Survival Of The Fittest

(Alice Boucher continued from Can't Fall Down ~ All GMing approved by Fanatic)

Alice had just found her iPod in her bag (silver, weighted, an iPod classic, one of the things her parents had given her before shipping her off to the United States--though she resented the implications, she still loved the device). But--and she was very lucky--she didn't pull it out of the bag (put her headphones in, listen to some Anais, try to forget why she was here) before she saw the girl with the gun.

A girl with a gun--especially a large gun--was always an unfortunate thing to see on an island were everyone had a mandate to kill each other. And there were a lot of things that were extraordinarily unfortunate about this particular girl and this particular gun.

For one thing, the gun was one of those enormous 50 caliber sniper rifles. It could kill someone, Alice had heard, from nearly a mile away--one of those monster guns only allowed in America without a license. Danya was, of course, an American terrorist--he spoke with the ugly American accent and he had access to such a myriad of weapons that he had to be from either America or, say, Somalia or some place with pirates. For another thing, the girl was Sarah Atwell, one of those gregarious seniors who had gone around with cameras asking people how they felt about the class of 2008 (Alice vaguely remembered the other girl's name was somebody Druce). That particular bit of trivium about Sarah Atwell, however, was no longer relevant. What was relevant was that she had murdered Eve Walker-Luther, the older-looking dancer, cut her up in cold blood and apparently filmed it, in some sick murderous way. And now she had a sniper rifle for her trouble.

Alice Boucher had a cat o' nine tails never used in combat, no experience with violence, and no particular persuasive fervor. That meant if Alice Boucher didn't get moving quickly, she was almost certainly doomed.

Alice stood up slowly. The camera was watching her. She wanted to talk to it. For God's sake, I'm the surly European girl. If I was in one of those American slasher movies, I'd at least get a thirty-second fight scene with my whip and some insufferable comments to make before I was shot to pieces.

She was in the mines now. Lovely and desolate. If she ignored the nearby scrub, caught the cool dry air on her tongue, she could believe she was on the moon.

Bah, no. The moon was safe.

Sarah Atwell was in the rocky valley below. If Alice could climb out of the mine without being spotted, nothing would happen.

Yes. Nothing.

She began to climb.

And if only luck or skill had been with her, maybe nothing would have happened. But luck was not with Alice in the dim shade, and no skill she could possibly hope to have would have let her tell rotting rock from its safe counterparts.

So the rock broke under her, rattling and soft, and Alice Boucher slid down the mineshaft wall. Her shirt grew grey and her skirt rode up to her knees, but there was no harm done in the fall itself. It was a gentle fall, and she landed face up at the feet of Sarah Atwell.

Sarah Atwell jumped back. So obviously there had been two people who hadn't suddenly been expecting the appearance of a French girl at the bottom of the mine.

And Alice had no choice but to try to scare the girl off.

"Get yourself away from me, you perverted murdering bitch!" Alice snarled, trying to stand. Look fierce. Only after she had screamed did she realize the words she had said were in French. Oh hell. Hopefully she would sound terrifying and foreign, and not just deranged. Her sentence had not been put together well.

And the gun, the enormous monster gun, was swinging right near her face, and Alice saw her chance and grabbed the barrel, and swung it to throw the girl off-balance, for the gun was heavy, maybe seven kilograms, and the girl was light and unfit.

Sarah huffed, put her own hands around the gun, and looked at Alice like she was completely unreasonable.

"Don't touch this gun. The props people gave it to me. It cost, like, a thousand dollars."

She twinked the barrel so it pointed back down at Alice. She sounded so calm.

Don't touch this gun. The props people gave it to me. It cost, like, a thousand dollars.

And Alice decided that either she was going crazy or this girl was, and either way, a bluff was in order.

You think you're the director.

Alice Boucher was no technical wizard or a child prodigy, but she could be quite sharp.

You think you're playing in--directing this show. And perhaps you think I'm your next victim.

And there was no better time to try bluffing than when you were about to die.

I'll take another part for myself. And I'll pray to my secular Gods that you believe me.

So Alice Boucher stopped trying to wiggle out from under the barrel, and looked Sarah Atwell, filmmaker-dreamer, in the eye.

"Don't you know who I am? I'm your assistant from Cannes."

And she was here and she was calm, and her words came out level and fine, and her accent sounded urbane and sophisticated and rich.

And Sarah Atwell lowered her gun.

((Sarah Atwell continued from The Wrong Tool for the Job))

She looked puzzled momentarily before nodding.

"Yes... yes of course. Estevan mentioned something about a new hire. Well don't just stand there you sap. Take this." Slumping the pack off her shoulders Sarah handed the bag to Alice while surveying the immediate area, letting the sniper rifle drop on its strap so she could use her hands. The mine itself was substantially large and Sarah used her index fingers and thumbs to frame the vicinity panning slowly across.

"So," she began, "I'm sure you've been briefed but what we do out here on location is a lot harder than that intern work back at Cannes. We've got some quality actors out there and it's going to be your job to ensure they perform well." Sarah trailed off in silence before turning to Alice, "and you would not want to screw that up would you sweetie?" Her grin turned southwards, turning in to a stern frown. "Because I would have to fire you, and I assure you that would be very unpleasant."

Please, not another one. I can't take it, please stop. Please.

Sarah didn't really want to lose her assistant but the film industry was harsh and there would be no time for mistakes. When it came down to it if Alice didn't perform up to the standards she expected from anyone who would work on such an audacious project she would have to be removed. Still staring at the European girl Sarah continued. "Good, I'm glad you agree - we're going to have to find an actor for this next scene, so I want you to find someone who fits the bill. With an independent film such as this I know you understand that your duties will be both varied and difficult. In essence you're going to have to get your hands dirty."

Run Alice, run. She'll just kill you!

Sarah motioned to her bloodstained clothes. "Now obviously I won't ask you to do anything I wouldn't do so there's nothing to fear little lady and, this will look fantastic on your resume. I assume you've read the script so before we get started did you have any questions for me?"

Someone let me out.

It was good to have someone actually listen to her. The people she previously had worked with had been so uncooperative. It would be a relief to have someone competent to assist her in the film making process. She was beginning to think her entire crew had disappeared on her. This was a great location though and she was glad she had found it. Pefectly secluded, great acoustics for the type of sound she was going for here and from this vantage point she could see quite far in all directions. Sarah tilted her head to one side and felt the shift of the sniper rifle along her back.

And Sarah was staring at Alice, and Alice could hear her heart beat.

Thud thud. Thud thud. Thudthudthudthudthudthudthudthud-

Breathe, you stupid bint. She blanked her mind. Quit thinking like an idiot, and listen to her.

"So, I'm sure you've been briefed but what we do out here on location is a lot harder than that intern work back at Cannes. We've got some quality actors out there and it's going to be your job to ensure they perform well."

She's entirely deluded. She's nuts. She's gone off the brink. Alice tried to feel a flash of triumph at getting her evaluation so stunningly right. Instead she felt a sick twist in her stomach. I'm not prepared for this, am I?

"And you would not want to screw that up, would you, sweetie?"

Sarah's stare was still there. Alice gulped, and nodded, too vigorously. She felt like a puppet.

"Because then I would have to fire you, and that would be very unpleasant."

This wasn't real. Alice felt like she was in a nightmare. One of the horrible kinds, where she couldn't move or speak. Just nod jerkily, and shudder. Hide it (be quick!) by picking up Sarah's bag.

"Good, I'm glad you agree - we're going to have to find an actor for this next scene, so I want you to find someone who fits the bill. With an independent film such as this I know you understand that your duties will be both varied and difficult. In essence you're going to have to get your hands dirty."

Alice forced a smile when she nodded this time. Calm, confident. Like a film production assistant. You know what you're doing. Trick this girl, Alice. Make this con. You know what you're doing.

Because she really didn't want to think about finding an actor for the next scene right yet.

"Now obviously I won't ask you to do anything I wouldn't do so there's nothing to fear little lady and, this will look fantastic on your resume. I assume you've read the script so before we get started did you have any questions for me?"

Yes. What the hell is your script? What delusions do you have? Do you just think you're making a slasher? How did you get this bloody cracked so fast?

These were not the sort of questions Alice could ask. And right now she was trying not to swallow compulsively, not to nod jerkily, not to break down crying. She was trying to keep her eyes from aching, her throat from burning, her stomach from giving up completely. She was trying not to freeze like an animal. She was trying not to feel like an animal. She was trying not to play dead, because her heart was skipping, thudthudthudthudthud, like a rabbit's heart.

Stop thinking like a scared girl. Pretend. Be. Pretend it's a movie, and you're the assistant.

If Alice was working on a movie, she wouldn't have chosen a slasher. But oh well--stop thinking. Delude yourself for a second, or you'll bolt, you know it--now she had to think of this sight as she would (shut up, brain!) as she would if she knew what she was doing. An assistant from Cannes. Nervous, but trained. Does this place echo?

"No questions." Her voice came out quiet, but calm. She kept her mouth stiff to avoid a tremor. Her accent, perhaps, was helping now. Disguise the stiffness in her mouth. "Although I will admit I wasn't briefed on this site beforehand, and wasn't told what you were planning for it, so I may be a little behind at first. I apologize." Smile apologetically at her. An apologetic smile was far too easy. She kept her mouth stiffened upward, to keep it spunky, dry. "I was assigned here rather suddenly, so I'm afraid I may have many silly questions in the future."

Her voice was quiet, but smooth. But her feet were still unmoving, stuck, like a girl in a nightmare, frozen.

I won't ask you to do anything I wouldn't do.

Alice shuddered again, disguised it this time as an aborted trip-fall as she tried to step and shifted Sarah's heavy bag on her shoulder. At least it made her feet move. She scrambled up. "God, I'm wearing horrid shoes for this terrain." Making small talk. Her voice echoed faintly. The acoustics were good here, but she really didn't want to think about murdering anybody.

Oh lovely. Now I've had an idea.

It took less effort this time to speak clipped, crisp, tremorless. Her idea was good. She wanted to explore it, and try not to think about other things.

"The soundtrack for this scene. I've been told the soundtrack thus far has been minimal, but I've got a bit of an idea if you're willing to hear it."

She swept her hand around. Think about it like a movie. "This place has wonderful acoustics. Any recording we do here will be excellent, and will have the sort of hollow, haunting quality we want for at least a bit of the next scene. Our next--" A drop of hesitation "--actor is going to be here, is going to be worked up, is going to get more worked up as the scene goes on. I've been sent with a bit of recording equipment--as well as another camera--and we ought to get his heartbeat down on a track. Lay music over it, or keep it minimal, but it will be a nice rhythm-" keep wanking, keep wanking, oh God, make things up "-build tension as the scene progresses, and end lovely--with the death, and the silence. It's a bit of an odd idea--I'm afraid I've watched too many French films--but I wondered if you would consider it."

Thudthudthudthudthud-

Heartbeat symphony.

((Brock Mason continued from Dirty))

Brock was compiling a mental list of things he was really fucking hating at that moment. Even setting aside the inane, like 'wet feet' and 'nachos' (normally an indulgence, turned out they didn't go so great with dry crackers), the list was getting pretty damn long. 'Brock Mason' probably rated highest, because goddamn was he pissing himself off. Alright so he was no Einstein, but surely it should've occurred to even him that taking off alone whilst in the middle of a freaking swamp had been a moronic idea? Well no, no it hadn't because it turned out that right about now, Brock didn't have three brain cells to run together. He'd found Deidre, an actual honest-to-goodness friend. He'd found Jimmy, somebody else on the team. And then what had big dumb Brock done? He'd gone and fucked up, that's what.

Moving off so suddenly had obviously taken the others off guard, by the time Brock looked around to make some remark to Deidre, he was alone. Naturally that left him feeling like a prime idiot, and being in the middle of a swamp - those could go on the list too - really hadn't helped his navigation. Long story short, when Brock emerged from the marshland a couple of hours later, it had been by himself and in an utterly foul mood. He'd pissed away the only good piece of luck he'd had on the island. On that kind of form, Hilary would show up and Brock would crush her ribs hugging her or something.

Then along had come the next reason 'Brock Mason' was heading the list. He'd lost his map. Yup, 100% tried, true and moronic. Brock had made the colossal fuck up of losing the only thing that had the slightest chance of telling him where he was. He had no freaking idea how he'd managed it, but he'd put his hand in his pocket and... bam, it was gone. And Brock was trying to find Hilary to protect her? The way things were going, he needed to be babysat, let alone look after someone else. So that was strike two, and Brock was stuck to using his compass to get a vague sense of where he was going. At least if he kept to one direction, he wouldn't get (more) lost. So Brock had headed south, hoping against hope for another piece of blind luck that would see him run into somebody trustworthy and inwardly assigning item after item to that list of his, always coming back to himself...

Brock's stomach gurgled and he winced. But seriously. Fuck nachos.

The ground shifted slightly under Brock's feet and startled, he stumbled. Snapped out of his thoughts, Brock stopped plodding along and looked at his surroundings for the first time in what felt like hours. Somewhere along the line, dirt and grass had given way to a scattering of shale and rough rocks. Had he really been paying so little attention? It had been gladdening when he finally broke free of the forests, wading across that river dampening his spirits to the point where Brock was just trying to keep moving. He swore softly, head snapping this way and that as he took in what was around him. It looked like he'd run across the entrance of an abandoned mine... but there was no telling who else could have found it first.

You really ain't a smart one, are you, Brock?

The idea was sound and Sarah liked it. Usually the score for a film was implemented during the editing phase however given the sheer raw feel of a heartbeat the concept was something that felt like it very much fit in to the tone that Sarah was intending. If it all went horribly wrong she could just use the raw sound to set the soundtrack to.

"You know Alice, that just might work given the score we want to get across. I'm glad they sent me someone with initiative for once. You'll go far if you stick to your guns." The movement of Brock picking his way carefully through the shale and rocks near the mine entrance proper attracted the girl's attention and Sarah smiled while rolling her eyes. "So now he turns up. Late on set as per usual. No matter."

Pointing at her pack she continued. "Right so it's time to get down to business. Remember professionalism is key in all circumstances. You should find something in there to use because I want lie," Sarah let out a frustrated sigh, "chopping people up is hard work. You would think that with the props and the whole requiring possibly to re-shoot a scene they would make it so the prosthetics were a little easier to work with but nooooo, realism and consistency demands they emulate the body perfectly. Honestly last time I could of sworn the blood was real."

She had to give props to the make up guys, Miranda's blood really looked real when Sarah had stabbed her. "Anyway, so like, obviously we're going to have to go down there just follow my lead, I'm sure you'll pick it up."

Sarah began picking her way down the slope, avoiding loose rocks and debris and called out to Brock as she neared him. "Hey! Hey!" She waved one hand above her head realising she looked quite ridiculous with the huge rifle slung over her back and it did not make moving easy. Grabbing her water bottle (laced with the drug) she called out once more. Her name had been mentioned in the announcements. "Look, I'm not going to shoot - what the man said, it's not true he's just trying to get us to kill each other - I mean Alice wouldn't be hanging with me if was true - right Alice?" Sarah turned and smiled at Alice hopefully. "I know you'll be a little skeptical but here." Sarah threw the water bottle on the ground near Brock. "A gesture of good faith - we're running low but you look real parched. Maybe we can work something out?"

Hell it had worked before maybe it could work again. Although her brother was in the army Sarah had very little knowledge of how to load and fire a gun. Sure she knew the basics but if the weight lifter began to charge there was no possible way she would get a chance to fire. She just hoped Alice would take the blade from her pack if things got down to it. Her camera dangled by her side. The battery was running low and she had kept it turned off to conserve power, she would need as much as possible to do this right. As she watched Brock's response a tingling sensation coursed through her body and her heart leapt, beating wildly with the anticipation of what was to come.

The thudding and pounding of her heart joined Alice's pulsing in the rhythm of a heartbeat symphony.

"Alice, I just heard the most incredible story."

Alice's mama was giggly tonight. She must have been hitting the wine a little too hard. She had just come in from a dinner party, in a burst of cold night air, and had flopped down on the living room couch, next to her daughter. Alice was watching a documentary on Algeria for class. It was muted.

Marie Boucher appeared not to notice. "I was sitting next to Doctor Louis tonight, and he told me a story about an American paleontologist--at least, I think he was American--who had found a man, one of those prehistoric men, in the jungles of Africa, on top of a pile of animal bones, with a weapon, and with the bones of a leopard beside him. The man of course assumed--since everyone did in those days--that the prehistoric old cluck had killed the leopard. So that was the story for a while. But now they've examined the skull and there are bite marks on the neck, and it seems like the man was actually the leopard's prey. So all these paleontologists are revising their theories like mad, and now it seems like humans, spears or no, were hunted in those prehistoric jungles for quite a while. So we're built to be, not predators like everyone thought, but prey."

Mama had recently become loudly environmental, and Alice hoped it was, like her father said, just a phase. The story seemed like an artifact of this trend, and Alice found the entire tale both misanthropic and mildly disturbing. She searched for a way to convey that to her mother without sounding rude.

Finally she settled on "Why do you like that story, Mama? It sounds terrible."

Alice's mother looked down. Her post-party giddiness was starting to fade, and a headache was blooming. But she wouldn't leave, Alice knew--she wouldn't leave until she answered her daughter's question.

Finally she answered, her nail digging into the end-table. "For a long while--even before I started hitting the environmental books, so you won't patronize me like your father does--for a long while I've rather wished humans had predators. Of course I'd hate it if we actually did, so here I am, a bloody hypocrite. But as a species we're so--so institutionally arrogant, so unkillable, and more and more, so bankrupt. I've always wanted something to inspire a little reverence in us, like I imagine it was when everyone believed in gods or some nonsense. Something to scare us, rationally, that wasn't, ultimately, ourselves."

She flicked a chip-polished nail towards the television screen. "Now there are only human monsters. And we revere them and fear them the way we used to fear predators and gods. And we sacrifice our lives to them, in highway murders and pointless wars."

Marie picked up the remote. "Doctor Louis now thinks that the practice of human sacrifice might have come from our fear of predators. Leave one behind to save the others. Even warfare, murder, might have been built up as an instinct to save ourselves from something bigger than us." Her finger searched for the button. "Then we turned on ourselves of course."

She clicked the sound back onto the television, and there was a smash of screaming troops, bleeding Frenchmen and Algerians, and a narrator's voice listing approximate casualty statistics. "Now we've all turned on ourselves, of course."

-----------

Alice hadn't thought of that day since, until now, until here, with Brock Mason in front of her, and the only feeling welling up in her being cold relief. Now I have my sacrifice. She was not the human but the prey, shivering on the island of human monsters. And she saw, starkly, her own situation, how she would struggle to find more sacrifices for Sarah, her predator, her god.

And then what?

And then she would be prey, finally. What she was doing wasn't sustainable. But Alice didn't want to think about that. I'll run away first. Once I'm not so scared.

But she was scared now, and Brock Mason was here, and he was a suitable sacrifice. And Alice held her whip curled in her hand, knowing she could lash it out at a moment's notice, if Mason ran or if Mason charged, and trip him, and keep him here with Sarah.

"…or Alice wouldn't be hanging out with me. Right Alice?"

That was her cue. Alice hadn't the foggiest how intelligent Mason was, but she wasn't going to risk ham-handing it here. People expected her to be prickly and French, so she played the part, raising her eyebrows derisively at Sarah, will this girl stop talking? and then smiling slightly, sharply, like she liked the American anyway. Lies, all lies. But he wouldn't know.

And Sarah tossed him a bottle of water, and Alice gave her a skeptical look, a perfect skeptical look, as though they really were low on water (with two of them? Really?) and wondered if Sarah really was cracked, up to the point of not knowing how to murder, because giving Mason a bottle of water certainly wasn't going to contribute to the cause. Nor was it going to make them look very much more trustworthy. She might better have given him the enormous sniper rifle.

Alice wondered if she would have to step in.

Crap. Turned out that Brock's paranoia was on the mark. There were people about and what's more, one of them had a pretty damn big gun strapped across their back. Not in a state of readiness but still, damn big gun. Actually, now that Brock gave her more than a second glance, she seemed almost fami-

~
It was one of those 'disability' classes that Brock always hated so much. They were only weekly classes, but they served as a repeated reminder as to everything that his disorder had put him through - as if the issues Brock had making it through the school day weren't enough. He supposed that he took enough from them to get past his dyslexia to an extent, but the fact was that he just wasn't too bright.

Still, this was the very first one he'd been at since having been told he'd need to repeat a grade. The faces of the other kids (only a couple of them) were pretty new to him, so the tutor had asked for a little roll call just to make sure they were all introduced.

Rankling in the knowledge that these guys were his new peer group, he'd mumbled "Brock Mason," and they'd moved on around the little circle until they'd come to a girl with brown hair and a ponytail. A girl Brock would later learn didn't suffer quite as severely from dyslexia as he did (lucky). A girl who was called...

"Sarah Atwell."
~

-liar.

She'd won a best kill award.

Oh fuck.

Brock was about to book it from the killer and her crony but at that moment, Sarah started to speak. The footballer stopped in midturn and looked back at her, an incredulous look coming onto his face as she came up with some story. Brock might've believed her, since that Danya guy was clearly an utter asshole, but for the best kill aspect of it. That rifle, whatever it was, had to have been the prize. Brock just didn't see giving out a gun like that for a lie. No, the guy was a twisted fucker. He'd give the award to somebody he thought would make use of it. What kind of moron did Sarah take Brock for anyway to think he'd buy a line like that?

Oh wait. The kind that couldn't even get over a stupid disorder that she'd coped with fine.

Actually, fuck her. Fuck Sarah Atwell and her assessment of his intelligence. Fuck her stupid little sidekick and fuck this 'island' bullshit. Brock knocked the bottle aside with his trainer and started stalking towards the pair of them, not even thinking about his gun (or hers, even), teeth gritted, breath huffing through his nostrils like some kind of bull.

"I get it Sarah. You think just cause I ain't that smart that I'll fall for any line you feed me. Well you ain't FURTHER from the truth! I'm no genius but I ain't no moron either you bitch!"

Brock picked up the pace, starting to flat out charge towards them, the shale crunching beneath his feet. It was like being on the football field again. That there was the quarterback. As his footfalls thundered closer and closer, the adrenaline rush was setting his blood to pumping and his heart to hammering. Thump thump thump thump.

Joining the symphony.

Brock was fast. So fast.
No Brock! Run.
The water bottle spinning away, bouncing away on the rocky ground, lost behind the pounding feet of Brock's oncoming form. The thumping of each footstep rhythmic in nature. Beating, thrumming. Sending reverberation through the ground, jolts passing through Sarah's body. This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

She fumbled for the strap of the rifle, to pull it up. Too slow. She was moving too slow. She gripped down on the barrel, swinging it around. Far too slow. And then he was upon her, the force of the tackle knocking the girl from her feet, one hundred and ninety pounds crashing in to her at full tilt. A flash of pain, impact on the ground, her hand smacking against the rifle, more pain. She swung ineffectively with her left, contact but it seemed pitifully weak, barely enough for Brock to even notice in his fury. She cried out.

She could read, she didn't even know why she had to go. But if her parents said she needed to, then she would. The classes were sparse, less than ten students all together and Sarah knew every one. Must of them were fine really, maybe a little slower on the uptake than most, the segregation harmed more than helped. Some took it harder than others. Brock Mason was one of them. Every time he came to one of the classes it looked liked he had just been sentenced to prison. Sarah tried to keep a happy outlook, sure that the class would help and she had said so to B. rock a few times before, he'd just grunted in response. The boy seemed more focused on his sports anyway. He was kinda hot in a bad-boy kind of way, she knew his type though, not someone to push.
Yes. I remember. I can get out. I can get out!
She moved to hit him again. Contact once again. No effect once again. She tried to swing but Brook grasped her wrists with his powerful hands and pinned her down. He was roaring at her, something loud, she could see the spittle fly from his mouth. This was it, her dreams of a world changing film were ending, all thanks to one simple actor who decided to go a little of script. She couldn't even say anything, so winded was she from the force of the impact and one little thought spun round and around her head.
Save me Brock, make me remember
Where was Alice? Where was Alice?

His hand released her wrist, she shut her eyes and flinched, waiting for the impact that she knew was coming.

Yes. She was cracked. And Brock Mason was charging.

It was time for Alice to step in.

Her mind was scrolling, moving too fast; she was catching only a few thoughts at a time. She was trying to think about fights, and getting the voice of her school's unhelpful P.E. teacher, who had taught a mandatory lesson on women's self-defense every Tuesday for the first month of school. If you're ever attacked, don't hold back. Fight to kill. You're not used to violence, you'll probably hold back instinctively. Compensate for it.

Fight to kill, yes? Alice could probably do it on this island.

She flicked her whip out, and went to wrap his leg. But moving targets--moving targets!--were different from their still, sapling-tree counterparts, and the leather curled half a meter behind him.

And now he was on top Sarah, and for a moment, Alice wondered whether she should just let him kill her. He was raging, hitting her, and she would die, she would have her skull crushed and die--or maybe he won't let her die and she'll know where my colors lay and come after me.

She tried to remember whether Brock Mason was a nice person--one of those whose conscience would get in the way of killing even a proven murderer. He had a soft, dopey face. Alice very badly didn't want him to be.

But he is, he is… the panic welled up in her throat he's going to get a twist of conscience and then she'll come after me...

Safety. Safety. She just wanted safety. She wanted someone to worship, someone to protect her from the ravages of the island. A predator to hide behind, a madman who needed her, someone who thought of her as "assistant", not "prey"…

For now, for now, she wanted to be a precious part of Sarah's delusion. She wasn't thinking in the long-term, because the long-term just made her cry.

Oh Danya, you're going to love me.

Alice scooped up a rock, briefly worried that it was too thin or the crumbly grain before jamming it into the back of Brock Mason's neck.

It worked, sort of. He fell off Sarah (thank the secular gods she's safe), but didn't stop struggling or screaming. Should have thought of this. She jammed the rock into his spine again--I hope I don't break his neck--and again and again and again until she was sure he had stopped, and he was laying limp under her.

Sarah was okay. She was breathing hard, but she was okay. So she can't punish me--I wasn't too slow--right?

Brock's neck was red and streakily bruised, scrapes bleeding shallow. Her rock had red stains on the edge. Her stomach felt sour.

Closed her eyes. Blanked her mind. There were a lot of things she didn't want to think of right now.

She made sure to remove the tremor from her voice. "What do we do next?"

Anybody who knew Brock particularly well would have recognised him at a moment like this. He was usually a quiet type, reserved, content to stay in the background even when hanging out with his friends in the football team. But then, those in the know would say to not take that for being all Brock was. He might have been happy to be part of the scenery 90% of the time, but Brock had a fuse. It was a long one, as it happen, probably above average, but the explosives it was attached to... my were they potent.

And all of that energy was concentrated into the force of Brock smashing into Sarah. A tackle from the footballer on the field of play was bad enough. A tackle with all the built up frustrations of the island behind it? That was something else indeed. The proverbial red mist was down, and the impact of the two bodies sent a shudder through Brock's body. It felt good to let it all out. Sarah swung at him once, twice. They seemed to Brock more like mosquito bites than actual blows, laughably weak. He grabbed hold of her then, yelled something about him not being so dumb anymore, almost unintelligible through his anger.

Then, naturally, Brock was immediately proven wrong on that count.

Crunch.

Brock let out a wordless yell, both hands snapping to his head. Fuck! What the fucking hell hit him!? Brock had made it to his knees, slightly dizzied, when he realised. The other girl. The sidekick. What was her name? She was from France or something. Alice, she wa-

Crunch.

He hadn't-

Crunch.

-Such a

Crunch.

Moron.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Thump.
Thump.
Th-...




...ump.

Thump
Thump

Thump



Thump.



And Sarah opened her eyes, her heart rate returning to normal. Brock was off to one side and Alice, her assistant was standing over him, a bloodied rock in one hand. Slowly Sarah got to her feet, pausing for a second to catch her breath before giving Alice a goofy smile. "Well. That was not how I expected this to go, but you know how film is. Gotta roll with the punches right?" Placing her hands on her knees Sarah tried to will away the pain. Although Brock had not actually hit her the force of the impact was more than enough to cause Sarah to wonder if she hadn't bruised a rib or too. After a few moments she walked over to Alice and unzipped the bag.

"Here, set up this camera here." She pointed over to a relatively flat piece of terrain. "I'm going to start working on a little modification to the costume that the makeup department provided our friend here."
Oh, god no. Please I can't see this happen again.
Walking over to Brock's unconscious form Sarah began to drag the boy over to the flat patch about thirty feet away. The weight of Brock meant she took a few minutes to do so and was out of breath when she had finished. Alice had finished setting up the camera and was looking back at Sarah with uncertainty in her eyes. Glancing up Sarah motioned to her bag again. "I've got some strapping tape in there. Quite a lot actually, can you get that out for me? We need to make sure that he's all snug and tight. Wouldn't want anyone going off script again would we?"
This is wrong! Why aren't you stopping her Alice? Stop her!
Carefully Sarah removed the Sniper Rifle from her back and placed it upsidedown on top of Brock's admittedly large body nestling the barrel under his chin comfortably. Grabbing his arm she moved his hand so that his fingers were pressed close to the trigger and then she flicked off the safety. A round was already chambered. She had read enough to figure out how the gun worked, although she hadn't actually fired it yet. Heading back to Alice who had grabbed the strapping tape from the bag she took the tape from the exchange student and returned to the unconscious Brock. Slowly she began taping. First his hand to the trigger tightly, but enough that he could squeeze it if he needed, then strapping the gun down to his chest so it wouldn't slide at all. Finally his legs and arms, bound tight and secure. Brock was a strong guy and Sarah did not want to make a mistake. She used the entire roll just in case. With that job done she sat down on a nearby rock and rested for a second. After a few minutes she got back up and grabbed a clean bottle of water from the pack. Motioning for Alice to begin filming she took a deep breath and then put on a beaming smile. Looking at Alice she spoke, and in three, two." She mouthed the last number and strolled in to scene. Back on set her heart raced in anticipation once more. Thump thump thump.
Don't make me look.
Unscrewing the bottle she poured the contents over Brock's face and the boy's eyes opened. Groggily at first and then alarmed. "Wakey wakey, hands of snake-y." Sarah said, beaming the whole time. "It is suuuuuuch a pity you didn't believe me. I mean like, what is the world coming to and all." Bending down she grabbed Brock's cheek and tugged on it. "but you're such a big dumdum aren't you Brocky?" Releasing the flesh and giving it a playful slap she stood back up frowning. "I should tell you now, you shouldn't struggle. I assure you that tape is quite secure and you really don't want to accidentally push something you shouldn't." Sarah turned her gaze to Brock's fingers under the tape. "Unless you want to end it all know -but that wouldn't be very fun at all now would it?" She turned and winked at the camera. "So lets play a little game. How about I never? Should I go first?" She crouched down once again, putting her hands on her knees. "I'll go first. hmmm. I never kissed a girl." She lent in close to Brock "Have you?"
You sick bitch.
thumpidty thump.

Alice turned on the camera, and zoomed, and stared.

She sat on the rocks, as far away from Brock and Sarah as she could without looking suspicious. Perched on a rock, knees to her chest. She had strapped him down, taped the gun to him, stuck his fingers to the trigger. She was trying not to imagine how he'd wake up, taped down, ribs clutching his chest, helpless, with the barrel of the gun near his mouth.

How cold must you feel when you know you're going to die?

Alice didn't want to think about it.

Sarah dumped the canteen of water over Brock's head. He came up groggy first, then alarmed. Sarah beamed at him, talking cheerful nothings, nothings, she's going to kill him, she's going to kill him.

And Alice didn't know what to do.

The moral thing, she knew, to do, was to stab Sarah in the back. Free Brock. Give him the sniper rifle. Make him her protector. Not that he would be grateful to her for knocking him out, but maybe…

No. There was no way that she was going to look like some kind of player-killer. She was too uncertain. Brock would leave her. She would be someone else's fodder. Sarah, at least, wasn't leaving her to the wolves.

Because I'm an important part of her delusion.

There was something unsettling about that.

And there were no weapons for her anyway. Her whip wouldn't kill. Sarah had the gun. And unless Sarah had gotten a passable weapon as her first draw--well, no. There was no way she was going through Sarah's bag.

That would break everything.

Sarah winked at the camera. Safe. I'm safe.

And maybe she would never be safe on the island again.

She made an effort, a concerted effort, to listen to Sarah's babble. Typical American inanities.

"So lets play a little game. How about I never? Should I go first?"

Alice pulled a close-up of Brock's wide-eyed grotesque amusement. Contrasted it with Sarah's beaming face. It was comic.

How am I good at this?

"I'll go first. hmmm. I never kissed a girl."

What would people say, if they found her like this? Filming a kill on another girl's orders? Letting a murder-torture-pass right before her eyes? She wanted to think it wasn't torture--Brock wasn't being hurt in any way, just tied up. With a gun to his head. But the tension was terrifying, and with the lens to zoom in, she could see Brock's stiff hands, stilted breaths, and his fear--the Soviets sleep-deprived their prisoners. The Americans in Guantanamo threatened prisoners with dogs. Torture isn't pain--even I can take pain. Pain is mechanical, bearable.

This is torture. The waiting, the helplessness, the ache of stiff ribs, the needing to move, to piss or to breathe, but being scared, scared of the cold, of punishment, of death, the hope somehow that you can escape if you just last long enough, just follow the rules. Follow the rules. You've been a good girl. You've never questioned. You can go home now…

The sinking lost hope. You can't go home again. That was torture.

Sarah was leaning into Brock's face. Terrifying intimacy. Alice zoomed. She was good at this. This was mechanical. This she could do.

Brock, I don't want to see you die.

Alice's heart fluttered wildly in her chest.

"Have you?"

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Footfalls, hammering into the ground. Brock squints up into the sky, back-pedalling. He's mistimed this, he knows. The receiver has wrong footed him and now it's a battle, a battle to track back and get to his opponent before they can catch the ball spiralling from the sky. Brock doesn't want to screw up, oh how desperately he doesn't want to have cost the team here. It isn't that it's a particularly vital or important game, it's that Brock doesn't like blame falling on his head. This is the one thing he's good at...

The ball tumbles towards him and it seems so close, but he knows it's going over his head. A desperate leap and... Brock snatches it out of the air. Monetary surprise, then Brock does all he can think of doing. Puts his head down. Runs.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Brock isn't much of a runner. He's too muscular to be nimble or fleet of foot. Rarely is he in possession in a game. What he has though is power, more than most. The first tackle that comes in is awkwardly timed, Brock drops the shoulder and ploughs straight through the attempted challenge. The interception has thrown the opposition into disarray, he can see nothing but daylight ahead and-

Crunch.

Thump.

Blinding pain to the head. Feels more like a bullet to the skull than a tackle. The ball spins away fades into nothing, Brock stumbles, falls. Why is nobody around him? Where is the field? The players? When did the rain start? Why can't he mo-

Thump.

Water was splashing into his face. Brock spluttered briefly, then his eyes flickered open. First hazy, then, as things came into sharper relief... he visibly paled. He'd thought he was dead when that rock crashed into the back of his head. Lying prone on the ground with his only mobility amounting to suicide; Brock wished he was dead when the rock hit him.

God, why was he such an idiot? Why'd he have to lose it like that, not listen to his head and run for the hills the moment he'd realised who Sarah was? Brock knew she was dangerous, knew that she had backup, but he'd blown his temper like a moron and for all his anger towards Sarah, all his insistences he wasn't stupid... All he'd done was prove the point. He was useless. So useless.

He couldn't breathe. The tape was crushing him. Every shallow, painstaking inhalation caused the gun to dig into his chest. Brock, already half-panicked, started to hyperventilate. His eyes were wide and staring, not even looking at Sarah as she mocked him. The jibes were nothing compared to his own internal assessment of himself. Nothing.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump

Brock was going to die and not only had he blown his only chance to do something about it, he didn't even have the mercy of the death coming swiftly after the failure. He'd known this was going to happen from the beginning, realised that there was no way in hell he could bring himself to play to win... which meant that there was no way in hell Brock Mason was walking off the island alive. Brock had known it. But... there was a difference, when confronted by it like this. He was face to face with his demise. Literally.

You fucked up Brock. It's just another fuck up in a long long line of you fucking the hell up. Ain't nothing more to it than that. Happens you're one of life's great up-fuckers. Shit, guess second prize is that after this, you ain't gonna be fucking up no more, right? Some trophy. Fucked up so bad, it caused an end to all his future fuck ups.

He was dead. He was meat. And mother of fuck he didn't want to die, but there were no miracles here. Soon enough, Sarah would reveal whatever sick plan she had in mind and-

thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump

"I'll go first. hmmm. I never kissed a girl.

Have you?

Have

Have
you

Have you kissed a girl?

You never kissed a girl.

You ever kiss a girl?

Thump.

Hilary

An ice rink. A little chance encounter between two people that shared a school but little else. Except maybe a connection. Perhaps that was cliché or overly romantic. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck.

Hilary.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump

A party. Another meeting, awkwardness, two teens that just can't express themselves. Both shy and both lacking in eloquence. Some say actions speak louder than words. A kiss, in this instance, is worth the mother of all speeches.

Hilary

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Brock couldn't just lie here to die. He couldn't just give it up and wait for the end. She was out there somewhere. Maybe she was hurt, maybe she wasn't even thinking about him. Maybe she needed the guy she had feelings for to wrap his arms around her and tell her that everything would be alright, no matter how much of a lie it would be.

Thump. Thump.

Hilary was on this island. Not striving to do something was little better than abandoning her to die. Brock couldn't let that happen for as long as he lived and breathed. Whilst his heart thump was still beating, he still had a shot. He still had hope. He could still leap into the air and -just- snag that interception.

Thump.

He could, at the very least. Try.

This is for you. All of it.

"I..." Brock spoke hesitantly as he addressed Sarah, smiling into his face. "I kissed a girl. It was the best moment I ever had," he looked down, found himself staring into the barrel of the rifle, swallowed and glanced back up to Sarah. "My turn, right?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I got one. One that I ain't thinking you'll be able to admit to," Brock trailed off, then deliberately slowed himself down, took as deep a breath as his confinement would allow. "I never - 'till just now, decided to do the right thing, even if it was dumb, just cause it was the right thing."

THUMP.

Something that might have been the barest hint of a smile flickered across Brock's lips before he jerked his head forward and spat into Sarah's face, leaning down towards him. At the same moment, he wrenched upon his bonds with all his might, flexed every damn muscle in his body to strain against the tape.

...

It stretched.

In some places, the tape actually tore a little. There was a quiet 'snap'.

Except it was drowned out by the deafening sound of a gunshot.

The abrupt motion of Brock's arm against the tape had jerked his hand. Caused his index finger to tighten its grip, just a little.

Just enough.


B060. BROCK MASON: ELIMINATED

((Alan Rickhall continued from Dirty))
((All GMing of Jimmy Robertson approved by decoy73))

It was always hard to navigate round the island, Alan was never very good at map reading, he would normally only pick up a map in a last resort situation; which is exactly what he had to resort to when he lost track of Brock. It was humiliating to admit, but at one point during their travellings Alan had tripped and nearly fell into a river, he hadn't noticed that the river was there when he turned to give a nervous joke to Jimmy, but he certainly realised it was there when he nearly toppled into it; thank goodness he fell the other way instead when he realised.

He knew that Brock was somewhere nearby, he had to have been, he couldn't have gone far, but then a mine was a very easy place to get lost in and the last thing that Alan wanted was for he and Brock to be wandering around the same mine trying to look for each other, that would be a bit unproductive. He was alone, Jimmy was quite a bit behind him, so Alan was pretty much by himself, unguarded. Alan had plans for Brock, that is if he decided to join Alan's movement, he didn't want to force anyone just yet... What was he saying, he didn't want to force anyone, but if this plan was going to work, Alan would have to push some people around. Nevermind, he would get to that decision later, right now he had to find Brock.

And he did find him, although Alan wished that he hadn't. He really really wished that he hadn't. The scene that Alan was presented with was what he could only describe as some sort of sick torture ritual; Alan had waited nervously for his first encounter with 'The Turned' (A name that he had thought of as he was travelling) and now he had, but he never expected to have been thrown this far into the deep end. Alan didn't know what to do, he didn't want to watch, he was in danger, horrible danger. Brock was being tortured to death. But his tortures couldn't be human, they didn't look human in the low light anyway. They were toying with Brock, he was finished, but Alan had to save himself and more importantly, Jimmy.

He turned back the way he came and silently sprinted down the mine; he met with Jimmy a small while down the tunnel. "Run back, run back." Alan whispered urgently.

"What? Why? What's wrong Alan?" Jimmy whispered back. A loud gunshot echoed through the tunnel.

"That's the problem." Alan almost started to push Jimmy back the way they had came until they had made it out the cave, Alan pushed round the corner, away from the mouth of the cave. Then another thought crossed Alan's mind, what if one of the torturers had heard him running, he was sure he hadn't made a sound, or at least he thought he was. If he hadn't, he had put both his and Jimmy's life in Jeopardy! For a brief moment Alan thought of the giant knife, sitting casually on Jimmy's back, it was just a brief thought.

"We're in trouble. Big trouble." Alan was still whispering "We've found our enemy, our assailant, our-" Jimmy grabbed Alan by the shoulder to calm him down, Alan fell silent.

((Jimmy Robertson continued from Dirty))

Jimmy was following a little ways behind Alan, with a hint of a smile for the first time in three days - he had found allies: like-minded people who wouldn't mind just getting along. Of course, there were slight problems - Jimmy had found a map on the ground - possibly belonging to either Brock or Deidre, but he couldn't be sure (in fact, it did in fact belong to Brock, at least, for the next few minutes). Either way, it would be good to know that Brock had his map, as it wouldn't be very nice for Brock to get lost should they have to part ways. He was thinking about just who else would join them when he noticed Alan coming towards him.

"Run back, run back." He looked desperate, like he had just seen someone get beheaded or something.

""What? Why? What's wrong Alan?"

BANG

"What the ..."

"That's the problem." Alan started to run back as fast as he could, practically pushing Jimmy back to the edge of the mine.

We're in trouble. Big trouble. We've found our enemy, our assailant, our-" Jimmy reassuringly put his hand on Alan's shoulder, and he seemed to respond well to it, calming down.

"Alan. Stay here. I'm going to check it out. If I'm not back here in seven minutes, get out of here. If anyone attacks, yell." Jimmy walked toward the source of the shot, trying to stay quiet, unnoticed, yet quick and light.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Jimmy walked back to where he had heard the shot, and then walked a little bit further to see ...

See, I told you. It was bound to happen sooner or later. It was Brock. Strike that. Brock's body. There was blood everywhere, emanating from a hole in his chin, and a from larger one that had taken off most of the top of his head. It wasn't that part which really scared him.

The rifle. It was taped to Brock's body, and his hands taped to what could only be the trigger. And sitting by him, as calm as could be, was a girl. Acting like this was all no, never mind to her. Sarah Atwell. She'd been the one around school with a camera, creating some sort of video yearbook.

Again, I told you, she's given in. (SHUT UP! She's just ... she's scared is all.) Yeah. She's so scared. So scared that she took a sniper rifle and forced Brock to pull the trigger on himself. Face it, baby. She's playing to win. Jimmy just threw caution to the wind and ran out of there, back towards Alan, and hopefully safety.

"We need to get out of here. Sarah Atwell's down there. She's killed Brock and if she sees us, we're next." Any vestige of optimism was gone from his voice. They were in legitimate trouble

Do you think you can do it? Do you think you can bring yourself to fight her to save Alan? Or yourself? (I don't know)