Survival Of The Fittest

Mariavel from: Life, Liberty, and Death



The great waves crashed against the shore of the marina as the rain poured down upon the grey and sorrowful scene. Perhaps it was a bit overcautious, but the entire Marina was full to the brim with soldiers, each one carrying a heavy load of artillery. The boat that brought them to the island was lined with snipers and, deep inside, sat the small army's commanding officer, Steven Wilson. Although he really didn't care, being away from all the annoying deskwork he's become accustomed to, he really despised waiting this long. Both students who were supposed to receive weapons, were half a day late. Wilson removed his Sunglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose softly. This kind of work always got his worked up. A loud noise from the ship's deck forced him out of his thoughts. He placed his sunglasses back onto his rough face and went up to take a look.

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The wet sand hindered her progress slightly, but the soaked and angry form of one Miss Mariavel Varella slowly trudged her way to the Marina, pistol in hand, ready for anything. She quickly jogged to the entrance and climbed the steps cautiously. She'd learned that being cautious was the only way to survive on this godforsaken island. She saw a large ship around 50 yards in front of her. Slowly she walked towards it, hoping upon hope she wouldn't find anymore surprises today. When she was around 20 yards away, she suddenly heard the safeties on about thirty guns click off. She looked around her to find that all of them were trained on her small form. She soon realized why, and shoved the pistol down the front of her jeans, safety on.

She turned to look at the boat when she heard the cabin door slam open, and she saw one of the few people in the world she utterly loathed at the moment. Steven Wilson, her ex-principal. What a fucker he was. She'd been in his office so many times it was pathetic. Weather it was for smoking on school premises (though truthfully she didn't smoke much), or for having another altercation with Jenna (who was still alive as far as she could tell), or even skipping some of her classes (even though she kept a steady 3.0 GPA). This man was her mortal enemy, and here he was, cool as can be. It really pissed her the fuck off. Lavvy was dead… all because of him, her best friend was dead because of this fucking bastard. He was gonna get it one day. She'd make sure of it.

"Principal Wilson! How horrible to see that ugly mug again. Perhaps you've come to make up for KILLING all of us you fucking bastard!" Being subtle really wasn't one of Mariavel's strong points. She'd much rather just vent.

"Well, It's certainly a pleasure seeing you again Miss Varella. I never thought you'd get over that little molestation you had." He half smirked as he said it.

"Fuck you asshole!"

"Still firey, eh? Well, it's to be expected. I quite enjoyed your murder of Mr. Finlayson. Yes, quite the show Miss Varella. You've got spunk. I have quite the expectation of you and the rest of my ex-student's. Don't let me down." With that said he threw down the bag Marked "G25". It landed with a thump a few feet in front of her. She quickly grabbed it and removed the hefty weapon. The rifle was amazing, and Mariavel immediately swung it over her shoulder. She turned and ran, out of the marina, and out of the Western shore, searching for the girl who killed her friend.

"Yes…. Run little girl… run." Wilson smiled, and returned to the interior of the ship, awaiting the next student.


Mariavel continued: Elsewhere

((Continued from "Your Luck Has Reached Its End."))

Franco watched with a small grin on his face as he watched the voluptuous young lady run off into the distance. He assumed it was the other prize winner G25, but he wasn't making any assumptions. She certainly was his type, attractive and probably slutty by his estimation. Nevertheless, that was his opinion on most women. He smirked and murmured a few words under his breath.

"What's her rush?"

He looked back to see if Nathan was following, he honestly cared very little now, with Russell dead the prospect of gaining allies as loyal and useful seemed pretty grim. Still, the waste of skin might be a useful meat shield. A sudden throbbing pain shot through his chest.

Shit. Why now?

Franco kneeled over, grasping at his heart. The pain shot through his chest and burned all through his torso, he took calculated deep breaths and gritted his teeth. He realized how fortunate he was to have not had any similar bouts yet. He had to pull through, there were no doctors out here and he wasn't going to let his weak heart do him in after all this. He'd been pacing himself thus far on the island, he didn't have much endurance anyway but he was careful not to run or exert himself, knowing one: he probably couldn't outrun or overpower anyone anyway and two: his damn heart.

After a few more moments of agony he stood up, hoping that Nathan hadn't seen, but if he had, Franco had a barrage of lies waiting to quell his concern. He gathered up his supplies again, noting the power of his arsenal, which was getting considerably heavy. A grenade launcher with seven remaining sponge grenades, all of which were re-loadable due to their non-lethal nature, seven remaining percussion grenades which, he found, were powerful enough to turn a small kiosk into mere rubble when fired from his weapon, his Beretta shotgun, courtesy of the his first best kill award and the tazer that he'd looted from his now deceased ally (who in turn had looted t from that chick he‘d killed).

He was curious as to what he'd be getting now. He strolled up casually, visibly perturbed by the rain. His once elegant black and white business suit was now heavily saturated in rain, despite his best efforts to keep dry; the rain was coming down really heavy.

He noticed a different terrorist then last time, instead of a huge looming black guy, there was curt looking man who looked like an army officer. He was grinning; Franco figured he might be able to work his charm on this man a little better, despite the fact that he was late.

"Evening, sir," Franco nodded his head in an improvised bow, he'd been through all this before, he say no reason to be cautious. "Sorry about the tardiness, but we ran into a slight delay in the mall."

Franco grinned and relaxed his grip on the Beretta shotgun.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," he wiped a rain swept strand of his light brown her backwards, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. "I'm Franco Sebberts, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Father would be proud.

Wilson was just about to round the corner and take refuge in the battleship until he heard the voice of a boy ring out. He turned and viewed the other competition winner, Franco Sebberts. The boy tried to talk his way out of being so damn late, but all he did was annoy him. Too bad he didn't have the authority to kill these kids. He frowned and hefted up the second bag on board. This one carried another gun, the star superstar to be exact. Wilson threw the bag down to the boy and sneered at him.

"I know who you are Sebberts. Do well to continue your killing. You have but three minutes to escape this Marina. Good day to you sir." Wilson patronized before entering the ship's hull. After the boy was gone they'd set out. He sure was tired of this place.

Franco sneered as the other terrorist turned his back and walked into the ship. They certainly didn't buy into diplomacy and gentility one bit. What a shame. He was hoping he could reach some sort of agreement or meet eye to eye with some of the terrorist, maybe do something for them in exchange for his own freedom.

Still, Franco was young and naive and only beginning to see things for the perspective of others whether he choose to empathize with them or not was another thing entirely.

Disgruntled and soaked, Franco took up the newest addition to his arsenal and walked steadily away from the marina. He would take his victories where he could get them; he stormed off. Ignorant of what was becoming a painful amount of weight in weapons, he plodded through the rain with the intention to relieve himself of some of his extra ammo. He wondered if he would go down in Survival of the Fittest history as the most heavily armed student on the island.

He wasn't all that familiar with the first SOTF (aside from the basic happens of it) and wondered if any of the psycho-kids were nearly as heavily armed. Luck was on his side, even if everyone else was against him. He panted, his poor health catching up with him, as he trudged up the shore for a new destination.  The effects of the island were starting to set in for the young man. The loss of Russell was a harsh blow, and the increasing physical taxation was nothing to be happy about. His grin was getting increasily less commonplace, replaced now with a harsh, disapproving visage.

Not taking the time to look for his new ally, Nathan, he took off into the trees.

He was getting tired of carrying all this stuff around and not having a chance to use it.

((Continued in Restraining Order: Part Two))