Survival Of The Fittest

((Marcus Leung: B047 - V5 - Continued From Zugzwang))

1...2...3.

Hup-Hup.

1...2...3.

Hup-Hup.

Marcus was exercising, using the instructional signs left around the park. Getting the juices flowing, stretching muscles and cracking tired bones. They weren't difficult to do, things like touching your toes and raising your hands in the air as high as you can, simple stuff. The signs were more helpful as a process guide then anything.

He moaned softly after finishing his stretches, deciding to sit down on a swing, gripping the metal chains used for support. The announcements had come and gone once again. His name was on it, as were brand new killers and some old favorites, even Joe. Joe didn't kill a person who had a kill to their name though, which is what he said he intended to do. Marcus was puzzled, but not worried. Maybe it was an accident, maybe he was confused, maybe it was self-defense, but it was not expected, whatever it was.

Another permanent danger zone too, a piece of land forbidden to him forever. He knew what they were trying to do though. Make the kids get closer to one another, closer then they liked, and let nature take it's course and cause death among them. It wasn't a difficult thing to understand. He was thankful too. Sooner or later, he'd have to either meet a killer or someone who wanted to die. It was nice, when things were cut and concrete like that.

He'd still have to wait though. Searching hadn't done him much good, but being patient for luck and chance to come through had been an alarmingly efficient manner to come by people.

Marcus set his bag down and began pedaling back as he sat in the swing, moving forward with momentum and gaining air. Soon he was as high as he could be in the sky, wind throwing his cap off.

((Hansel Williams, The Mad and Hungry Dogs))

He hadn't realized how badly his face had been scratched until he was consolidating Tyler's bag into his own, finding only water bottles and energy bars - one of each wolfed down so quickly that the flavour barely hit his tongue. It had been for the best, really - the hard little rectangles had always had some kind of gross aftertaste that he couldn't quite place, and encouraged more water consumption to eradicate the flavour than he was comfortable with.

Hansel had stopped by the shopping centre again - for what he figured was the last time, since it seemed like the danger zones were targeting useful places - slipping into a department store and rooting through the racks of clothing in order to find something less grungy and blood-stained. In the dusty chrome paint of the jeans racks, while he was discovering the altogether worrying notion that he had gone from a 34 to a 32 in just eight days, he had caught sight of his face.

It was a long gash, from his ear to just under his eye, ripped open wide by shrapnel and steel. Dusty, dried blood coated his cheek, chin, neck, gave his brown eyes a haunted, gaunt expression.

He dabbed a denim pantleg with water, rubbed at the cut, feeling the sting as sweat and grit was washed out of the gash.

He left it un-nursed.

He had changed his pants to a lighter, smoky-grey jeans - his red dress shirt became a black muscle shirt - easier access for him to clean and bandage his shoulder. His boots, which had rubbed at his feet and caused a blister between his big and middle toe, were exchanged for white running shoes with good support. He changed his bandage, tested his bruises, ate another nutrient bar.

Kept his stetson.

When sounds invaded his space, he picked the Springfield and the FAMAS back up, shouldered his bag, and left the store for greener pastures.

He found them in the Quad.

---

The dude was really small. That was the first thought that Hansel had when he spied Marcus doing what looked like lunges from afar, frowning to himself. He didn't recognize him right off, but that wasn't a surprise. Faces and names from Aurora tended to blur together and meld, these days - the part of his brain generally utilized for recognition had been re-purposed into categorizing as threat or friend.

The boy exercising on the quad didn't ring his threat bell, but you never really knew.

As the shrimpy kid moved to the swingset, Hansel checked his ammunition in the FAMAS, ejecting the clip and feeling its weight before slapping it back in, locking it into place. Wary of the last few times he'd tried to be non-violent, he flipped the safety off on the FAMAS before approaching the other boy, Springfield looped over his shoulder and FAMAS held loosely in his hands.

He walked onto the quad, closed the distance between him and the other boy, before calling out.

"What are you doing?"

A resounding voice called out to Marcus, and it was from a rather unmistakeable person. Hansel Williams, six time murderer, cowboy, use to sit behind him during Mass. Distinctive enough, without the guns being toted around.

Marcus outstretched his legs as he came back on the swing, heels catching the ground and breaking the motion with a stuttering stop. The cap was picked up and dusted off, being put on before retorting.

"Not a whole lot."

He was getting lucky again. Approach with caution.

"Okay, then."

Hansel watched him for a moment, waiting for the smaller boy to speak more. When no words came forth, Hansel nodded at his bag.

"What'd they give you?"

Marcus dangled from his swing seat, leaning his arms over to grasp at his bag. He hefted it onto his lap in a swoop, and unzipped it promptly.

"Sword, if you meant a weapon. They call it a Fal-shin. Or a Fal-chi-on. Close to that."

He drew the sword out of his bag, and held it still in the air, squinting as the sunlight reflected off the clean parts.

Hansel nodded, slowly, not taking his eyes off of the other boy, measuring. Didn't seem like a threat, really. He wasn't doing anything other than holding a sword.

Keeping the FAMAS pointed in the vague general direction of Marcus' feet, Hansel rolled his left shoulder, studying the other boy.

"You d-duh-hon't look like you've s-seen much action. Where'd you huh-hide out?"

Marcus pursed his lips together, thinking about the question. He knew the answer already, but it had to be more then just that.

"I didn't hide, honestly. I just walked around a bit."

It was more then a bit, but that's not what he cared about.

"Some walk."

Debate, deliberate. Weigh the pros and cons. Eventually, it was you versus anyone. Eventually, everyone had to die.

It all cycled back to fire and brimstone, for Hansel. His methods had been shoot first, don't ask questions. Questions got messy and tangled you up, but shooting and avoiding thinking was the best way to progress. He hadn't shot Joe, though. He hadn't stayed to put down Tyler.

How many threats was he going to let walk around? How many was he going to give the chance to come after him again?

"You know, Marcus - it's Marcus, right?"

"Yes."

"Marcus."

Hansel would remember the name, file it away.

"Most puh-heeople are running around and shuh-hooting at each other, or wuh-horrying about being shot. D-heeciding whether or not they can kill. But you're... doing juh-humping jacks."

He smiled slightly, glancing up at the sun, debating, deliberating.

"You suh-scared? At all?"

"Nope."

Marcus pulled the joints of his fingers.

"Just a little nervous is all."

Hansel smiled, then, decided. The FAMAS came up, pointing at the center of Marcus' chest, his eyes shadowed by the stetson on his head, fresh scar catching the light and almost gleaming.

Marcus Leung, for his part, offered to help Rachael Langdon, then stabbed her the moment she dropped her guard.

"Yeah."

The FAMAS exploded.

As Marcus fell backwards, Hansel moved with him, making sure the boy's corpse flopped backwards properly, watching for signs of life. He stood there for thirty full seconds, watching Marcus' face through the sight of the FAMAS, waiting, listening. When no movement came, Hansel lowered the rifle and moved.

A loud explosion in an open area was bound to attract the wrong sort of attention, and he needed to get to a better position before the cavalry arrived.

He dived on Marcus' bag, lifting it with his good hand and turning to half-jog away from the quad, smile long having melted to a picture of grim determination.

((Hansel Williams, Gethsemene))