one of the zips open. He wasn't sure whose bag it was; both bags had the same shortages and roughly the same amount of useless shit stuffed in the back. It didn't matter anymore anyway, so Harun shrugged off the blood he was leaving on the fabric and the contents as he ruffled through to find a half-empty bottle of water and the medical kit. Finding them after a brief search, he pulled them out and rested them on the gazebo.

He wasn't knowledgeable on first aid. Quite the opposite. He was a complete novice. He knew you had to clean wounds first, to prevent infection, and then cover them up. How to do that...well, Harun didn't know the exact procedure, but couldn't be that hard, especially if he only had minor wounds. First things first, he took the water and poured it over any part of his skin that had blood on it, pouring the rest over his face to cool himself down. He made a subconscious decision to just leave the blood on his clothes as it was; it wasn't too much anyway.

He then quickly scanned his body for open cuts. He had a few minor cuts and grazes on his hands and knuckles, but they were no worse than paper cuts. What was worrying were the long, fairly deep cuts the blade of his own weapon had made to the fingers on his left hand. They were bleeding quite heavily, and the sword was hardly the cleanest or most sterile antique weapon one could have. Holding his bleeding hand high in the air, his right hand rifled through the first aid kit, looking for something useful to clean up his wounds.

He found some saline solution, but if he remembered correctly that was only useful when applied intravenuously, and so he chucked that back in. Luckily, he found some antiseptic wipes straight afterwards. It was a struggle to get them out with only one aching hand, but after a few moments of fumbling, he succeeded, and began dabbing them on the wounds. It stung, but the pain wasn't as bad as the act of being cut itself. He wiped another wipe over his whole hand completely, and while he cringed in pain whenever it contacted his deep cut, it was done fairly quickly. Applying some band-aids to the wounds, he decided that, hopefully, that would be good enough to prevent a crippling infection in the short time he had left on this Earth.

And so, he sat there, waiting. For what? Meh, he didn't know.

((Roland Hayes continued from Make Your Own Kind of Music))

The last thing Roland needed right now was to be alone with his thoughts. His thoughts could only hurt him right now, and he needed somebody, anybody, to distract him from them. He shouldn't have left the group to find Dutchy, but he couldn't let Dutchy die again. No way Dutchy could take care of himself out there. The only thing he could do was run, run too fast and too far for Roland to catch up with him.

Once his friend's receding figure shrunk to a dot and vanished over the horizon, Roland downgraded from a run to a light stumble, and he found himself leaning down on his harpoon for support. It felt like he was about to keel over of a heart attack. No matter how much he wanted to find and stop Dutchy, he couldn't move another muscle. Stupid fucking fat body. Why didn't he get in shape when he had the chance?

It only took him a few minutes to recover, but that was enough. Nothing awaited his vision except an endless field of stumps. The upside was that nobody was around to see him weep.



He almost got the direction Dutchy took off in right. The scared Icelander went west, and so did Roland. The only problem was that there was far more south in Roland's path than in Dutchy's, so the odds of the two of them meeting again were slim to none.

Roland's nose and throat still ached from all the crying he'd done since Dutchy left. He didn't want to see Dutchy go, but a part of him started to think that it was inevitable. He saved Dutchy from bashing his head in, Dutchy would run away and get shot. He saved Dutchy from getting shot, Dutchy would refuse to eat or drink. He would force him, Dutchy would use that harpoon to slit his wrists while Roland slept. It was inevitable. Dutchy would be in heaven with Lily soon. Better to focus on the people who hadn't given up.

He stopped in his tracks and looked behind him. What if those people were still in the field? They could have been his new team. He could have told them the plan Sarah told him. Fuck, what was it again?

He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember the plan. The one thing that gave him hope before he heard about Lily's death and he couldn't fucking remember it!

And even if he could, so what? Bounce and company weren't going to stick around that place for a whole hour, plus the hour it would take to retrace his steps. Not to mention how he blew it in front of all of them, freaking out over the rock, then choking up thanks to Rob fucking Jenkins.

If he ever met Rob, he'd crack his mouth open and piss down his throat. He'd stomp on his ribs and turn his lungs to jelly. He'd run his fingers through his fucking skinhead Neanderthal brain and cut his face beyond recognition and carve a Nazi cross on his belly and leave a steaming shit on his body before he moved on.

Lily didn't do anything to him. She couldn't have. She wouldn't hurt a fly. It had to have been Rob.

These thoughts sustained him, gave him the energy he needed to cross the treacherous foothills awaiting him at the end of the felled forest. He climbed over too many craggy rocks to count, almost slipped in his footing half a dozen times, dropped his harpoon a dozen more, but none of that mattered thanks to his high, his giddy thoughts of revenge.



"Madelyn Prowers gave up all hope or something and blew herself up. Yawn. It's getting old. Then, Orpheus Campbell and Robert Jenkins neutralized each other in the most permanent of ways. It was quite a mess, too."

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"



It was alright, Roland tried telling himself as he made his way downhill. He could still pound Rob's body into the ground if he ever found it. Plus he couldn't fight back now. But it was a false comfort, and it didn't keep Roland from feeling the aches in his fingers from all of that climbing. The usual fatigue and despair crept back into his body, and he found himself passing out and sleeping when he left the forest behind him.

When he woke up, his anger had mostly gone. What would killing Rob have mattered, anyway, besides dishonoring Lily's memory? She wouldn't want her brother to turn into a brutal murderer like him.

The only thing left for him was to find someone else. Anyone else. The only thing he could do all alone was mope and starve. Even if the people he passed by killed him, would that really be so bad? He could see his sister and his friends again. He wouldn't have to worry about killing or escaping again.

His wish was granted. He heard a gunshot to the south. It gave him the strength to run again. Soon a gazebo grew in the distance and Roland could see a pair of figures inside it. His hands slammed into the side of the gazebo fence, bringing him to a sudden stop, and he suddenly recognized the boy sitting down and cleaning his hand.

"Harun?" His voice cracked under the strain of sudden hope. It was his dream to see the Activist Club reunited and hatching a plan to take on the fuckers who kidnapped them, and at first his hope was kindled by his meeting Dutchy and Sarah immediately after waking up on the first day. But after a week on the island, he figured he'd used up all of his luck; he would never see any of his other friends again. Those who hadn't died yet would stay ahead of him and become impossible to track down until they did. But now, now he'd found Harun, not one of his closest friends, but he would take what he could get.

"Harun! Thank G-"

Then he found another of his friends.

"..."

Rashid Hassan alternated between being a blast to hang out with and being an annoying fuckstick that Roland would take any opportunity to get away from. It usually depended on Roland's mood and what Rashid was talking about at the time; mostly he fell in the former category. Roland dug the guy's taste in music, and he liked just hanging out at one of their houses with him and listening to music or talking about Palestine or laughing about black or Muslim people. On the other hand, those fake jihads he'd talk about weren't funny. At all. Rashid always conveniently became a stranger whenever that happened. Overall, he was a good kid.

"...eheh."

Harun wasn't bad, either. He didn't make Roland want to curl up in a hole, which was always a plus. For some reason, Roland always thought of them as a pair, despite the fact that they had little in common besides their religion. Where Rashid was an extroverted, wacky attention whore, Harun was shy and unassuming, at least in real life. Once Roland got his screen name on AIM, though, it was a different story. He proved even more talkative than Rashid in real life, always going on about his political roleplaying stuff online, and his latest writing or music project. Roland even tried to join in with his fun online, but he always drifted off after a while and went back to his blogs. Harun never took it that personally, though. He was a good kid, too.

"Heheheheheheheheh."

He stared at Rashid, who lay on his back like he didn't have a care in the world. Those eyes focused upward at the ceiling, not seeing, growing dry and dull. Blood pooled around his head and neck, leaking from the pulpy remains of his throat. His body had an unnatural posture, almost painful for Roland to look at. If people ever lied down the way Rashid did, they'd get the worst aches if they didn't adjust themselves almost immediately.

Roland looked at Harun again, noticing that he wasn't just fidgeting with his hands for the hell of it. Those hands had blood on them, his own blood, seeping from gashes on the inside of his fingers. Roland thought he could glimpse sinew and bone beneath them, a sight that made his stomach lurch and briefly interrupted his increasingly hysterical laughter. The offending instrument sat near Harun's feet, a weird part gun, part dagger contraption with a bloodied blade. God, it looked so fucking ridiculous!

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Roland could barely breathe, barely stand up and look at the two of them anymore. Laughter was good. Laughter helped him cope. "What, did you two have a falling out or something? AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

This was the future of the once-proud Activist Club.

Despite his (hopefully-sufficient) amateur attempts at cleansing and clothing the wounds on his fingers, his left hand still stung like hell. A few cautious attempts at bending his fingers and an attempt to clench his fist resulted in unpleasant, unwelcome aches sending waves of sharp, intense pain down his whole arm. It was still only very early stages of treatment, but the bleeding and pain was not showing any sign of stopping; the unscarred skin that was covered by the Band-Aids was getting increasingly wet. Considering the force that had been used and intensity of the violence that had happened between him and Rashid, it was a miracle the blade had just left deep, manageable cuts as opposed to leaving his fingers clinging onto his hands by a few lone threads of skin and tissue.

That WOULD have been a nightmare to deal with.

An involuntary shudder of fear and repulsion journeyed up Harun's spine just thinking about it.

Not a nice thought, and Harun had even bigger worries in the real world to deal with without considering how things could be worse, so he shoved that thought to the back of his mind.

The Band-Aids did serve one extra purpose though for which Harun guessed he should be grateful; Harun always thought that if he ended up with a hole or a deep cut on his person, he would find it hard to resist the unwelcome, curiosity-fuelled urge to poke around inside and probably fuck up the nerves and vessels and spread a fatal infection. The Band-Aids kept the most offensive wounds invisible, thus meaning that Harun could rest easy, knowing that he would not have to tackle that unwanted, illogical urge at any time.

It also meant he didn't have to look at them. Rashid's gaping neck wound was an eyesore enough, thank you very much, and the thought of having to wander around all day being able to see the insides of your fingers?

Not a nice one, needless to say.

This was without a doubt the most torturous wound Harun had ever suffered, physiologically or psychologically, and Harun was so busy dealing with it and pondering about it that he only noticed Roland's presence when his quiet, insensitive chuckle transformed into a bellowing, insensitive guffaw.

Roland was a good kid, a fellow member of the activist club, and someone whom Harun considered a decent friend. A friendly, good-natured guy possessing roughly similar interests to Harun (Harun shared Roland's enjoyment of apocalyptic novels and such, though Harun was biased towards the nuclear war and zombie uprising types), someone you could confide in, talk about the latest events with, whether they be school quarrels or major political affairs. Unlike most people Harun knew, Roland actually gave those political forums Harun was always blabbing on about a try, and while he got bored of it fairly quickly, he was a good player while it lasted.

On the subject of those political roleplaying forums, it occurred to Harun that he was DEFINITELY past the inactivity limit on them and a variety of other internet-based games he used. That was unfortunate; he was the Vice President on one of them, he'd gotten quite far.

Back to the real world, however, and Harun was not exactly expecting Roland's sudden appearance. He was too tired and too exhausted to let his reflexes take over and to jump up to his feet and grab his weapon, so instead he just grudgingly turned his head and stared at the stocky boy with a blank, glassy expression on his face. Harun knew Roland was on the trip, and Harun was aware that Roland had up until that moment escaped exposure on the announcements, but after the first few days, the majority of his friends whom he had not yet met up with slipped from his mind, faded into the background, unless he somehow came into contact with them or heard them on the announcements. Roland was one of those he....forgotten was too strong a word. Placed at the bottom of his priority list would be a better way of describing it.

However, his sister had been listed, as a victim. Harun would not bring that up deliberately; it was almost definitely a sensitive, painful subject for Roland, however he decided there and then he would comfort Roland if he suddenly degenerated into a moping, mournful mess. However, judging by his eccentric reaction to the rather messy scene before him, that was unlikely, at least in the short term.

"I'm glad..." Harun muttered, before starting again but with a louder (but still equally bitter) tone of voice. "I'm glad you find it so amusing, Roland....nice to see that Rashid and I aren't the only ones to have lost a few metaphor..." he was about to bugger up the pronunciation of metaphorical, so he silently dropped his attempt at saying the word midsentence, and restarted yet again. "Nice to see that Rashid and I aren't the only ones to have lost a few marbles in the upstairs department."

By upstairs department, Harun meant brain. It was fairly obvious, but he still needed to state it clearly to himself so that his half-listening brain wouldn't think it was some farfetched innuendo.

"Before you ask", Harun was climbing to his feet now, holding his gore-splattered swordgun as some kind of support, "Rashid went nuts and attacked me. Tried to grab my gun. My sword...gun...hybrid...thing. I don't even know..." Harun paused, trying to mentally recall what terminology the manual had used, but turned up blanks. "What'd you call this piece of shit?" he asked Roland as a random aside, holding up his weapon as if it was some newly discovered species of exotic butterfly. "Now, I can't prove this is what happened, but he attacked me, I had to defend myself and....well...shit happened. Can't say this is how I envisioned my friendship with Rashid ending, I always assumed it'd be over a girl or something..."

Harun chuckled. The thought of himself with a girl in the short time left at Bayview was absurdly amusing and farfetched, and everyone knew that. It was totally kosher for Harun's friends to use "Harun getting a girlfriend" as a substitute for a flying pig, and recently even he'd be using it.

Harun subconsciously poked Rashid in the side with the tip of the sword's gun, knowing full well it would not provoke a reaction.

Roland still laughed uncontrollably, as Harun offered his explanation for everything that happened; he seemed annoyed at Roland's insensitivity. "Oh, God damn, man, I'm sorry," Roland said, his voice muffled by laughter and his hidden face. But this... I thought I'd found something good on this island after all... that... this! Not that I'm not happy to see you, man, but JESUS! I wish it wasn't like this!"

He turned to look at Harun, and boy was he a pitiable sight. A pair of fresh, glistening trails flowed from his eyes, with another resting on his upper lip. His eyes were so bloodshot they practically glowed red, and the rest of his face looked puffy and sore. He still smiled, but it was a paper-thin smile, a poorly erected prop. Now sniffles periodically interrupted his manic giggling.

"Wish you were on the beach back with the rest of them!" he continued. "Sarah and Dutchy and that other girl Sarah likes. Fuck was her name? She wasn't one of us, but she was cool. We had a plan to get out and everything! Can't remember it now, but it sounded good at the time."

He paused to wipe his face and snort, clearing his nose of mucus and fluid. "I didn't come up with any of it. I was just sort of... there. Me and Dutchy. That's why he tried to kill himself, I think. God, I was so mad at them when I found out! Not that they were there. They said they were getting supplies and that's the last I saw of them." He gave another shrill, barking laugh at the thought. "Just like a deadbeat dad!"

Roland's sobbing got louder then, and he barely managed to work in a chortle to stifle it. "I'll never see them again. I can't stop Dutchy from killing himself. If I wasn't so fucking fat I could have kept up with him. If I didn't stick with them I could have saved Lily. Jesus Christ, I can't imagine what that skinhead fuckstick did to her! I can't even kill him; that Orpheus dick beat me to it!"

No trace of laughter remained. Roland couldn't even bear to sit up, let alone look at Harun anymore. "We didn't even say goodbye! They couldn't even give me that much! GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?"

Harun carried on gently prodding Rashid's corpse with the tip of his sword. He didn't know why; it wasn't particularly entertaining, even in a morbid, immature way. It wasn't helping anyone at all; it was just making Rashid's body look even less peaceful and even more mortifying and gruesome than before...however, the more his senses adjusted to the horrific foul-smelling wounds, the over-the-top gore Harun had only seen beforehand in slasher flicks, and the tingling feeling of guilt that just wouldn't go away, Rashid's bloody corpse was beginning to look somewhat comical.

...that was not a normal adjective to apply to a dead body. Normal people do not describe bodies as comical, especially if they're bodies of their ex-friends whom they were forced to kill in cold blood.

Admittedly, yeah, ragdolls in video games did fall into funny positions (e.g. corpses appearing to inappropriately touch one another), but Rashid's had not.

There was nothing remotely funny about it whatsoever. Harun's urge to laugh that he was being forced to restrain? Nerves.

Very stressful situation, after all.

Regardless, Harun was repeatedly poking the corpse with his sword for no justifiable reason, when Roland began going on a little spiel about his time on the island so far. Roland had, judging from his demeanour, his ruffled appearance (it was a cliché, but not a stretch to say he was a shadow of his former self, both physically and in terms of personality) and from what Harun had heard on the announcements, had not had the best of times on the island.

It was worse than Harun had feared. Dutchy had attempted suicide. Poor guy. He was so sweet and kind and lovable back at Bayview; his whole optimism and love for the world had probably been completely shattered by Danya. Roland had apparently given up on attempting to keep Dutchy's spirits going. His first thought was to chastise Roland for allowing someone as weak and depressed as Dutchy from killing himself, but he decided against it; it would just create tension, further aggravate Roland, and probably be a bit unfair to the poor guy as well.

And he was angry his sister's killer had been killed by another person. He was more than angry. Fuming. Roland was far from a meek and retiring individual; he would not hesitate to get passionate about something he believed in, and while it was a trait Harun did not share, it was still something he admired in the boy. But this? This was scary. Roland was clearly not happy about this state of affairs, and Harun knew that "not happy" was a massive understatement. Harun didn't know what it meant to have a sibling, but he still couldn't blame Roland for his rage and anger.

Of course, just because it was justified didn't make Roland's anger any less disturbing.

Harun was at a loss for words. He was never any good at comforting grieving people, defusing bad situations or such. He was completely hopeless, and so all he could do was attempt to place a sincere, sympathetic expression on his face, and just grapple with his own thoughts for a few seconds. Eventually, he picked up his stuff, and said to Roland. "Let's go. Nothing good from hanging out here. We should team up; looks like we're probably the only allies we can have around here now."

Harun led the way. Hopefully, the words to comfort Roland would come to him as he walked.

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

Nothing happened for a few minutes. Harun just sat there while Roland wept on the ground. His face flared up with blood and shame, the heat in it practically drying up his tears as soon as they started flowing. He didn't know how long it took for him to stop and look back up at Harun, but he did, wiping his face on the filthy sleeve of his hoodie before he exposed it to his last remaining friend.

Harun hadn't reacted much to Roland's whining. All he'd done was poke Rashid's body with the tip of his sword, which made Roland wince. Poor dead, crazy Rashid had to have skin like shredded lettuce by now. Roland felt his empty stomach start to churn at the thought, and the growing smell didn't help matters, either.

Finally, Harun spoke, not addressing Roland's speech at all. He just offered a teamup and a relocation, and Roland was only too happy to agree to it. "Yeah," he sighed, getting up and picking up his pack and harpoon again. "Let's go."

As the two of them left Rashid's body at the gazebo, Roland struggled to ask Harun something. "You think-" Roland hesitated to ask. "You think I can have a better weapon than this harpoon?"

((Roland Hayes continued in The Ballad of Ackbar))