Survival Of The Fittest

((Katelyn hadn't slept all that well, over the course of the night.))

The tundra forest was substantially easier on the eyes in the morning light. It wasn't yet bright enough that the snow blanketing the ground had become blinding, but it was more than bright enough to see the gnarled, grey-brown bark and empty branches of many of the trees that came up through the forest floor like the teeth of a great creature, one that could swallow her at any moment. She had gotten lost again, upon leaving her burrow behind, and had come to sit in front of what she had identified as a spruce tree, its needle and snow covered branches providing her some sense of safety by obscuring the sky above her. Her aching back appreciated the rest as she slumped against the tree, trying to clear the ringing piercing her ears, and the static that filled her brain.

They hadn't left her with her medication, for she hadn't brought it on the trip to begin with. They were supposed to be home before that ever became a problem, but now Katelyn had yet another decision to regret. She had been taking two medications before all of this to help manage her depression and anxiety, neither of which were suitable to abruptly stop. While the effects of withdrawal had yet to get truly horrible, she was already feeling them, with her head aching as if it were threatening to burst, and her arms and legs damp with sweat, despite the frost nipping at her cheeks. She could feel the background buzz of anxiety creeping back into her mind, an old friend-turned-enemy that she had cast out onto the streets and hoped would never return. Yet here it was, unbidden, filling her head with images of her and her friends' impending deaths.

Despite the odds being stacked against her, she had survived the night. Her heater and the relative warmth of the burrow she had found had kept her from freezing to death, but that was a small mercy. Walking further down the path she had been set on from moment one meant was that she had given herself nothing more than another day to suffer. Would this one prove to be nothing but a whirlwind of violence, one fatal encounter after another, just like the day before? Or would she break the cycle of revenge and violence that was inevitably going to consume her life?

Katelyn doubted it was going to be the latter. Her life didn't work that way. The announcements had woken her up, and told everyone of her sins, while leaving out the oh-so-essential context that made what she did understandable, if not justifiable. She had made mistakes with both Robin and Iliya, and she knew that, but she hadn't wanted to kill either of them, it's just what happened. That's not what everyone else would know, oh no, all they would know is that she was a two-time killer on day one. Between that and the bloodbath that was her attire, all of them would have everything they needed to conclude that she was a threat to them, and the bad guy of this story. The only saving grace was that she wasn't the only one, but that was a small mercy, if it was one at all.

She shifted, pulling her legs in closer to keep her body heat from escaping into the morning air. The knife remained sheathed and tucked into her right boot, while Iliya's much larger billhook lurked inside her bag of supplies, the strap of which hugged her shoulder while its zipper remained half-open, a loose loaf of bread on the top of the stack, evidence that she had just finished devouring her morning rations.

In moments of lucidity, when the fog enveloping her mind was blown away by memories of what few good times she had before all of this, she thought of her friends. Were they okay? Were they looking for her? Did they want nothing to do with her anymore, after hearing about what she had done? Katelyn wouldn't blame them for that, if that was the case. It's not like she ever really deserved their love in the first place.

The breeze swept past Katelyn's head, tugging at the hood of her jacket. She sniffled, taking in the odor that it had carried with it.

There was the smell of death in the air.

Man… I’d fuckin’ kill for a dunkees about now.

((Mitch McDuffy continued from Just thought I would spice things up a bit.))

Mitch sniffled as he slowly made his way through the woods, using his digging bar like a hiking staff and chomping down on one of his ration bars. He probably should have considered himself lucky that he made it through the night with only a cold to show for it, many folk who needed to rough it in the frosty wilderness never got to wake up again.

Granted, it’s not as if he didn’t make the most of what was at his disposal. Once it had become clear that nightfall was imminent, he opted to spend his last remaining hour of sunlight creating a makeshift shelter out of sticks and leaves. Nothing to exactly write home about, but with that digging bar he was able to make a small dakota style fire pit, based off a design he saw on YouTube once that involved digging a secondary opening connected to the pit itself. Apparently designing it that way reduced the amount of smoke it made by allowing air to flow through, not that he was 100% sure how exactly that worked, but it seemed to function well enough to keep him warm. Toss in the foil blanket they were assigned and he managed to make it through the night without succumbing to hypothermia.

That wasn’t to say it was a pleasant night by any stretch, especially not with the memories of Oakley remaining fresh in his head. Or the concerns he had about the friends he had left, the friends he had yet to find, or the friends who might already be gone. And perhaps most of all, by the realisation of what he might have to do to prevent more Oakleys from popping up across the island.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already considered the path he was about to undertake. It was plan A after all, to focus his energies on targeting other players, try to take out those who were actively participating in the game. Originally he had justified it out of some misguided sense of wanting to address his situation in a way that was easier for him to digest, that allowed him to play to his strengths. He was a gamer, after all. He’d been playing with other players all his life, in some form or another. Whether in the basketball court, or an airsoft field, or in a virtual battleground. In a way, he was in his element.

But, the cold reality of it was that most folk weren’t playing. Most were scared, rightfully so, and just trying to survive. But to those who were playing, that didn’t make a difference. Everyone was free game. That was not how he rolled, never how he intended to roll, and not how he intended to roll now. The only difference was his reasoning, now that he’d seen first hand what happens when people took a more passive approach. As much as he respected the Oliveiras’ decision, he knew he could never follow that path. He couldn’t just sit idly by as the bodycount grew, even if it meant…

Even if it ultimately meant contributing to it.

Nevertheless, despite his turbulent thoughts, eventually sleep claimed him for a while. He was awoken, like many of his classmates, by the loud screech of speakers and the first announcement. The many names that were listed still weighed heavily on him as he made his way through those lonely woods, the confirmed players in particular at the forefront of his mind.

Betty Quinn. That’s who had stolen Oakley’s life from him, apparently doing such a good job at it that she had won a shiny new gun.

Jezzie Stark. The girl who had taken the life of his friend Steve. He was still in a state of shock as he wandered along, his face red and raw from the tears he shed that morning. He was already too late. Steve, who he had envisioned teaming up with to form the most extreme duo in SOTF history, went and got himself offed within the first 24 hours. He felt ashamed that it didn’t come as much of a surprise that he didn’t last long without his wingman by his side. Any lingering doubts he had about his chosen path died along with him, not with Evie and the rest of his friends still out there, possibly alone and at risk of being picked off one at a time.

And then there were the two repeat offenders. Two girls who had killed more than once, and were likely to kill again: Janice Cresner, and…

Katelyn Graves.

The very same Katelyn Graves who was sitting at a tree just ahead of him.

The very same Katelyn Graves who was covered in her victims' blood.

The very same Katelyn Graves who was now staring right at him.

He blinked, standing there silently for a moment, staring right back at her.

Then he dropped that ration bar to the ground, gripped his digging bar with two hands, and charged forward with an unearthly cry of fury.

A scattered mess of thoughts rushed through Katelyn's head in the moments leading up to Mitch charging at her. She heard his footsteps through the fog enveloping her mind, and when she looked up, he was already staring her down. Their eyes met, and she tried to recall who exactly he was. They had a few classes together over the years. He was something of a class clown and small for a boy, but still a head taller than her. They had never really talked, but that was hardly unusual for her, as most of her class avoided her like the plague. He wasn't someone she would have considered a threat.

Then he started running towards her, bellowing.

"Wh-"

She reacted quickly, face contorting into one of surprise and fear, the fog blasted away by sheer adrenaline. She scrambled to get up, her mind racing, simultaneously wondering if he had known Robin or Iliya and wanted to avenge them, and how best to escape this situation as fast as possible. Her hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife, drawing it from her boot with a metallic shing as she launched herself up and away. She was small, but she was fast, and she could get away.

Or at least, that was what she thought, before one of her boots suddenly sank into the snow, sending her toppling to the ground with a shriek, bag and all.

No! Not like this, she begged the universe itself. Anything but this. Nerves alight, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, she flipped herself over, bringing the knife point to bear. Pathetic, incomprehensible mewls escaped her lips as her vision blurred, and she soon found herself inches from the business end of Mitch's weapon.

"Wait-" she cried, voice breaking. "Wait, please!"

Katelyn Graves.

Katelyn Fucking Graves.

Mitch never had anything against Katelyn back at school. She was just that quiet girl in class who liked to wear cat hoodies, and he could respect that. From what little he heard about her she’d lived a life that was difficult to envy.

But then she went and jumped off the deep end. Killed Robin right off the bat, then murdered Liya not long after from the sound of it. That cat hoody of her’s was now stained red, and that sure as hell wasn’t her own blood. She was a predator, a two-time murderer…

A player.

Jobtown. Baby.

Adrenaline gripped Mitch as he pursued her, refusing to let this cat get away to sink her claws into more of his classmates. She was a killer, one who would probably go on to kill again if he didn’t put her down right here, right now. He had chosen his path, and what better way to cement it by taking out one of the top two players first?

She was fast, faster than him, but he only needed to keep up. Only needed to keep sight of her, make sure she didn’t slip away. As luck would have it, she wouldn’t get far until an errant pothole sent her tumbling, landing on the snow in a heap. This was it, now or never. He wouldn’t get a better chance than this, his hands gripping that bar tight as he ran down towards her, ready to avenge his classmates with a single ram through her fragile spine.

But then, she flipped herself over, and… Started begging.

Mitch halted several feet away, that digging bar aimed squarely for her chest as he kept her at a safe distance, ready to skewer her ribcage at a moment’s notice if she tried anything funny. He wasn’t expecting her to do that. He’d never played a video game where his enemies stopped and started crying, never seen anyone beg for their life in an airsoft match. It… That wasn’t how this was supposed to go, damn it!

“Wait?!?” he spat, gritting his teeth as he tried to rile himself up. “Is that what you told them, huh? Did you tell Robin to wait? Did you fucking tell Oa-Liya to wait!?!” he continued, internally cursing himself for that slip of the tongue.

"N-No!" Katelyn squealed. "Wh-what happened was..."

Her thoughts went back to Meena. The truth was too complicated to explain, and too hard to believe. Maybe (s)he had been right after all, and Katelyn needed a scapegoat.

"M-Meena shot Robin and left him to die!" she spoke quickly, not allowing herself time to slip up or fumble over her words. "I killed him to keep him from s-suffering!"

She didn't like lying, and she was never any good at it. However, having a blade moments away from skewering her had a way of tampering with her moral compass, and gave her the perfect incentive to learn. Learn to fly or fall and die.

"A-And Liya was self-defense!" a half-truth sputtered out, tears running down her cheeks as snot dribbled out of her nose. "She jumped to conclusions and didn't let me explain!"

Katelyn sniffled, her throat threatening to close in on itself at any moment, deny her a chance to reason with assailant.

"I d-didn't want to h-hurt anyone!" she capped off her lies with the truth, "I just w-wanted to be l-left alone!"

Her mind raced, coming up with contingencies in case Mitch didn't believe her. His balance was off, his stance unsteady, likely caught off guard by her pleading. If she was able to get even a moment of distraction out of him—a glance to the side, a slight adjustment—she could at least get the digging bar out of his hands, if not make him topple over in the process. Then all she would need was one good strike, and it would all be over. All she had to do was think about putting down a rabbit or squirrel, and not the harsh reality of what she was actually doing. She might not want another person's blood on her hands, but this was actual self-defense. It would be more justified than either of her prior murders. Why then, did the thought leave such a sour taste in her mouth?

Maybe that grim outcome wouldn't be necessary. Maybe he would listen to reason and spare her, no strings attached, and they could go their separate ways.

"P-Please!" she whined, sobbing. "Just let me g-go!"

Mitch listened as Katelyn pleaded her case, his eyes never leaving her or the knife in her hand.

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't an idiot. He knew damn well that she wouldn't hesitate to shank him at a moment's notice, the crimson coating on her knife was evidence enough of that. It was why he kept her at a distance, that digging bar ready to skewer her at any moment.

He began to grit his teeth as he heard her out, listening out for some contradiction in her story, desperate to find an excuse for him to bury that digging bar deep into her ribcage. He wanted to believe that she was lying to him, that she was the monster he had painted her as before they crossed paths. It would’ve been so much easier if that were the case.

Try as he might, however, he just couldn’t. It all seemed so horribly plausible. Maybe she was embellishing the truth here and there, leaving out some key details, but he no way of disproving anything she said. Those tears streaming down her face seemed genuine enough at the very least, his chest heaving as he stood his ground.

Mitch didn’t realise until then just how tiny she was. He was always something of a manlet himself, but he was practically Andre the Giant compared to her. It was impossible for him to not feel like a total shitbag, making this poor young girl cry and beg for her life, like he was some horrible boogeyman.

But then he looked at her bloodied knife again, and her crimson stained hoody, and…

Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK! Why did she have to make this so…

Mitch was at a loss. Deep down he knew he couldn’t just let her go, risk getting more of his classmates killed. Even if she was telling the truth, the fact that she had gotten two people killed already was damning enough by itself. But he also couldn’t bring himself to follow through, not like this. Not with her quivering in fear and bawling her eyes out. It just… That wasn’t him. He didn’t want to be the guy who killed someone like that without a second thought. He didn't want to kill anyone, really, certainly not like this.

He looked at her knife again. Perhaps there was a third option after all. If he didn’t have the heart to put this cat down, then maybe he could at least declaw her, make sure nobody else got hurt.

“L-look…” he stutters. There was still fury behind those eyes, but they now seemed to be tempered with intense shame, his face shifting from anger to despair and back again.

“God… DAMNIT, Just… Just toss me the knife okay?” he demanded, gripping that bar tightly, his eyes welling up as he glared down at her.

“I SAID TOSS ME THE FUCKING KNIFE!!”

Katelyn always hated being yelled at.

She was never able to get used to it when Ashlyn yelled at her for being weird, or her aunt and uncle yelled at her for not understanding them, or the kids at school yelled at her for being creepy. Every time it happened, it made her blood boil, rage bubbling up from below at the indignity of it. There was never a situation where someone needed to raise their voice at her. She always heard them, and if they were just a little nicer, she would do what they wanted just to appease them, regardless of what it was.

Instead, they all treated her like she was beneath them. Like a cat clawing at furniture, in need of discipline. Only much like a cat, she often didn't know she was doing anything wrong, and scolding her only made her feel threatened. It did not make her want to do what she was told. So she had no intention of complying with a rabid dog barking orders at her.

"O-Okay," she squeaked, taking the knife by the blade and chucking it a few feet away, behind Mitch.

He stepped back almost immediately, the pressure exerted by the digging bar lifted like a ten-ton weight. She had bought herself a moment, but likely just that and no more. He barely even knew her, but he had chased her with the full intention of killing her, and had been a mere moment away from doing so. She didn't know why, but she didn't want to know. It made no difference if his motives were revenge or a misguided sense of justice. He had only changed his mind at the last second, and now that he had disarmed her, what would stop him from changing it again? Or even if he really did spare her, he might remember to check if she had any other weapons, and before she knew it, she would be defenseless. Without a way to defend herself, how long would it take for another vigilante like him to come along and finish the job?

Slowly, tentatively, Katelyn exhaled and sat up, staring at Mitch as he fumbled towards the blade. She wasn't going to be bullied. She had enough of being a victim for one lifetime. Her actions had marked her as the bad guy, the villain of this story, and already she was being treated like one. If everyone already thought that she was the bad guy, then what reason did she have to hold back from behaving like one? As much as she hated it, as much as it made her sick, she couldn't let herself be pushed around by people like Mitch.

She put her arms to the ground, one hand on her bag, feeling for the shape of the billhook, and the other discretely grabbing a fistful of snow.

Maybe if her body count got high enough, everyone would finally leave her alone.

Mitch didn't like shouting at people, either.

It just wasn't in his nature to be this angry. Even after all the times his team lost in basketball, or when Victor chewed him out, or when his mom told him he was an idiot for thinking he could make a living as a streamer. He just took it all on the chin, laughed it off, lived up to his reputation as the local class clown.

This island... This fucking island, man. When it wasn't killing you, it was changing you. Pitting you against your classmates, tricking you into thinking you weren't the one turning into a monster. He... Jesus, had he really tried to kill her? Had he really set his mind on trying to be some 90s action hero, going around fucking...

He needed to get away from this place. Needed to go find Evie and bring her to the Oliveiras, focus on protecting his friends instead of...

He moved back from Katelyn as she tossed him her knife, taking his eyes off her briefly as he reached down to grab it. He felt certain that she was now harmless without her weapon, just a tiny helpless girl in a cat themed hoody.

It didn't even occur to him to check if she had another.

"Look, I..." he sputtered, almost apologising before holding back. He couldn't forget what she had done, couldn't forgive her no matter how shitty he felt about threatening her like this.

"Just... Just get the f-FFUCK!" he gasped as he looked up just in time to receive a faceful of snow and gravel.

He spluttered and wiped his eyes, stumbling back a couple more steps and instinctively raising his arms to protect his face, awkwardly jabbing out with that digging bar to fend Katelyn off before she could-

-strike with the billhook, both of her hands on the hilt, raking it across Mitch's stomach, and gutting him like a fish.

A cat's back claws were longer, wider, and stronger than their front claws. They weren't as sharp, but they were ultimately more dangerous. A cat's front claws were designed to hook and restrain prey, but would usually only deter threats. When it came to fighting for their life, a cat's back claws were their last line of defense, built to wound attackers and disembowel prey. In this case, Katelyn's billhook was performing both functions.

She sprung back to get distance, yanking the billhook out of Mitch's belly in the process. She panted, watching the geyser of blood pouring out of the wound.

"You-" she hissed, and sniffled. "This d-didn't have to happen! You sh-should've just left me alone!"

Mitch took a sharp intake of breath as that hooked blade sank into his stomach.

He wasn’t 100% sure what happened at first, his grip on that digging bar loosening as he felt something cold and metallic penetrate his body. His eyes darted down to look at the cat who had gutted him, his face contorting into a pained grimace.

She’d bamboozled him. Lulled him into a false sense of security with her whole crying catgirl schtick, only to pounce at the opportunity to shank him with the dagger she’d been hiding behind her back. She had played on his hesitancy and made him pay the ultimate price for it.

He ground his teeth as his face twisted into a scowl, his hand extending out towards her face, trying to jab his thumb into her eye and push her way.

She sprung back before his hand was even close, swiping that billhook and tearing his belly open.

He coughed crimson as his legs buckled, keeling over onto a knee as he dropped the bar onto the ground, his hands instinctively reaching down to stop his guts from spilling out. His mind flashed back to memories of a Halloween party from his childhood, where his parents had turned their basement into a spooky haunted house, the pièce de résistance being a paper mache frankenstein monster with an open stomach full of red jello guts. Only those guts were cold and delicious, his however were warm, bloody, still pulsing in tune to the rapid beating of his heart.

Mitch glanced downwards, noticing that his orange parka was now stained red. That was it, wasn’t it? One small mistake and she had gone and stolen his life from him. He knew that even with proper medical attention, he was likely a goner at this point. Dead within the first 24 hours, just barely lasting a little longer than his buddy Steve.

Was… Was this really it for him? Was this what his life was going to amount to? Just another statistic, the latest in a long list of victims to these murder games, a footnote in someone else’s story? Had his entire life, his dreams, his aspirations lead to him being just some expendable mook? A throwaway extra, barely even worth remembering, his name chiselled on some memorial nobody would even bother reading?

No… God fucking damnit, he refused to go down like this. He was Mitch McDuffy! He had hopes, things he wanted to do with his life! He wasn’t going to be just some statistic! Wasn’t going to let Katelyn go add more victims to her list! There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in his mind now: She was a predator, and a scarily good one at that. If he didn’t stop her right there and then, she was going to kill all his friends. Evie, Molly, Lucio, the Terriers… She would murder them all if he didn’t man up now and take her down with him!

He spat blood, crimson dribbling down his jaw as he grit his teeth so tightly that he could almost feel them crack under the pressure, looking up at the hissing cat that was bearing down on him.

“I was…” he coughed, one hand keeping his guts from spilling out, the other grabbing a hold of the knife she had tossed him earlier.

“Going… To let… You GO!”

In his mind, Mitch saw himself leaping forward in one last desperate lunge, plunging that knife into her chest and taking her down with him!

In reality, Mitch stumbled forward and swung limply, too stubborn to realise that the fight - if you could even call it that - was already over.

Katelyn sidestepped Mitch's limp swing, punishing his audacity with a swift chop to the arm. He lost his grip on the knife - her knife - and before he could recover, hacked at his left leg, sending him toppling to the ground. She loomed over him, the shadow of death, her expression dark. She sniffled, eyes still red and crying despite having turned the tide.

"You th-threatened my life," she spat, raising the billhook above her head like an executioner's axe. "You d-didn't need to. You c-could've just left, and none of this would have h-happened."

The stench of blood and guts filled her nostrils, making her want to hurl. In theory, if Mitch was able to get prompt medical treatment, he might have a chance to survive, but he wasn't going to get that in this place. Much like the rabbits she wounded with her bow, he was still struggling, but his fate was already sealed. The car had already crashed, and his inevitable end was playing out in slow motion. Despite how angry she was at him, and how easy it would be for her to leave him to his fate, she wasn't going to let him suffer needlessly. A good hunter felt no hatred and did not linger, they struck their prey down and moved on as naturally as breathing.

Katelyn brought the billhook down on him again, a spray of fresh blood spattering her clothes. He raised his arm to block her swings, still trying to resist, despite his grievous injuries. His mistake, rejecting her mercy.

"J-Just-"

She raised the billhook again, and brought it back down, making its mark on his arm with a fleshy thwack.

"-go-"

More futile resistance, prolonging the inevitable. Down came the billhook on the same spot, his arm finally giving way to her assault.

"-to-"

She stomped on his stomach, he screamed, and she swung again. Another thwack, another scream, and another spray of blood.

"-sleep!"

Again and again she hacked away, until her brutal task was complete.

Mitch wasn’t much of a cat person.

That hadn’t always been the case. There used to be a time when he wasn't sure if he preferred them over dogs, even going so far as asking his parents if they could get one, only to be refuted out of concern for his sister’s pet hamster. That changed however when he went to spend the weekend at Crazy Uncle Trevor’s, and happened across a gruesome present left on his pillow by the family mouser.

The thing that shocked him the most about it was how… Unnecessary it was. The cat wasn’t exactly malnourished, it didn’t have any logical reason to hunt prey. Hell it didn’t even bother to eat the damn thing! When he asked his Uncle about it, he told him this spiel about how cats just… Can’t help it, really. It was naturally hardwired into their brains to hunt, even when they had no reason to. It was just in their nature.

In other words, cats didn’t kill because they needed to. They killed because they wanted to. Because they enjoyed it.

His eyes bore into Katelyn’s as she stared him down, that bloodied billhook raised into the air. In his mind’s eye he had a defiant look on his face, standing up to his killer in his final moments, refusing to go down quietly.

In reality, he looked confused and delirious, his face a ghostly shade of pale from the amount of blood he had already lost.

He raised his arm when that billhook came down, crying out in pain as the blade dug deep. He desperately didn’t want to go out like a punk, desperately wanted to go down swinging, despite hardly having any strength left in his body.

That billhook swung down against his arm again, sinking even deeper, cutting into the bone. When it came down for the third time, he suddenly realised that he couldn’t move his hand anymore, the reason being that his upper arm was now hanging limply by a few loose tendons.

He barely had time to scream until he felt Katelyn’s boot impact with his stomach, spewing viscera all over her leg as he keeled over. He tried to shift himself, as if he could somehow turn the tables at the very last second, but all this resulted in was turning a swipe that would have sliced his neck open into one that dug into his jaw. His agonised scream shifted into an unearthly garble as the hooked blade tore itself free, severing his cheek muscles and leaving his mandible hanging limply.

Again and again she struck him, and not once did he allow her to strike a killing blow, still somehow clinging to the idea that he could turn this around. Even as that hooked blade hacked away at his body, his entrails spilling loose, his vision fading… To the very end, he refused to make it easy for her, convinced that he was somehow making a point. That his stubborn refusal to go down would mean something, other than denying himself a merciful death.

In the end, all his defiance amounted to nothing. His butchered carcass lay there in the snow, twitching and bloodied, making a few raspy gargled breaths before what little life he clung onto finally abandoned him.


S065: Mitch McDuffy - Deceased

When Mitch finally stopped moving, Katelyn was left heaving and over-exerted, for the first time feeling uncomfortably hot since she arrived in this place. He had made this so unnecessarily hard for himself; both by having too much courage and too little sense to attack her in the first place, and by continuing to struggle even after she had struck a killing blow.

Was that her destiny, to end up just like him in the end? Was what she was doing truly any different? She too was futilely struggling against her inevitable end, and only hurting herself more in the process. Like Mitch, her fate was already sealed, she merely had a much longer way to the bottom than he did. Yet, she chose to persist and struggle in spite of all that, for no real reason at all. Her only motivator was the dread of the last full stop, the final sentence in her story.

No conclusion was arrived at before the rotten smell of intestines hit her nose again and she gagged, sputtering and coughing, letting the billhook fall into the snow beside the mutilated corpse that used to be Mitch. Her gaze drifted over to his empty eyes, and she felt that twice-before familiar stab of guilt and remorse. She immediately shut her own eyes in response, craning her neck up towards the sky above, as if to tell Mitch to stop looking at her.

She didn't like the fact that this had been her easiest kill so far. Killing Iliya had happened too fast for her to really process her actions, and killing Robin had only come after initial hesitation. This time, however, she had known full well what she was doing the entire time, and not once in the process had she paused to reconsider. All that had been running through her mind was rage and adrenaline. She didn't want that to become a trend. She didn't want killing other human beings to become something she did on reflex, only pondered in hindsight.

Yet, she couldn't help but feel that grim reality was her future, locked-in as she was to the role of villain. Violence breeds more violence. To survive as a villain, as a hunter, meant that she had to kill, and keep killing. That was the whole point of this game, right? To prove that the true nature of survival was killing one's way to the apex, earning every breath through continuous bloodshed?

She bit her bottom lip, letting herself taste her own blood once again. The only saving grace—if it could even be called that—was that the aftermath wasn't any different. Killing Mitch had felt much the same as Iliya, though still not quite as bad as Robin. The familiar, painful point of shame still found its way deep into her guts, making her wonder just what her mom and dad would think if they could see this.

Katelyn opened her eyes, finally summoning the courage to face her guilt again.

"What a waste," she muttered, after a long pause.

She took a deep breath and crouched down, not allowing herself to squander any of her limited time on beating around the bush, moving to pull Mitch's bloodstained bag out from underneath him. Doing her best to ignore the rancid odor in the air, she picked through the spoils of war that laid inside, something she had forgotten to do for Iliya's supplies. She collected the food and water bottles and packed what extra she could fit into her first aid kit, only for one of Mitch's t-shirts to catch her eye. She stared at it for a moment, then glanced over at the digging bar, and got an idea.

Scooping her knife out of the snow, she cut a few strips of fabric from the shirt, knotting them together and fashioning them into a sling, before stuffing the remains into her own bag. Shuffling over to the digging bar—her digging bar—she examined the blade on the end, and imagined how easily it could have skewered her earlier, before placing it in the sling and securing it to her back. Initially dissatisfied with how loose it felt, after a few adjustments, more knots, and additions of extra fabric, she had it to her liking, nice and secure, at an angle to the ground.

Before turning to run away, she made one final glance back over to the body. It dawned on her that she had a shovel now, and didn't need to leave the bodies out in the open. Would burying them be the last respects for the dead? Or merely a way to hide her shame?

Katelyn chose to think of it as the former.

The wind whipped past her head as she got to work. After what felt like an hour of continuous labor, she managed to cover Mitch's body in a few inches of snow, packing it down so it wouldn't be blown away by the wind. The resulting scene was still grisly, much of the snow she used to construct the pile stained crimson by the boy's blood. Still, it was more respectful than leaving him out in the open to traumatize a classmate or be picked apart by animals. Maybe she should go back and do the same for Iliya and Robin.

((Regardless, Katelyn wanted nothing more to do with this ugly place, and so after collecting herself and her belongings, she ran away.))