Survival Of The Fittest

((B039 - Jordan Green - Start))

Jordan had been running for a while. Okay, it was more of a terrible mix between a run and a walk given the speed he had been going at, but he was far away from wherever he had found himself awake and that was all that really mattered to him right now. He finally stopped capable of going no further at the moment, slumping to a sorry heap on the ground at the base of the slopes.

Jordan heaved horrendously, nausea overwhelming him, the physical and mental exertions too much for him too handle. The smell was horrendous and despite his body aching in a million different places, he stood up, if only to get away from the smell if his own sick, before collapsing back on the ground a few metres away.

It had made sense at the time, when he had woken up the only things on his mind had been the video, Mr Graham corpse, and the fact that the surprisingly young looking man who called himself Danya had wanted them to kill each other. The bag, the collar, everything confirmed where he was, and when he heard someone moving about, he had freaked out, thinking about how he needed to get out of there.

And so he had run.

Now of course, there were different thoughts on his mind, like how he couldn't breathe and how his muscles were screaming. Running was bad. He wasn't made for running, and if he had his own way he probably wanted to never run ever again. But it wasn't a surprise that he had freaked out right? It would take someone ridiculous to be okay in this situation, someone absolutely insane. People had died, people were probably dying, and he had been dumped on some godforsaken island in some forlorn part of the world where he would lead a short sad life before being unceremoniously shanked or shot and left to bleed to death in a ditch.

He shouldn't have been here. He wasn't supposed to be here. Obviously the terrorists had made a mistake because this was not supposed to happen. Even if they were anywhere as precise as their previous abductions showed, they'd clearly made a mistake this time around.  Jordan Green was a junior and he wasn't supposed to be here. They were supposed to have targeted senior trips, weren't they? The whole thing seemed to be a deranged joke on the part of some sick man, which was probably the entire point of this affair.

Jordan wiped the tears from his face, but only managed to get dirt onto his face as well. How long had he been crying for? Since he had realised what was going on? Did his family already know he was missing? It had been at least a day since they had left, right? The government hadn't taken too long in finding the island after the broadcast that year, right? Maybe they had a chance of escape this time round? But that was just a maybe and all he had was a piece of rope, and there would always be that guy with a gun. There always were idiots with guns in Kingman and they would be here too.

He lay back on to the ground. He knew from gym class that he shouldn't do that when trying to recover, but that barely mattered at this point. He'd lost his cool, and now he was tired enough to be practically delirious. He lay there in the soil, mind ready to drift off again. Sleep. That was all he needed. This time though, Jordan wasn't sure if he wanted to wake up.

It had taken Hazel's eyes awhile to adjust to their surroundings.

For her first few minutes of consciousness, she assumed that whatever drug had been used to knock her out had strong aftereffects. But as her head began to clear and her eyesight remained just as blurred, she realised her contacts were missing. They'd accidentally popped out between her first bout of unconscious and now, or had been removed by the kidnapper who'd placed her there. The latter of those notions – the idea of one of them touching her – made her skin crawl and bile rise in her throat.

It was the burst of panic that arose from that realisation that propelled her to examine her provided duffle bag – an act she'd been hitherto reluctant to engage in. She'd almost sobbed in relief upon finding her glasses case propped atop its contents; a flash of bright red amongst the drab colours it contained.

With her vision now restored and her curiosity piqued, it didn't take her long to find, nestled amongst the food bars and first-aid kit, the only thing that made her unique from the other hundred students on the island: her weapon.

"Fucking binoculars."

Little could've brought Hazel Jung an ounce of comfort in her current situation; as it was, she was a mess both physically and emotionally. But she knew deep down that having something to defend herself with would've made a world of difference.

The fashionably distressed fabric around the knees and thighs of her jeans had torn open sometime before she'd awoken, and lumps of mascara had been washed away by her tears, leaving dark streaks against her cheeks. She'd made a token effort to tidy herself up, having half-heartedly attempted to pull her hair into a messy bun, but she couldn't bring herself to put much effort into improving her appearance when there were slightly more pressing matters at hand.

It was just her luck that literally every other girl in the Korean clique had fallen ill two days before the trip, leaving her the lone member of the Mafia to make it here. She could picture them all gathered together, jabbering emotionally at the news reporters about her. At least she didn't have to worry about them. They were safe, unlike her dozens of other friends who hadn't been so lucky; the same friends who were in exactly the same position as her right now. A rush of names and faces flooded through her brain, none of them managing to secure a position at the forefront of her mind through the chaos that reigned there.

She tried not to let her thoughts linger on them for too long. She knew she wouldn't be in a fit enough state to help any of them if she didn't take care of herself first, and meandering aimlessly around the slopes upon which she'd awoken wasn't much of a start.

There was Jordan Green, fellow theatre kid, laying down in the grass. Still unconscious, or…

She tried not to think of the alternative, desperately attempted to focus her mind on something other than the idea that a dead boy, someone she'd performed alongside, could be mere metres away from her.

It didn't work.

She bent over into a low crouch, and expelled the contents of her stomach onto the ground before her.

Pain.

He was still in pain.

And that was how Jordan Green knew he was still alive.

You weren't supposed to feel pain when you were dreaming. So that meant that he was probably awake too.

He felt a little better now. Not much, but he would take every inch that he was given right now. He was still in pain and the queasiness refused to go away, but he wasn't two steps away from doing something stupid anymore. It was much more like three steps now.

There were footsteps not too far away, and Jordan got up almost instinctively as soon as he realised that there was another person about.

He probably shouldn't have. He had puked not long before, but the sight of Hazel retching was almost enough for him to do so again.

He knew Hazel well enough. She wasn't exactly the kind of person he'd really enjoyed hanging around with, but he had seen her perform on stage so many times. The girl who had once dazzled the stage now looked like she had weathered a hurricane, her mascara streaking down her face and her hair in a mess. Jordan realised that he probably looked like a disaster too, wiping his face with his hand again.

He didn't know what the heck he was supposed to say to Hazel. What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to comfort her? Make some dumb comment to lighten the mood? He wasn't good at either of those things, and he wasn't sure if now was the best time for him to learn.

"Hazel." Jordan wasn't even sure what tone he was trying to convey anymore. "Hazel. Are you okay?"

As she sat on her hands and knees, eyes clenched firmly shut and a thick string of spit dangling from her open mouth, all the thoughts and fears she'd struggled to hold back came rushing forward. She found herself dry heaving as she imagined Bryony and Clarice dead, their bodies bloody and their eyes hollow. Then the one person she was trying her hardest not to think of, because she knew what'd happen if she focused on him for more than a second, flashed through her mind.

She forced her eyes open, tried to find anything else she could focus on as a rough sob escaped her lips. Tears began to well along her vision, fogging her lenses, but she choked them back. She couldn't afford to cry again today.

Then the distraction she'd been hoping for finally arrived as Jordan approached her. Not dead, as she'd initially feared.

But in a few days, hours, minutes?

She shook the thought away, instead focusing on recovering some of her composure. She couldn't afford to be a mess for much longer. A weak, snivelling crying girl was either an easy target or someone to protect in order to fulfil some hero complex, and neither of those were roles Hazel was eager to take. She was fine with being a damsel-in-distress on stage, but in reality? Not so much.

"I'm algood," she replied to Jordan's query, wiping away the line of drool that clung to her face. "Just needed to get it out, you know? What about you?"

She pulled herself out of her half-crouch and into a standing position – though Jordan's lanky frame still towered over her petite one.

"So, got any ideas on how we can be less-fucked?"

Jordan felt far more guarded than he had moments before.

Sure, it was a paranoid thought to have, but he realised that there were eyes on him. Not just Hazel, that might have still been okay, but the realisation that he was on SOTF and that meant that there were probably a million cameras trained on him at this very moment had finally sunk in. They had seen him earlier. They could see the dirt on his face, and the little bit of vomit on the sleeve of his jacket. They could see how he snapped his hands together at the realisation that he was being watched.

And they were going see exactly how much of a flaming disaster whatever remained of the life of Jordan Green was going to be.

Okay. Calm down. He needed to ignore that. He needed to think about the situation.

They were on an island. And there were people with guns on the island. And more likely than not there were people who were willing to kill people on the island. And there was a good chance that those two categories overlapped.

Yeah. He was screwed.

Thinking about it rationally just got him to the same answer as he had at first. Just slower.

But he wasn't going to voice any of that. They were in a bad enough situation and he didn't need to make both of them feel worse by voicing his own shitty thoughts.

"Yeah, I get what you mean. The whole thing's enough to make you queasy. Not feeling so great myself, but I think I broke my personal best record for a mile back there." Jordan was trying to make light of it, but even thinking about physical exertion was making him feel worse again.

"People have managed to escape from this before, right?" Jordan tried to sound as hopeful as he could, but he still avoided eye contact with Hazel. He doubted he could outwit a group of terrorists, and he wasn't willing to try. He wasn't the kind who would risk everything on a stupid plan with too many moving parts anyway.  "I mean, the government's probably on the way. All we need to do is not get killed before they get here, right?"

Jordan had yet another thought that he wasn't about to vocalise. The previous bunch of kids had probably thought the exact same way as he was thinking now. But the government had only found an empty island and only one girl had made it out alive.

"Do you have any ideas?"

"Personal best, huh?" Hazel drummed her fingers against her cheek as Jordan mentioned breaking his ‘mile record'. Running was a perfect distraction for her in everyday life – if she ever felt distressed or in need of a break, running was a sure-fire solution. Just her and the burn in her chest and legs, everything fading away. In this place, though? Doing it recreationally meant burning unnecessary calories, and being forced into it meant… being in a situation Hazel was none too eager to think about right now.

"You know, we could've always done with more people on the track team," she continued. "Shame you never tried out; it could've been a good time."

It wasn't much, but a bit of idle small talk that didn't concern their current situation couldn't do too much damage, right?

Jordan expressed hope about the situation, but she could sense the strain behind his voice as he spoke. Hazel wanted to believe that government officials would get of their asses and do something, that rescue would only be moments away, but it seemed almost like a fantasy. She couldn't quite bring herself to commit to the idea that this game could somehow end differently to how the terrorists had outlined it to them all. However, she was none too eager to burst Jordan's bubble, to shatter his optimistic belief. If it kept him sane and above water, what was so wrong with it – especially this early?

"Yeah, it's been done before. Could happen again, right?"

She tried to return Jordan's optimism in kind, but was admittedly relieved that he gave her another question – that way she wouldn't have to linger on the subject of rescue or escape for much longer. The content of this query, however, was less than ideal.

Ideas?

That was a question Hazel was reluctant to answer. To do so would be to address the absolute dearth of full-proof plans floating around her head, and with it, the unknown horrors sure to face them in the future. She couldn't not respond to it, of course, so she answered in a way that she knew was painfully enigmatic, but wasn't at all false either.

"My plan is to live. You?"

His legs were still aching, his head was still a mess, and if he had been by himself, he would have been quite willing to just collapse back onto the ground and stay there for a good long time.

He still wanted to. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wanted to find his own little corner to be alone in.

But Hazel's comments had somehow pushed that away.

Jordan was rarely comfortable with compliments of any sort. He was never sure what to do when people complimented his grades, and even less sure when it came to his writing. And he wasn't as smart or as nice as people sometimes said he was, he just had a habit of not blurting out every stupid thought that came to mind. As often as not he was annoyed by them, especially when they came from people he barely knew projecting their inability to do something onto him.

But seeing him as a runner? Lanky, clumsy and generally unfit Jordan Green as a guy doing sportsy stuff? The sheer ridiculousness of that was enough to send Jordan into a fit of laughter.

"Oh gods, I can't actually run. Not well at least."  

It felt wrong. As if he wasn't supposed to be smiling on this island. As if everything needed to be serious and grim and dark on this island. But for once he was too tired to let the negative thoughts intrude, not the other way around for once.

"But, yeah. Living sounds good," Jordan replied. He knew what surviving on this island meant, even if Hazel didn't mean it that way. But it still seemed like a reasonable aspiration. Not dying that is.

He stared out at the sky for a second. The island seemed almost serene right now. Perhaps in another time, in another life, this might have been a nice place to be.

"You know, this is the first time I've seen the ocean."

(Tara Behzad continued from Prepare to Burn)

So, Tara Behzad: what does it mean to die happy?

It's a question she can't shake, no matter what she does.  That sense of mad purpose is fading fast.  The pieces don't seem to be lining up, the way they did when she woke up and saw the ocean and saw her flashbangs. She's stumbling through the dark of the labyrinth and the string she's clutching in her hands is unraveling.  Or maybe it's her fingers that are unraveling, her self.  Her pretensions of understanding.

Cris hadn't asked himself the hard questions.  Cris had been baffled--maybe even horrified--by the idea of asking them.  Of coming to terms with this place, and what it could do to you.  Cris had-

And he had sounded so fucking happy.

She felt that old anxiety, like an itching in her blood that spread to her skin and to her thoughts, so her mind crackled with static and nothing felt still or stable.  She felt like gasping.  She felt like crying.

So Tara leaned on old habits, while she still had them, while they still mattered.  Tara ran.

She took off at a hard pace, her bag bouncing against her back.  She adjusted the strap so she was shouldering the weight, steadying it against one hip so it turned and chafed but didn't bounce.  She wove her way through the strange compound, surged past the radio tower with barely a glance at the strange structure (she wondered how many poor fools would look to it as some means of escaping the trap, would believe that their captors would possibly leave such hope, if they didn't appropriate it for their own purposes).  Her breathing became heavier, until her throat and lips felt parched.  She knew there was water in her bag.  She wouldn't reach for it.

She was in control.  She was.  Not of this island.  Not of the others around it (control of others, ha, let their captors cling to their own illusions and think they were all dancing on their strings, she knew better she knew they were just one element amidst the chaos, playing their own fool roles).  She was her own master.  She controlled how she felt, and how she acted.  She would not drink because she was thirsty.  She would not eat because she was hungry.  She would not rest because she was tired.  Her body did not dictate terms to her.  It didn't.  It wouldn't.  She was in control.  She was in control.

If she wasn't in control, how could she die happy?

She zigzagged up the slopes, sometimes following the natural paths, sometimes plunging up the climbs so that her thighs ached with the strain.  So tired, so thirsty, so afraid even now.  She felt her wild notions fading as she saw the ocean, so vast and so remote and so indifferent.  She felt-

She felt loose ground give way beneath her feet

She slipped and fell.  But did the slip cause the fall?  Or did she lean into it?  Did she feel her balance fading, feel her control fading, and take the plunge?  If you walked the plank, was it better to jump, or to be pushed?

When the fall is all that's left

She fell.  Or jumped.  Or slipped.  Or tripped.  She fell, hard.  Her hands and feet scraped and scrapped and scrambled and could not stop her.  She hit the small of her back against a small stone.  She caught her collar on a patch of ivy so it almost choked her, before it slipped away and she was falling again.  

She briefly took her feet, struggled to keep her momentum, found it slipping away from her and she was plunging down again.  In that moment, she thought she saw two human figures down at the base of the slopes.

Down again, rolling on her side.  She slowed to a gradual stop, a threshing mess of aches and pains where her senses barely made sense to her.  

Hazel couldn't help but offer a soft giggle to Jordan's retort. It felt good to still be able to break a smile – Lord knew it wasn't something she'd be doing much of in the days to come.

"You'd still be better than half the guys on our team," she replied. "You know Isaac Brea? Could probably beat him by a long shot."

She knew taking potshots at an ex wasn't the healthiest thing in the world, but she'd abstained for so long and if ever there was a situation where she felt justified in venting her frustrations through throwing some shade, this had to be it. And Isaac was a much too easy target in her eyes; she'd gone easy on him.

She didn't know how to feel about the fact that he wasn't on the trip with them.

Jordan turned their attention towards the ocean that stretched out endlessly before them, and Hazel felt a rush of sadness begin to flow forth. It was crazy to think that such a beautiful ‘first' as seeing the ocean could come in a place like this.

"I've seen it once before," she said wistfully. "It was a few months ago, when my mum and I flew to New York for my Julliard audition. I looked out the plane window and saw that vast expanse in front of me for the first time, and I vowed that I'd see it again soon. I just never thought it'd be like this."

The mood between them was suddenly broken as a figure came tumbling down through the undergrowth, steadily approaching the two of them. Hazel quirked an eyebrow at the unusual way the girl had chosen to traverse the island, but figured it was a better entrance than storming in all guns blazing. As she got a better look at her, Hazel formed a connection between the dust-covered girl and the classmate she'd once been. In all honesty, she was a relatively unknown figure to Hazel – a quiet someone she'd seen around school plenty (behind the scenes in theatre, even), but had probably only exchanged a dozen sentences or so with over the years. It was almost difficult to conjure her name – though Hazel was dead certain it started with a T.

She folded her arms against her chest, an indication of the slight apprehension rushing through her. She'd been enjoying her dialogue with Jordan; the entrance of another figure threatened to upset the stability of the situation, and with it the brief reprieve from a hell she'd yet to fully enter.

"You alright?"

Jordan only gave a knowing nod, not really willing to deny Hazel's statements about his athleticism anymore.

He didn't really know Isaac. Jordan had never really interacted with the seniors outside of theater all that much anyway. He was a sprinter, that much he knew, but even though Isaac was known to be a complete asshole, Jordan didn't exactly have it in him to dislike a person he didn't really know.

Of course he had heard the things that Isaac had done, there were too many inane things that had happened for him to not hear any of it. But somehow it had never felt all that real. Just another story from the rumour mill about people who barely felt like they even existed.

Somehow, the thought made him feel a little left out of the conversation, even if there was only Hazel and him here. Still, it was a real comfort that Hazel was willing to joke around. For all that had happened several moments ago, things were seeming somewhat alright.

He continued to look out at the ocean, the vivid blue stretching out to the edge of the horizon, the distant waves crashing against the shore below. It was almost hypnotising, watching the endless motion of the water, the rhythmic motion a relaxing sight.

"No one could have expected being here," he said. "They'd have to be crazy if they did."

But their conversation was cut off by the sight of someone falling down the slopes. He could only watch as the girl rolled to a stop at the bottom of the hill.

Was she okay? The girl was just far enough him to be completely unsure.

Part of him screamed that he should rush over to help, but he found himself falling behind Hazel instead, as if he could somehow hide his six-foot frame behind her.

"We should go over and help, right?"

Groggy.  The world was spinning, and her breath was harsh in her chest (she'd hit her solar plexus on an awkward ledge, knocking the wind from her in one fell swoop).  She groaned, struggled to rise to her feet, found it was more trouble than it was worth.  She slumped back to the ground, felt her neck aching where the collar on her neck had been pulled taut and tight.  God, what a fall.  Or what a jump.  Or what a-

Even she wasn't sure.  Had she leaned into the fall?  Or not?  Had she jumped?

"You alright?"

Tentative voice.  Female.  Tara turned her head slightly, and the muscles of her neck ached.  Punky girl with gorgeous piercings, fellow theater geek, but somehow their schedules never quite linked up.  Always working backstage at different times, working make-up at different times, performing...

Well.  Hazel, she thought.  She was kinda hot.

There was a lanky skeleton of a man looming behind her, slightly blurry.  Hazel didn't seem concerned, so either he was real stealthy or they were friendly.  Probably the latter, since she'd seen two figures on her way down.

"Nah," Tara grunted, her voice rasping from her lips.  "Wouldn't it-"  She coughed, struggling to form words in her rough throat.  "Wouldn't it be weird if I was?"

Hazel nodded at Jordan's suggestion they go and help the new arrival. It made her smile, just a little; he was someone whose first reaction at seeing someone in danger wasn't to run away, but to instead offer aid. She was glad she'd encountered him first, and not someone more volatile or skittish. She jogged lightly towards the newcomer, grateful for the traction her Nikes provided and happy for her newfound habit of forgoing less practical footwear.

"True." Hazel couldn't help but smirk at T's reply. It was a redundant question, but one habit had drilled into her over the years. The amount of times she'd approached fellow students after berating their bullies and asked them the very same thing escaped her. "But you did take quite a tumble from the looks of things. Sure you're not bruised or anything?"

She noticed Jordan had fallen behind her – possibly out of apprehension, possibly out of wanting her to take the lead. Regardless, she took a step back to give him a reassuring rub on the arm, just to let him know she was there for him.

"Have you seen anybody else? You're the first person Jordan and I've both encountered aside from each other."

Hazel was way too fast.

Sure she was a runner, but did she really need to go that fast?

Jordan could only follow along at his own walking pace, only catching up with her several seconds after she stopped near the girl who had fallen down the slope.

The girl's face was familiar enough for him to know that he should recognise her from somewhere, but he didn't. He couldn't. Was she a senior? There were too few people in school he really knew.

She didn't exactly look like she was fine either. It didn't look like she was seriously injured, but the slope was steep and she'd fallen quite a distance. At least her comments proved that she was conscious, even if he couldn't empathise with her sense of humour.

Hazel seemed to sense his discomfort, turning back to give him a rub on his arm. Jordan was surprised at the unexpected touch, feeling blood rushing to his cheeks, and all he could think about was how much of a stereotypical teenager he was being. It was just a touch after all. It was just a friendly gesture. There was no reason for him to be reacting like this at all.

He turned his attention back towards the other girl instead, hoping that carrying on like nothing was wrong would make it right.

"Was it-" he paused for a second, struggling to make coherent sense of his thoughts. "Did someone do this to you?"

((G064: LESLIE PRICE. START!))

At first, Leslie could've believed that she was dreaming.

Everything was murky. Everything was vague. Her mind wasn't really getting it together. Just meandering between half-formed whispers of thought, like in dreams. Her body was a non-object. Numb. Non-existent. She paid it practically no mind, save for the feeling of a breeze flowing over her face and forearms. The non-sensations and murkiness were something that she'd come to expect out of dreams. They were fairly disjointed and bizarre experiences. Again: she could've believed she was dreaming. But 'could've' was the operative word there. In truth, she already understood all too well the reality of the situation.

Leslie could have been content to remain in that state forever and forget all about what she'd been through mere moments ago. But that wasn't to be. Opening her eyes, she first saw the gray, cloud-mottled sky. Sitting up, the rhythmic ocean in the distance. The shore and all the ground in front of her was very steep and sloping. She rested on a sort of break or limb in the slopes, near the top. Judging by the weather, this place was probably not too far from the Falklands. Standing up, she noticed that duffel bag. It had been placed just above where she had been a moments ago. Unassuming lettering on each sideways face of the bag marked it as G064. Her new identity, the alphanumeric string the terrorists had given her to be identified by. Her thoughts finally started to come together-

She'd been sitting toward the rear of... wherever it was that the terrorists had conducted their disgusting little briefing. Between the heads of the other students and her own unwillingness to watch, she didn't have much visual memory of it. But she got the gist, and that was already almost too much to bear. She'd just seen Graham die. Well, not exactly. She didn't see the gun being pointed at his nape and the trigger being pulled, but her ears picked up the all-consuming BANG. Next thing, Graham was slumped in the chair--
--and the spotlight on him turned out. She didn't see any graphic detail, thank God. Knowing he was dead was painful enough. As much as she may have groaned and cringed at his weak, faltering attempts at being witty and humorous, he didn't deserve to be executed. Not by any stretch whatsoever.

And yet, even as she opened the bag and tried to reassure herself of that, the words felt strangely hollow. As a matter of fact, she wasn't even experiencing much emotion. Her mind felt, well, empty. Or drained somehow. Was it because of her amygdala being overloaded, or fatigue, or maybe even because there wasn't all that much to feel? She and her classmates would die, yes. Their futures would be eliminated, yes. Their families and the entire nation, no, world would be shocked and grieving, yes. What was left to say after that? It didn't seem like anything was, as disturbing as that seemed. Rifling through the bag, she uncovered bars and rations and water and map and some other stuff. Her assigned weapon. A whistle.

A.. fucking.. whistle.

Sure. Go up against loaded guns and swords and axes and whateverthehell everyone else had been issued with a fucking whistle. Just great. Perfect. She was practically guaranteed to make it through this goddamn shithole now. Just call it already, man. Leslie for winner. Fuck. Closing the bag awkwardly, Leslie saw the climb up ahead. A lone dirt road broke up the steepness. Dangerous. But just shallow enough..

Pack slung over the shoulder, she made her way up the slope cautiously, every step feeling wobbly and precarious. At least she'd found something to actually feel so she didn't have to feel like a robot all the way to her death. She made it past the small dirt road, which looked so absurdly dangerous and weathered she had to wonder whether it was actually a vehicle path. Seriously, it looked worse than some of the ones from Ice Road Truckers or whatever.

She reached the crest of the hill and crouched. Looking down this side of the crest.. nice view of the island, actually. Some buildings and a cellphone tower-looking construction to the left, a huge bridge and big manor house to the front. A dock or shipyard below. Big, squat edifice with a heliport to the right. Wait, stop, there was movement down the side of the hill. There were some folks down there, running around. One of them looked injured. And with them was one of those stuck-up Korean bitches. Bet she was changing her tune now.

Leslie set aside that particular memory, went over the hill and started carefully winding her way down the opposite side. Company was company, and she figured there was a chance of getting something useful from interacting with them.

[Exiting now.]

Tara closed her eyes for a moment and let her awareness trickle over her body, parsing through the general sense of aches and pains.  Worst seemed to her left arm and her neck where the patch of ivy had caught her.  Probably why her voice sounded so raspy.

"Yeah," she said.  "Bit bruised."  She propped herself up on her elbows, felt a wash of pain and nausea and letit engulf her, relished it, used it to focus herself, anchor her mind as she pushed herself back to proper consciousness.  She rose to her feet next.  Hazel and the boy behind her seemed decent, but she wasn't gonna risk it.  She'd seen more of SotF than she'd been shown.  She knew that trust, full trust, was not something she could really allow herself.

She swayed unsteadily on her feet.  She forced herself to stand still, even if it hurt worse.

"Okay enough, though," she said.

She glanced towards the tall man in the back when he spoke.  "Nah," she said.  "I-"

Slipped fell jumped rolled I wanted this I needed this

"-slipped," she said aloud.  Then Hazel spoke again.  "Yeah," she said.  "Alex and Lizzie.  Both seem pretty..."  Her mouth flickered.  "Not alright."  She shrugged, looked between them.  "I don't know you," she said to the tall man.  "I'm Tara."

Movement on the hills.  She raised her eyes and saw a figure moving towards them.  Her hands reached reflexively for her bag only to find it was no longer on her shoulder.  Her eyes flickered back to the slopes, where she saw it clinging to a piece of scrub brush a little ways up.  

"Head's up," she said, jerking her head up towards the person on the hill.

Getting too crowded.  Too many people.  Hazel was fine.  Her tall friend, okay.  But this stranger?  No chance.

She darted forwards as her bruises and throat ached.  She grabbed her bag, and flung it over one shoulder.  She shot uncertain eyes at the two who'd come to her.  "Thanks for helping me," she said.  "Good luck."

She took off, slowly at first as her aching body protested.  Then she was off and running again, her parched throat aching, her body hurting, her mind wild.  Her eyes flickered to her feet.

Jumped?  Or fell?

(Tara Behzad continued in St. Patrick's Purgatory)