Survival Of The Fittest

((Jasper Bustamante continued from Self Doubts and Hurricanes))

He'd lost Henry.

Jasper had followed him down the shore, back to the docks and the warehouse, but he was nowhere in sight. He figured that Henry had moved on, and Jasper continued north, towards northern tip of the island.

The trip was exhausting. Jasper had his own bag strapped to his back, while he hugged Henry's to his chest. He couldn't really use it for anything else. The supplies inside were too precious to be dumped, but he also couldn't bring himself to use any of Henry's supplies. He'd resigned to hanging onto it, hoping that he'd be able to return them soon.

Jasper had stopped to rest in the cove, plopping down on the sand and watching the sun set over the ocean. The sight put him at ease, but he knew that he'd have to find a place to sleep for the night. He couldn't leave the cove:  partially because he didn't want to haul the bags out, but mostly because he didn't want to be out and about in the dark.

He ended up making was in one of the dinghies - he wouldn't dare sleep out in the open beach, and the cave didn't seem comfortable. Jasper had always had trouble falling asleep, but doing so while curled up in a boat was much harder. After a couple hours of fitful rest he was awoken by crackling speakers and a voice that brought back terrible, terrible memories.

The voice told him that his friends had died. People like Abby and Barry and Cristo, people he knew, were all dead. Killed by people like Alvaro and Nancy and Kimiko - nice people, people he'd seen only a few days before in class.

But now they had blood on their hands.

Jasper felt his eyes watering up, but this time Henry wasn't around to cheer him up. Nobody was. He regretted chasing after Henry, like a sheep straying from its herd. He'd still feel guilty if he'd stayed with Coleen and Arthur, but at least he'd be with someone. But now they were probably together somewhere, and he was alone.

Jasper laid still after the announcement ended, staring up at the sky and tearing up. He covered his eyes with one arm and started weeping.

He really needed someone right now.

(Tara Behzad running from The World Turned Upside Down)

She ran.

She started the moment a third person moved to join them, her head full of memories and visions of interlopers from past versions. A moment's guilt, as she thought of Hazel and her friend, making sure she was safe, making sure she hadn't been attacked. Good folks. Really good. But-

Always that but. Always that thought. She knew how dangerous things were. She knew she was going to die, but she wasn't going to die today.

Briefly, she even recalled another runner from another version. David...something. Always running. Never lingering one place, as crises and killing besieged him on all sides. 

She had less reason. And more. Had to run. To do otherwise would be to let the ghosts take shape. 

Along her coursing way she heard the screams and shouts, the laughs and glad cries, the sounds of battle. Along the way, she felt the island coming alive. She remember strong bold words that meant nothing. She remembered.

They had been beaten before, more than once. The game rarely went off without a hitch. There was always someone somewhere working, struggling, trying to bring justice, trying to find answers. 

Evening found her running along the shoreline, the sting of salt in her nostrils and in her throat, making her parched lips tremble with the need for the water she would not drink. It was hours since she'd started feeling dizzy, hours since she'd started feeling weak. She'd slowed, but she hadn't stopped. She wouldn't stop. Pain was clarity, giving her a sense of purpose, a sense of life.

She would die, and there would be no such pain. 

Finally, her quivering legs could carry her no farther. She sank into the damp sand next to an oblong piece of driftwood, and trembling fingers unzipped her bag and found a water bottle. She wanted to drink it all in one great swallow, but that was weakness, that was her body mastering her, and she would not allow that, she had never allowed that.

Half the bottle only, in four careful swallows. Her neck ached where the collar had been pulled tight against her throat. Then she closed her eyes.

When she awoke, it was dark. The moon had come and gone, and the stars were fading out. She stared into the bleak blue-black sky, her body aching from her run and from her fall, her throat parched and bruised. She looked like a victim already.

Not a victim never a victim I am me I am Tara I am not weak I am not

"Good morning ladies, gentlemen and those of unspecified gender. If you're hearing this, then congratulations. You're still alive."

Her breathing caught in her aching throat. She stared up into the sky, as though she could see the man speaking. In spite of herself, she smiled slightly. Yes. Alive. Alive. Alive.

"Our first casualty of the festivities was Jennifer Su. Friendly reminder not to play on the edge of bridges, guys. Florentina Luz found herself with a second smile when she ran into Isabel Ramirez in a bad mood; let's give a warm round of applause for the first person to bite the bullet and take someone else out."

One of the Luz girls was dead, huh? Didn't know how she was related to Lizzie. Wasn't sure it mattered. Dead was dead, and Lizzie had been so hopeful. Hated to see it.

"If you ever wondered who would be a bad person to run into in a dark room, well, you have your answer in Kimiko Kao. You have Cristóbal Morales to thank for making that discovery..."

She blinked. Cris? By...Kimiko? She had a vague impression of a slight Asian woman with a comic book in hand. Cute, too.

Do I have an Asian fetish?

Cute, to be a killer. To kill a man who hadn't even thought about his own death, before...

What happened to his friend? What happened to Abby?

"Abigail Floyd was our next to die. She opted out by slashing her wrists, making it just that little bit easier for all the rest of you."

No. Was that the same Abby? It could be, couldn't it? There'd been such naked joy in their voices. She could imagine what might have followed, if the one had died and that joy had come crashing down around them. She'd been there.

Raynor. Wherever you are. I hope you watch.

Her finger traced the scar along the inside of her wrist.

"Alex Tarquin got on the board when he went Rambo and slashed a piece out of Rea Adams. Nice form, Mr Tarquin."

Ego hadn't protected him very long, had it? Maybe there was a lie there, but it seemed hard to imagine how he could have accidentally slashed someone to death. More to the story, but there was always more to the story. Someone always failed.

Someone always failed.

The man mentioned something about a Supply Depot. She ignored that, until her collar beeped.

Oh.

She touched the metal with a delicate finger, tugged it so it pulled against her bruises, listened to its deadly tones.

She could sit here, and end it just like Abby had (might have?). But while she had no great joy to guide her through, neither did she have any great tragedy. She was not ready to die yet.

She was not ready to die happy.

She rose creakily to her feet, completely without haste. Her head swam dizzily, and she grabbed the half-empty water bottle, took a swig as salt stung her nostrils and sand scratched her underneath her clothes. She grabbed the oblong piece of driftwood and swung it over her shoulder, like the machete Alex had held. Like the one he might have...

She wasn't sure which was better. The machete, or the big-ass sword along his back. Lizzie's sword.

A dead Luz. A dead Cris. A dead Abby. Alex Tarquin made a killer. And another woman, whose name had been spoken twice already. Once could be coincidence, but twice in one day?

Twice meant a player.

They can still tempt us to be our worst, she thought, in answer to the boy's voice in her head.

The sky was lightening as she strolled. She was wandering aimlessly, her unfocused thoughts drifting like the wood in her hand upon the ocean, swept by tides too deep for her to name. She drifted along a low expanse of beach, humming softly to herself, the driftwood over her shoulder.  She slowly came to a stop, and looked east towards the pink-and-gold vanguard of the sunrise. As she looked away, she saw a camera set agaisnt the cliffs.

She set down the piece of driftwood in her hand, and reached into her bag, fishing out the Crisco, her lighter, and a vial of red nail polish. She set to work with the nail polish first, in clean precise strokes on the driftwood. When she was done, she sat back, and stared at what she'd written.

In Memoriam: Cristobal Morales and Abigail Floyd, who were happy before they died

She lifted the piece of driftwood, turned it east, towards the rising sun, then west, to where it would set at day's end. Lastly, she lifted it towards the sky, as though daring God to read it.

She set it down, and set to work again. Gathering scrap from all along the beach, dead leaves and grass and twigs and whatever else she could find. She set the driftwood down upon the makeshift pyre, and did her best to light it. It took a few attempts: the lighter was for cigarettes, not for this kind of work, and even if she didn't fear the heat it was a rather clumsy thing. But eventually, she got the fire going. Nothing she'd used was particularly clean or dead, so a thick curl of dark smoke rose up at once. She inhaled deeply, let herself cough so it panged her neck and throat still more. It reached the driftwood, and touched the nail polish, and the toxic sickly-sweet scent was at once alluring and revolting.

She grabbed the Crisco and peeled back its top. The stuff within was crumbly and chalky to the touch, but the residue was greasy and slippery as she'd expected. Experimentally, she patted it down along the back of her left arm, tracing her skin with subtle fingertips, raising goosebumps along her shoulders and neck.

But she needed clarity now, if she was going to do better than Cris and Abby.

She held her left arm above the fire, palm up. She felt the grease on her arm start to crackle and pop, acrid and awful, sunburn magnified a hundred times. She gasped involuntarily, took a step back. Then an awful look of hate and anger crossed her face, contorted it to a narrow snarling point. She almost lunged forwards, lowering her arm further, punishing herself for the moment's show of weakness.

It was only pain, and if there was any hope of dying happy in this hell, she would need to master it.

As her memorial to Cris and Abby burned, so did she.

((Junko Kurosawa continued from Slow Motion Rocky Punches))

Junko stopped jogging. Stopped humming. She just stood there, her shoes sinking into the wet sand. It wasn't long before some new challengers had shown up. From some feet away, she saw the smoke rising into the sky like a beacon from what appeared to be some kind of bonfire. That's what she thought it was, based off the orange light on the ground.

Should she approach that, or just bolt for it?

Junko thought for a second, then slid the bat out of the bag. It felt a little better on her shoulders, anyways. The extra food and water, plus the hammer, made things a little heavier. She still had no idea what to do with the hammer, but she didn't throw it out. She liked the bat better, though. It seemed more comfortable in her hands. So she took a few steps forward.

As she did, she heard a few sobbing noises. She turned her head, and just barely noticed what seemed to be the shape of a person lying in a dinghy. Well, that cleared things up, didn't it? Fires on the beach, and someone crying inside a boat. She couldn't tell who anyone was, either, which made things even more weird. Also, who starts a campfire in the morning, anyways?

Junko placed herself in between the dinghy and the fire. She slung the bat over her shoulder casually. She tried to think of a witty one-liner, maybe some kind of boat or fire pun, but she couldn't think of anything. So she thought of the next best thing. She cleared her throat, looked back and forth at the person in the boat, then back at the person standing near the bonfire. Then:

"Good morning!"

Her voice was friendly. However, the muscles in her limbs were tight.

As he sobbed, Jasper became acutely aware of some footsteps near him. He laid completely still, praying whoever it was didn't come any closer. Thankfully, whoever they were, they were skittering around down the shoreline, never edging closer to his location. His plan to wait the mysterious person out was foiled by another set of footsteps approaching and shouting. Jasper jumped at the sudden loudness, but it still sounded like a friendly voice.

Jasper slowly sat up, resting his chin on Henry's bag. "Uh, g'morning," he replied sheepishly, flashing a shaky smile. Junko, the girl who shouted, was a familiar face: they were in the same grade, and he'd shared a couple of classes with her. But Jasper couldn't remember ever holding a conversation before: maybe they'd spoken years ago, but there was no way he could know.

But stranger or not, he was glad to see her. She was infinitely better than some mystery upperclassman, or one of the killers out there. Sure, she had the bat, but she didn't sound dangerous. Maybe he could trust her.

His eyes wandered, and he caught sight of a bonfire down the beach. Jasper briefly wondered why they'd started a fire before he realized another girl was sticking her arm into it.

His jaw dropped.

"Good morning!"

Tara stiffened in surprise, pulling her arm from the fire and whirling to face the source of the sound. She felt the tight pinching pain in her arm, and held it down at her side, breathing slow and shallow. She didn't think anyone who said "good morning" was an enemy, or at least not a very clever one, but this was not how she wanted to be found. She had not wanted to be caught off-guard.

She couldn't quite make out the person standing close to the dinghy. But she could see the bat on their shoulder.

"People are dead," Tara said. "I don't think there's anything good about it."

For a moment, Junko wondered if this was a good idea. She had no idea what boat person and fire person got weapon-wise, so she may have ended up getting herself into a bit of a problem. But a head popped out of the boat, and Junko recognized it as Jasper Bustamante. He was a vlogger, a member of the soccer team, a furry or something like that… and that's all Junko could remember off the top of her head. Wait, wasn't he friends with Caedyn too? Joy.

He'd given her a nervous smile and a greeting of his own. Junko gave a slight smile in turn. However, her eyes looked him up and down. She didn't see a weapon, so he probably couldn't do much right now, could he? However, his expression changed, as if he saw something just out of her vision. Her gaze followed, and-

For what felt like her entire life, Junko was familiar with "challenges." In elementary, she and her friends got into trouble for things like snorting sriracha up their noses. Not much had honestly changed since then: whenever there was one of those dumb Internet challenges people had, Junko was usually the first to try it. Eating cinnamon? Done that. Her doing the ice bucket thing was largely an excuse to pour ice all over herself, to be honest. Salt and ice, bug eating, chubby bunny, saltines? Yeah, those too. Point is, she didn't do it all the time, but there was a lot she'd tried.

But Tara Behzad's attempt at what appeared to be some kind of fire challenge… well, even Junko had her limits.

Was it appropriate to joke about that, or anything? Well, was it? Well, if "Beat a Classmate" and "Mug a Murderer" ever became a challenge like that, she'd already completed both. Okay, yeah, some joking is okay, she guessed.

Anyways, Tara. Kind of an odd person to begin with. She was a runner too, but she'd always been a bit of an enigma, that one. Pretty much a quiet type. Junko looked into her memories, to try to remember if Tara was the type to cover her arm in shortening- was that what that was? - and light herself on fire. Okay, yeah, her mind was running a blank right now.

For a moment, Tara's words brought back another image. Mr. Graham came back. The terror etched into his face, the way that guy stepped behind him, the blood spraying everywhere, it all replayed. Junko's smile faltered. It was not at what Tara was doing. But she picked it back up a second later.

"Well, my mistake. I guess ‘shitty morning' is more appropriate?" Junko said, with a quiet chuckle.

Tara didn't appear to be armed, other than with fire and Crisco. Okay, what can she do here? Was she just… supposed to walk away? Fight them? She could probably try the latter if she wanted, but two people might make things a little more difficult. Alliance? Was that even safe? They weren't dumb like Darius, or murderers, but you know. Better safe than sorry.

Gah, this was one big mistake, wasn't it? She wasn't sure. All she knew was that she saw smoke and fire, then came across this little scene. Okay, time to strategize. She didn't think she needed any more food and water right now, so she didn't need to steal from them too, did she?

In any case, she once again kept her grip on the bat tight.

Fire Girl's voice sounded familiar - it brought to mind the face of an upperclassman, a voice overheard in the cafeteria and a face see in in the hallways. He couldn't think of a name, though.

The conversation wasn't too positive. All Jasper could do was nod along. "Yeah...it isn't that great…" He added meekly, sinking back into the dinghy. Fire Girl didn't need to remind him that people had died.

He glanced over at her arm and winced again.

"...Are you okay?"

Tara smiled slightly.  "Yeah," she said.  "A really shitty morning."

A tentative voice from the dinghy.  She turned, saw Jasper's diminuitive form peeking out, hesitant.  Well, that was smart.  This was a weird place to play bold.  But then, what other choice did you have?

She considered his questions for a moment, then flipped her arm over and stared at the shining red of her skin, the bubbles of blistered and broken flesh.  No trace of the shortening, besides a faint greasy gleam on the peripheries of her burn mark.  She nodded, and sat unceremoniously in the sand, pulling out the first aid kit.  Burns were new to her: she preferred pain that was a little easier to hide and treat.  Although...if she'd worked in a kitchen she could have given ehrself grease burns ad infinitum with no one the wiser.  Missed opportunity.

Her thoughts felt very distant.  Her head felt very light.  Her throat felt very dry.

"No," she said.  "Not."

She started treating the wound she'd inflicted on herself.

"I met Cris and Abby, before Kimiko..."  She trailed off, and shook her head.  "Cris hadn't thought about how he wanted to die.  Hadn't even..."  There was a tremor in her voice.  Was that exhaustion, or something emotional?  Even she wasn't sure.

"He wanted to find Abby," she said.  "He was so happy when he..."

Her vision felt a little fuzzy, black bars encroaching on what she could see.

"So," she said, gesturing to the fire slowly dying at her side.  "My memorial, for the dead who didn't deserve it.  A fire, and my flesh."  She pulled bandages tight across the bubbled skin, leaned back into the sand as her head swam.

"How do you guys want to die?" she called, and her voice sounded weak even to her ears.

Well, then. Jasper had asked if Tara was okay after, y'know, sticking her arm in a bonfire. She flat-out stated "no", but it wasn't the flames. Apparently, Tara had run into Other Cris and Abby before they… "lost." Junko looked her over as she fished out that first aid kit. Yeah, that arm didn't look good, did it? No shit it wouldn't look good after being roasted.

Then Tara said it, and Junko tensed up.

"How to die, huh…" she said quietly.

She briefly looked off to the side, in thought. She didn't think about dying too much since she got here. Well, she thought of ways she could die. She thought of Mr. Graham. But she didn't think of the way she'd like to go out. Not really. But after a second, Junko knew her answer.

Should she say it, though?

Junko once again moved her head to look back and forth between Jasper and Tara. She decided ‘yes.'

"I made a decision, a long time ago. I saw Mr. Graham die, like everyone else, and... I don't want to die like that. I'm not going to die like that. Period."

Her muscles were primed to go. If this turned out to be a scary movie ‘I'm about to kill you' sort of question, well, she could act. She had a bat for a reason.

"If I have to die, I have to go down swinging."

Her knuckles turned white against the bat for emphasis.

"And no, that doesn't mean I'm going to just… I dunno, kill random people. I'm not a killer, remember the announcements? But I'll do whatever it takes, and…"

She trailed off. Junko decided she didn't like this question. She wasn't sure why Tara felt that burning driftwood and herself was a way to mourn for other people, nor was she sure where she was going with this. For a moment, Junko even wondered if she should ask if she needed help with her arm. It wasn't like she knew a shit-ton about first aid, but she knew some things. Tara looked weak and in pain, too. But, she decided against it. Pragmatism? Well, she was technically still the enemy right now. For a moment, she felt a twinge of something familiar, but she pushed it aside. It was a feeling she'd realized was useless some time ago.

((Leslie Price continued from No More Amazons))

The Mute Bitch, Kimiko, had killed Cristóbal. That was all Leslie had really paid attention to in that announcement several minutes ago, and it planted the faintest seed of anger inside her. It hadn't grown enough to make her completely lose it, but just enough to utterly dominate her thought. It had grown steadily, taking root in the rich soil of Leslie's usual, all-pervasive contempt for others and for life in general but rising sprouting, rising far, far beyond it.

The contempt had never been anywhere near this kind of boiling, seething anger. She hadn't felt it -- no, hadn't allowed herself to feel it since that hateful day in '09. The authorities, be they her parents or the school staff or the police or other people, unconsciously, had never allowed her to feel it after they saw her nearly tear into that other girl. Everyone had really begun to treat her much differently afterward. She had to slowly and painfully rebuild her life from the ground up again. Everyone remembered what she'd done and everyone refused to let it go, no matter how many years had passed.

But this was far above her normal contempt. It was hatred, it was fury, anger, rage. It was all about Kimiko. The two were never even remotely close, of course. But even from what little run-ins they had had with each other they could feel each other's temperament viscerally and neither wanted any part of it. Kimiko was one of those GODDAMN anti-bullying types who had nothing better to do than try to fuck shit up for anyone who didn't get with it and play nice with everyone, and Leslie could see that, too. She tried to avoid the bitch, but Cochise was small and there were so many places where they couldn't avoid being in mutual groups.

So Kimiko, the BITCH, would apparently always try to start shit with anyone she could get her hands on about Leslie. Students, coaches, teachers, it didn't matter. Because of her goddamn high and mighty do-gooder instinct, Leslie always was the one taken aside and fingered out for those INFURIATING, close little passive-aggressive talks with authorities, everyone kept an eye on her, everyone took her to task for every little damn thing she did wrong in their presence and couldn't leave her the FUCK ALONE!

Leslie's fists were balled up now, as though Kimiko would just remotely crumple up and vanish from the sheer force of the rage. She was an absolute fucking prat, a goddamn busybody who seemed to have something fucking IN for Leslie whenever they came even close she didn't deserve that prize she didn't deserve to goddamn fucking BREATHE after what she'd done to Cris, one of the few half-decent folks Leslie had ever actually spoken to. She wanted to RIP the gossiping, conniving, conspiring little piece of SHIT in half for all that, damn it!

But walks were long and the island was short. She walked with her anger, she crept with her anger, she stumbled and fell but soldiered on all with her anger. It was as though she were on autopilot. Fly-by wire, controlled from the tower. The passengers are half-asleep and the in-flight entertainment only shows the song and movie 'Leslie Hates Kimiko Redux' over and over and over like a nightmare. She hadn't the slightest clue where Kimiko was, really, she was just working out the kinks in her nerves and releasing pent-up energy doing this.

She crept over the bridge, took a left swerve at the asylum end, walked along the beach, and ended up near the cove. She stealed away next to the cave she saw before moving in.

There were a few people there, probably. But it was as good as any shelter could be, she was utterly defenseless against ranged weaponry one way or the other. From eavesdropping for a few moments, she only recognized Junko and some other guys' voices.

She calmly slung her bag over the shoulder and strolled in casually. A small fire, probably made out of driftwood because there weren't too many trees on this island-

And right there she could see, about as clear as the dim, overcast day would let her, the wounded girl from the previous morning.

Everything felt so strangely... drained. All she could manage was a meek, uncharacteristic sound.

"Uh, hey."

She wasn't. Of course she wasn't. Of course she was in pain. But she didn't act like it. Fire Girl was calm and unperturbed, handling her burn wounds terrifyingly well. Jasper didn't know if she had incredible constitution or if he was just weak.

It was probably both.

Then Fire Girl asked them how they wanted to die. The question hit him like a gust of cold air, sending goosebumps up his arm and a chill down his spine. He didn't need to think about this. He needed to find friends and allies, people like Henry and Arthur and Coleen. He hugged the bag tighter to his chest as he thought of them. He needed to return.

Junko answered her instead, asserting that she'd fight to survive. He supposed it was the most rational thing to do, but it still broke Jasper's heart. They were all wonderful, good, well-adjusted teenagers. They weren't supposed to be fighting like this, hacking and slashing each other for a concept that had been guaranteed to them by the society they lived in. None of them should have to resort to that. None of them deserved this madness.


"‘Whatever it takes'?" He echoed, taken aback. He was silent for a moment, before choking back a sob and burying his face in his hands. "Oh god…"

"Why? Why do you have to fight people?" The answer was obvious, but he didn't want to think of it. "I know we're all going to…" he choked up as he said it. "Die, can't we all just spend our last days in peace?" He asked, looking up at both of girls.

"Can't we all just be happy?"

Before either of them said anything, another girl appeared, vaguely recognizable as another classmate. Another familiar face he was now pitted against.

He smiled weakly at the newcomer, lifting a hand for a slight wave.

"Hey."

Silence.  In part because she was thinking over what they had said.  In part because her head was swimming, her arm was tight and crackling, her vision blurry.  Had she pushed herself too far?

Go down swinging.  

Can't we all just be happy?

"What's the point?" she asked.

A moment's silence.  It took her a second to figure out she'd actually spoken.

"Go down swinging," she said.  "You're not alone.  Lotta people are gonna go down swinging.  Lotta people already have.  Yesterday.  And in all the games before."

"And happy?"  She shook her head, though she was smiling slightly.  "It's a...it's a nice thought," she admitted.  "I'd like it.  But even if you did..."  She tapped the collar on her neck, and the slight reverberation undulated across the ragged scraped and bruises on her throat.

"Can you be happy?" she asked.  "Can you go down swinging?  Can you-"

A new voice.  Tara struggled to crane her head, her neck fighting her for every inch.  Leslie Price.  Tall.  Kind of a statuesque stunner, really.  They'd met in some writing group.  She couldn't remember which one.

"Hey," she said.  "How've you been?"

Could they just be happy?

Could they just get along?

Junko felt her eyes narrow. It wasn't like everyone else was going to get along. Sure, try getting along with Jazzy, Miss Murderer, herself. Junko didn't, even before she knew she'd killed someone. Sure, Junko was the one who attacked her, but you know. To her, fighting seemed somewhat obvious. If you fight, you at least have a shot of actually living, right? Even if it meant-

She pushed that thought to the side, too.

Junko flinched a bit at the sound of someone else showing up. She turned her head, and… oh. Leslie "Rage Bomb" Price. Right. Junko's eyes once again did the familiar up and down motion. And once again, she didn't see anything. Though, you still could never know.

She simply tilted her head to the side, as she continued looking over Leslie. Leslie was, again, a rage bomb. Junko honestly didn't know much about her other than that.

"What's the point?" Junko asked, snapping her head towards Tara. "Well, if I die, I can at least say that I fought, y'know? I tried. I don't think that's gonna happen, though. I've been taking pretty good care of myself already."

She'd fought Darius. She'd overpowered Jasmine. Whoever she ended up fighting next, she could once again get on top. Right? Right.

The wounded girl from the previous morning was what Leslie's eyes were drawn to first. Beside the reddened, burned arm, she was essentially the same as she had been yesterday, except in greater detail. She looked vaguely familiar. All three of them seemed familiar to varying extents, really; the world was small and Cochise even smaller. Everyone on the island had probably bumped into or at least seen each other at some point, which compounded their misery.

Leslie had been listening into the conversation for just long enough to realize what it was about and couldn't help but feel as though all of them were a few minutes too late. Any earlier, and they could have caught her right in the middle of one of her infamous 'ragebombs', as Junko had put it once. Her mind had drained itself of the hatred for now. That aimless sense of non-emotion had reasserted itself.

Without that burning, searing hatred inside her mind, Leslie just couldn't figure out a good way to insert herself into the discussion. She needed more information, more of a sense of where this talk was going before getting in on it and as much as it seemed an opportunity to get it wouldn't arrive, she had to.

She slumped against the far cave wall, as though out of energy, and sat. Then listened.

They couldn't.

Fire Girl thought it was pointless, and Junko simply brushed him off. The third girl didn't say anything, and just lingered to the side. Either way, she didn't seem receptive of peace either.

Jasper looked down as the girls snapped at each other. Unlike them, he was desperately clinging to the possibility of peace, of survival. And it certainly wasn't here.

"I'm...gonna go," He shakily interjected, grabbing both bags, edging towards the path. He didn't think he could stand being around these girls any longer, with Fire Girl's constant questions, Junko's stubbornness, and the other girl just...being there. Maybe he'd find his peace elsewhere.

((Jasper Bustamante continued in Thanatophobia))