Survival Of The Fittest

[Ray Gilbert, debut.]

Ray grimaced as he clumsily wrapped the bandage around the festering wound. It was a large, bloody gash that spread across his right forearm, set amongst a multitude of other injuries- mostly minor scrapes and bruises- he had accrued travelling across the island that only a few hours ago he had considered too trivial to think about. His opinion had changed when he rolled up the sleeve of his bomber jacket a few hours later and found the area around the wound inflamed and the wound itself weeping green, fetid pus. In the midst of the corroded decadence of what he identified as a rich neighbourhood once upon a time, Ray set his bag down in a quiet corner, retrieved his issued first-aid kit, and began treating his multiple injuries. He inelegantly cut the excess dressing his left hand, cursing both his right-hand dominance and the right-handed scissors they had provided him. Ray fastened the gauze with a small roll of tape, bent his arm a few times to ensure the dressing was secure, and slowly rose to his feet.

After years of barely paying attention inside of school, then panicking the week- or night- before the deadline for homework or the big test, in pursuit of the precious passing grade, Ray found the day he spent wandering strangely liberating. He had the good fortune of avoiding contact with others beyond the tinny rasp of the announcements, so his biggest problem was killing time. Ray had spent his time ambling withdrawn into himself, keeping himself amused by thinking of his favourite wrestling matches, Bret vs. Owen, the first TLC, Cena vs. Punk, and so on. It was not until he saw his infected wound that he began to remember both the enormity of his situation and his own mortality, and not until the present moment, when he shouldered his hefty canvas backpack that it began to truly sink in.

Fully lucid at last, Ray studied his surroundings. He stood in what was once a children's playground enclosed by three foot high metal wire fences, though over a decade of decay had made most of the rides safety hazards at best. It looked beautiful, though, as the sun shone through the gaps in the surrounding houses and onto the cracked concrete of the adjacent streets. Ray walked over to the metal jungle gym with the hopes of prising a bar off, but the metal pipe was both too strong for him to pull off and too brittle to be of any use as a weapon.

Ultimately, Ray decided, anything of use would be inside the houses. That's where he was headed, eventually. He began, meticulously, to scour his surroundings for anything he could use. There had to be something left behind, whether it was a weapon left by a recent visitor or a child's plastic toy sword or a decent-sized rock he could throw. The closest Ray could find were three empty beer bottles on the ground by a rotting wooden bench. Ray picked one up, sized it in his off-hand, and threw it as far as he could. It shattered as it hit the concrete ground, the sound echoing around the Quad. Ray smiled, as he tried to come up with a fitting joke involving Stone Cold Steve Austin. Nothing came to mind, however, so he settled with being impressed by his throwing ability.

Someone probably heard the noise, he realised, and the smile disappeared from his face. He grabbed another bottle off the ground, holding it in his good hand as he moved, crouched down, to hide amongst the structures. He couldn't take the risk of running out into the open.

((Bianca Howard continued from Ducks Love Fireworks))

Bianca looked around the neighborhood she was wandering through. Somewhere over the last few hours she'd managed to lose Luca. She didn't know when it'd happened, or where he'd gone. Bianca sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. She didn't know him very well, but that still meant that she was alone again. Typical guys leaving her all by herself. Bianca shook her head, she had a feeling getting lost in her thoughts is what had gotten her lost. She needed to focus on her surroundings.

She walked through up a deserted street and was wondering whether or not it was worth her while to check out one of the houses when she heard glass shatter. Curious, she broke into a jog and headed to the end of the street. Bianca laughed as she realized she'd found another park. Granted this one had playground equipment and not a duck pond, but all that walking had led her to another park.

Bianca walked in cautiously, not wanting to suddenly appear and startle anyone. She'd had enough of that. Of course Garrett had been standing near them, when he'd set his gun off.

"Hello," she called. "Anyone here?"

((Hansel Williams, Decathect))

It was the second day on the island, and Hansel felt like a wallet that had been shoved hastily into a spin cycle on a washing machine; beaten, bruised, ragged. His headache had dulled from a shrieking pain to a dull throb, at least, and his shoulder, too, approached the far more tolerable area of the spectrum of pain when compared to the day previous. Still, he was strung out and exhausted, having not dared to sleep after Mara had beaned him with the snowglobe and had also evidently knifed another kid while he had been out.

The thought of Mike lying there, blood cooling on the floor, almost had him throwing up again. But he forced it down, forced himself to keep moving, square his jaw and focus.

Hearing his name on the announcements had been a shock - one that had forced him to pause, listen to the words, his hands tightening on his rifle as the vicious tone in which Danya delivered the account of Daniel's death hit home.

Our resident cowboy.

He forced himself to nod, to accept the mantel. He had decided to utilize the fear of his being a murderer to his advantage, and now he had little choice in the matter. The news was out, the jig was up: Hansel Williams was a bad person.

Fine by him.

As he trudged through the overgrown grass of the quad, dark circles underneath his eyes, he became absorbed in his own thoughts. He thought he could successfully scare off any would-be killers now; having one very public kill and a comparably good weapon to his name. He'd just need to outlast, outlive, not trust anyone. If his time on the island had taught him anything, it was that he was in a class of psychopaths. Nobody would be allowed to

Smash.

Despite the feeling of grogginess that permeated Hansel's bones, his weapon was up, banging against his shoulder as he dropped to his knees, immediately making himself smaller. It sounded like something smashing - a dish, or a glass, something. Meaning he wasn't alone out here.

The crashing had brought him out of his reverie, and he frowned as he made out a girl in the distance, making her way into a playground area. She seemed alone enough, and he didn't make out any weapons on her.

Which meant that it might be time to debut his little one man show.

Rising from his kneeling position, he ensured that his FAMAS had the safety engaged before moving towards the playground at a dignified jog, the gun cradled at his waist, as unthreatening as possible. When she called out, he was behind her, slowing his speed so that he was quieter, easier to take her by surprise if she turned out to be dangerous.

"Don't move," he croaked, his voice forcibly deep, the words coloured in his Texas twang. The gun came up, butt in his shoulder, her back in his sights.

"Not an inch. Drop th' bag, kick it away."

Ray kept low and stayed as quiet as possible as he skulked through the structures scattered around the playground, hoping that whoever came to investigate the broken bottle would think better of it and leave before they saw him. He stopped behind an aged wooden bench on the far side of the quad and crouched down, the empty beer bottle held tight in his good arm and his injured arm pressed hard against the damp, rotting wood to steady himself.  

As he peered over the back of the bench, Ray could see a tall, thin young woman approach and ask if anyone was around. Whilst she hardly looked like a threat, Ray had no intention of leaving his hiding spot. Got to look out for myself, he reminded himself. Even if he wanted to leave, he was in no shape to protect her. He was too slow, too clumsy to be of any use to anyone. She could find someone else to keep her safe.

A few moments later, a man Ray vaguely recognised approached her from behind, an assault rifle held in his hands. FAMAS, Ray remembered from numerous playthroughs of the first Metal Gear Solid on his PlayStation One. The young man- Hansel, Ray recalled- brought the rifle to bear behind the girl and threatened her in his southern drawl. There was a voice in the back of Ray's mind telling him to use the hold-up as cover to escape, to retreat into a house like he said he would and go back to avoiding everyone who could hurt him, but he felt that he needed to do something to help her. If he fled, left that girl to his fate, he had no right to go home. Ray decided then and there that he was going to be one of the good guys.

He had to be one of the good guys, because there were far too many of the bad.

Ray looked down at the bottle clenched in his good hand, and knew what he had to do.

"Hey, Asshole!" He yelled, and hurled the bottle towards Hansel as hard as he could.

Bianca jumped at the threatening voice behind her. She really didn't want any trouble, but she wasn't going to give up her bag. Besides things like a first aid kit and food, it held her fireworks and she didn't want to give those up.

She turned slowly wanting to know exactly who was threatening her, and with what. She saw that one of her classmates was pointing some kind of gun at her. Bianca rolled her eyes. Hadn't she just left a situation involving a gun? And one that was far more impressive then whatever the boy in front of her was holding. Bianca knew she shouldn't but she laughed. There was a joke about size mattering in her somewhere. "Sweetie," she said giving him her most charming smile. "That isn't the biggest weapon I've seen on his island."

Bianca was trying to decide how to defuse this situation when someone popped up and threw something towards them. Hoping that this meant that whoever it was who had the gun was distracted. Bianca dove for the nearest cover. She ducked down and began searching her bag for the lighter she'd seen earlier. Bianca had no idea if her fireworks could hurt, but she was going to try.

The first indication that a missile was flying towards Hansel was Bianca diving out of the way. The second was that the words hey asshole were echoing about his eardrums, taking him a long second to process and confirm.

The third indication was impact as a beer bottle smashed into his left cheekbone, sending his head snapping backwards, his eyes immediately watering.

He felt like he was suddenly on a capsizing boat as nausea gripped him, sending him teetering to the right, the gun clattering to the paved ground a sound that seemed ages, eons away. The back of his head, still tender from the snowglobe smashing into it, throbbed mightily in tune with the sudden ache on his face.

Hansel had not had a good day.

With a whoosh of air, he went with the first option that seemed appealing to him and sat down, hard. His sleep-starved brain sluggishly tried to tell him what a bad idea it was to just take a seat in the middle of a place where someone had just hit him with something and he'd lost track of the girl he'd just pointed a gun at, but his tired legs, nauseous stomach, and watering eyes trumped everything else.

Hansel raised both hands in the air, displaying the neatly bandaged left arm, his foot reaching over to rest atop the FAMAS.

"I wasn't g-gonna shoot her," he hollered, his voice at normal pitch, now, lacking the menacing southern drawl, "I j-huh-ust wanted to make sure she weren't g-gonna pull a fah-hast one."

(Skipping because this is day 13 and I won't have time tomorrow with school starting.)

Bianca stole a glance at the person threatening her. She shook her head, realizing that it was Hansel that had threatened her. She‘d never understood that guy, he seemed to go out of his way not to fit in. Who wore cowboy hats and boots to school in the middle of a city? Bianca suppressed a shiver. The guy was just weird, they‘d had a few classes together over the years and she remembered how he could never manage to participate with the group.

"Somehow I don't believe you, seeing as how I had my back to you and you threatened me. And since it was your name that was just announced over the speakers; I'm thinking you're more dangerous than I am. Now my weapon isn't as terrifying as yours, but if you don't back off now, we're going to see what a roman candle will do to someone at this close a range."

((Exiting stage right!))

Letting out a quiet cough, Hansel lurched to his feet, feeling lightheaded and woozy as the lack of sleep continued to take it's toll. There was the oddest pulsing sensation that emanated from his skull and throbbed down his neck, seeming to rest behind his breastbone as he bent forwards, clumsy fingers gripping the FAMAS that seemed oh-so-familiar to his hands by now.

"Also coulda shot you," he mumbled, more to himself than either of them, his hands keeping the muzzle down and away from her, "and I d-didn't. Figured you t-to be more ‘preciative of words than bullets."

Waving it off, he turned, walking away from both of them, not registering the very immediate threat of Bianca and her roman candle. The only thoughts in his head were away and sleep, and he wasn't about to let a little burning hot explosion stop him from his objective.

Away.

Sleep.

With heavy footsteps and a slight stagger, Hansel left.

((Hansel Williams, Fluffytown))

Ray's arm fell limp at his side as he stood silent, exhaling sharply. The bottle smashed into Hansel's cheekbone, shattering on impact and sending him to the ground. The girl fumbled with her bag on the ground, trying to light some kind of firework. Off to the side, behind his bench, Ray stood tall with his chest puffed out, curling his hands into fists and holding them up in a defensive stance as if they could stop bullets. His heart pounded through his chest. His hands shook. His designs on selfless heroism were discarded when he realised that he would leave this girl to die if it meant he could live an hour longer.

He was unable to react as Hansel got to his feet and ran. He no longer cared what happened to him. What mattered to Ray was that he lost control so easily. He had never even thought about causing injury to another man- lie- before he woke up on that island, but he had taken to it like it was second nature. His arms dropped to their sides uselessly and he felt tears streak down his cheeks. Damn it, he thought. Dad always told me never to cry in front of girls.

His dad would have told him to toughen up, to take it like a man. A man, he would have said, never takes shit off no fools.  He could almost hear his old man's voice in the back of his head, telling him to go out fighting. To take everything the island threw at him and pay back with interest. Else, what was the point? He wouldn't be any use to anybody.

"God-damn it," He rasped under his breath. "God-damn all of this."

Slowly, Ray turned his back on the girl and emerged from behind the bench, slogging his way through the overgrown plants to reach the wrought iron gate and out of this place. He needed to get out of this place, get back to that happy isolation he had been so blissfully ignorant in. He slammed the gate and staggered onto the dimly lit street. She can find someone else to protect her, Ray recited in his head, removing all mention of her from his mind. He had to look out for himself; he had to find shelter and a weapon like he had planned.

By sundown, Ray finally reached those houses he had spent so long searching for. When he finally approached the front door of the closest house and put his hand against it, he began to feel an overwhelming nausea engulf his body. His forehead pounded and there was a sharp pain behind his eye sockets. He pressed his head against the cold brick wall to relieve his headache. He began to laugh under his breath at the ridiculousness of his situation. The laughing turned to hoarse, gasping sobs as Ray beat against the wall with his fists until his knuckles were raw and bloody.

[Ray Gilbert, continued in Dude! FORTIFIED!!! Pt. 3]

Bianca held herself rigid for several minutes and suddenly everything went still. The boys, each muttering to themselves, apparently had both gone their separate ways. Bianca took a moment to realize that she was alone again, which was the very thing she was trying to avoid. She sighed and then decided that being alone might be for the best. It seemed that since coming to the island the boys had gone crazy. Looking around, Bianca settled on a place that provided her some cover and lay down to get some sleep. In the morning, she'd start her quest to find someone again. Hopefully, someone without a gun. As she drifted off to sleep she wished whoever it was that had thrown the bottle had stuck around. At the very least she wanted to say thank you.

The night passed uneventfully and Bianca gathered her belongs and set off again.

((Bianca Howard continued in All Our Yesterdays ))