Survival Of The Fittest

((Continued from Humanity.))

Franco had managed his way back to the central area of the island after some doing. He'd camped out in the east end of the island and delved into his excessive supply of rations. He had saved enough by now that he would be able to make it to the end, regardless of what happened. Looted the mall and residential areas had paid off, but the weight was getting to be a burden, all the weapons he had managed to accumulate were wearing on his weak frame. After picking through G01 and B01's packs he'd taken off to the central district.

He wanted desperately to get cleaned up and into a new set of clothing; he'd examined himself in a small puddle of rain water on the way over and saw how desperately he needed one. His hair was a mess after the last fight, and his clothes were blotched with blood and sweat, his normally clear white skin was lined with grease and grim, and he could see a few blotches of acne starting to form on his forehead.

"There can't be that many people left," he gazed at himself in a half broken skin mirror. "If I can finish off the last few and convince a few others to stay with me I can get to the end. I can get to the top. I've only just wanted to be at the top. Why don't they understand that? Why don't they just do what I want them to do?!"

He slammed his fist onto the counter and splashed water into the mirror. He glared at himself for a spell and recollected his thoughts.

Keep it together, man. You get to keep a level head if you want to pull through this.

He let the hot water of the sink pool into his cup hands, slowly the white flesh faded to red and he poured the water down his face. He let the steamy water run down his upturned nose and drip down off his pasty chin. He repeated this ritual several times. He wiped the grim and dirt from his fingers and even ran water through his hair, slicking it back to its familiar position.

He stripped his clothes and changed into a pair of black dress pants and a buttoned long sleeve shirt. He had preferred the suit, it made him look classy and confident, like something out of Reservoir Dogs (now he simply looked like he was attending a church service) but this was clean, and he needed to be clean, for the sake of his sanity. He needed to maintain the appearance. Save face. Perfect surface. A sound mind. He had already killed four people, he could kill more, it just seemed like each time he did he got more desperate. He should be getting stronger, stealing the strength from his fallen foes.

Instead they were dogging him, tearing him down. Their memories combined and collided into a twisted abomination of sin. Marvin, Russell, that pretty young girl, B01 and G01. They were haunting him, but he would not let them take him down with him, he was Franco Sebberts, he had more resolve then that.

He finished buttoning his shirt and gathered his attire together, arming himself with his shotgun, shoving the Star Mega-star in the front of his pants (ensuring first that the safety was on), holstering the taser in his back pocket and shoving the grenade launcher (with both sponge and the six remaining percussion grenades) in his spare pack with his extra ammo. The other bag was reserved for his rations and other supplies. He pressed and fiddled until he was perfectly neat and tidy.

He looked at himself again in the mirror. The last fight had taken a lot out of him, but he had regained his composure and his dignity. It was back to business as usual. It was all about finishing first, it was always about that, business, politics, games, whatever; and that's what he was going to do.

He stood up straight and listened intently to the announcements, he had nearly lost track of the time. He pulled out the map from his spare pack, flipped it over and recorded the number dead. It was up to a total of 72 now; it had to be getting close to the end. He usually didn't pay much attention to the names, they were the competition after all, but something at the end caught his attention.

"...Damien. And Kristey Burrowell! My, my, my, I never thought I'd hear this," the patented Franco Sebberts smirk worked its way across his thin lips. "You've been a naughty boy Damien; someone had better teach you a lesson."

Franco picked his shotgun up off the ground and stashed away his map.

"I think I know the someone for the job..."

(Nathan continuined from... I'll get back to you on that.)

Nathan had been keeping his distance from Franco, moreso covering the trail of death Franco left for him. It was arranged, the two were together in this, because for Nathan that was easiest thing, to let this pressed-suit pansy handle all the hard work. And he had, Franco had racked up three kills since the two of them had met. Nathan wasn't there, but he'd seen Franco leave the last scene, and was glad he wasn't in the place of that kid or his girlfriend.

Franco was the kind of guy who would go far here, Nathan thought. He might be stuck up, but he knew how to kill. Nathan swore to himself that he did too, but he barely believed it, wasn't sure if he could manage it if he ahd to. He probably wouldn't even have to take out Franco, Nathan knew that if you started enough shit someone would take you down soon enough. He hoped he was right, because he didn't want to fuck with Franco.

What they did was easy enough, Franco asked very little of Nathan, and Nathan liked it that way. The easiest way was always the best, and Nathan had followed that philosphy his whole life.

Nathan had caught up to Franco, who had finally stopped moving to listen to the announcements and write down what he heard.

"What's the scoop, boss?" Nathan said, eager to get into the game and stay on Franco's good side.

Franco had completely forgot about his little arrangement with Nathan, he had thought the young man lost somewhere along the trail of bodies, but apparently he could stomach the line of corpses Franco had left behind him. The deaths seemed to be getting increasingly violent as the game became increasingly desperate. Franco could even feel himself getting more and more motivated.

He hadn't spoken to Nathan much, from what Franco could tell the kid was a burnout, not the type Franco would typically associate himself with. Still, he was smart enough to put aside his aristocratic arrogance and realize the need for usefulness and adversity. He had to be adaptable, and he needed support to get through this intact. The last time he killed someone they put up a fight, which was a first, but Franco was certain it wasn't a last.

"Evening Nathan," Franco smirked, he was armed to the teeth and as far as he could tell Nathan still didn't have a weapon, he loved having the upper hand. He also took kindly to being called boss for a change. "How are things holding up on your end?"

Franco took a step forward and clicked the safety off on his shotgun. He shifts his pack and his spare around so that each hung loosely off his shoulder.

"I think for now on we should stick close together. It's getting pretty rough out there and you know what they say: strength in numbers."

Nevertheless, that strategy only really worked when both players were pulling their weight, and for the most part, Nathan had just been along for the ride. Franco was the first person on the list now that he'd taken out B01. He was B02, first in line, and he was going to win, but he needed to have his guarantee that Nathan wasn't just kicking around. That he wasn't just waiting for Franco to die.

"Why don't you lead the way Nathan? I was just going to stay here for a while, but why don't you lead the way for a while? After all, I'm sure you can handle it? Can't you, Nathan?"

Simple enough.

Nathan had to go forwards, keep an eye out for Franco, which wasn't so tough. Just keep his gaurd up so they knew what was coming. Except, unless Nathan's eyes were fucking with him, Franco was sizing him up. Nathan couldn't figure out what he meant by it, but Franco was scary and that kind of look was scaring Nathan. But Nathan could roll with it.

"Yeah... shit. Let's go."

Nathan started trotting forwards,, eyes open, but still sickly aware of Franco's eyes boring into him. It made Nathan's back quiver.

"So... what are we looking for?"

Franco strolled easily with Nathan a safe distance in front of him. He gripped his shotgun with sweaty palms, eager to act. Nathan didn't really have anything Franco needed, but he was another body. Another stepping stone and the two of them had a much better chance at taking the advanced competition. People were playing for keeps now. Franco knew that, and he was pretty sure Nathan knew it too. It was a dangerous piece of information to hold.

"I think I know where we might be able to find more competitors," Franco grinned. "Let's head to the industrial district. I haven't been there yet; there might be some supplies still worth taking, among other things..."

Franco let his words trail off as he began to walk in the direction of the disused slaughterhouse. How appropriate that it was one of the few buildings in the islands minute district. Schubert in E flat danced and harmonized in the back of his mind as he wandered through the carnage infested isle. He was a bastion of calm, he was the bright and shiny center of the universe, and nobody else mattered. The wretched thoughts of pain and loosing something essentially human washed away.

He left the small house of last nights residence in his wake with a grin on his face.

((Continued in Maison d'abattage))

Franco let Nathan have some comfort - he gave him an actual destination.

"Good stuff." Nathan responded with a sigh of relief. "Let's go."

Nathan struggled to remember his map and took off in roughly the direction Franco turned to, leading the way. He hadn't been to that area yet, and wasn't sure that Franco had either, which is why they would be going there.

(Continued wherever...)