Survival Of The Fittest

Theodore Fletcher: V5 START

No.

No.

No.

No.

"FUCKING no." Theo screamed, striking the ground with his left fist. "No, no, no, no, NO!" He punched the ground with his right. Tears dripped from his eyes and mingled with snot as he broke down completely into sobbing on his hands and knees, staring through bitter tears at the filth on the ground. He was going to die. Everyone was going to die. This was FUBAR so hard. His life was over.

Theo knew fucking Survival of the Fittest. It was the 9/11 of his age, but he''d been only 14 when it happened last. He''d watched it, sure, but it had sickened him. He knew enough, though, to know he was dead. His little sister and his parents were going to watch him die on live TV. Mr. Davidge, his physics teacher, with a hole blown in his head. …He was dead already.

He knew people died. Hundreds of kids his age or younger, all dead in a twisted game. People who didn''t realize death was coming were screwing themselves. The smart ones, who could be prepared, they''d live.

Theo came to this realization when he calmed down. It took a few minutes, but he was eventually calm enough to wipe the slime from his face, rub the smeary strands of his hand and onto the dirt, and think rationally. He didn't''t see anyone around him, but he knew people could easily be hiding or just out of view.

Now, where was he on this area, which was presumably an island he supposed? He gazed around, picking himself up to a sitting position.

The land was beautiful. A single, large cherry blossom tree, fronds drifting slowly in the breeze, was in bloom. Wildflowers filled the area around him to the brim. He himself lay next to a small bush with bright pink blossoms. It was like a perfect park or something.

But most importantly, it was clearly, not Disneyland, and definitely not Seattle.

Okay, that was done. Next step; find his bag. It was, of course, only a few feet away, by his feet. He leaned forward, crawling swiftly to the bag and ripping it open. According to the tag, he was B027. A generic number to be sure, but it was better than, say, 13. Not that the numbers really mattered, but still.

He dug past the food, water, and map (though he placed that on the ground next to him to check for safe locations later) and found his weapon.

"Holy shit."

A handgun? Wow, really? Theo had a gun. He picked it up, cradling it in his hands like a grenade. This was a plot twist. Theo wasn't defenseless anymore, waiting for death. He was dangerous, a predator, a killing machine.

Except, of course, he wasn't''t stupid. The thought to play was smothered as it was born. Players were targets. Getting a ton of kills was begging to be eliminated. Theo needed to be smart, and stay safe. If he did that, he could wait for rescue or, if necessary, win.

The idea of winning was an odd thought. He''d have to kill someone. Could he do it? Maybe. It frightened him, though, the thought of ending a life. He was destroying a person, completely and utterly. Could he live with himself if he killed a person? He didn't't know. Sooner or later, he might find out. For now, he didn't't want to consider that.

But sooner or later, he'd need to think about it…

Theo shook his head, sending locks of stringy hair into his face. He needed to stop thinking so hard, and prepare for the obvious dangers of an attacker. Theo started digging through his bag again, searching for a manual on his gun. He found it, gazed at it briefly. Did he need to know how to fire it?

Hell yes. How was he supposed to survive if he was defenseless? He'd only shoot in self-defense, of course. He flipped through the manual (discovering that the gun was a Browning Hi-Power) and began reading the instructions on firing. It was important to be prepared, after all. He wouldn't want to get caught off-guard, right?

He tried to keep the aching fear out of his chest.

Click, snick. Click, snick. Click, snick.

On a rock in the middle of the forest, with both hands cradling the assault rifle he'd found in his bag, Hansel Williams perched. His finger was quietly fiddling with the safety mechanism on the FA-MAS, switching it from on to off in two second intervals, mixing the sound of the forest with the alien, mechanical echo of a cacophony he considered synonymous with danger.

His father had taught him about guns and had taken him shooting a time or two, though this cold manufactured piece of metal and fiber was nothing compared to the rich smell and solid feel of his pa's battered old winchester. That gun had been smooth wood and battered iron, the bolt-action well worn and always oiled to perfection. That gun had reminded him of hot nights drinking sweetened tea, talking quietly with pa about the livestock and how the foals were holding up over polishing and oiling that beautiful family heirloom. That gun he had used to chase off a coyote, and that gun had taken the life of the first family dog when it had been too old and too sick to walk.

This gun had no memories to it beyond the murder of men. This gun was cold under his palms, heavy against his knees, and bright in the sunshine. This gun had been handed to him after a man had been murdered in front of him.

Click, snick. Click, snick. Click, snick.

Thou shalt not kill.

His pa had always taught him that the ten commandments were above all else in God's word. Don't kill, don't steal, don't lie, don't cheat. When he was younger, Hansel had brushed them off as buzz words, a laundry list of sins and do-nots. When he was older and had accepted the word, his mother taught him other do-nots. Sex before marriage. Homosexuality.

Gambling.

Hansel flipped the safety back to the off position and rose from his seat with ease, reaching down to scoop up the duffel bag beside him. A bag he hadn't opened, hadn't even looked at, after finding the FA-MAS. He caught the inscription on the bag as he slung it back over his shoulder - B076 - and his frown deepened.

The 0 before his number scared him. As if there was room for a hundred or more students in this game that he had been enrolled in. How long until he found someone? How long until he might be forced to use this cold-hearted weapon?

Fucking NO!

The sound split the woods, accompanied by a flight of birds exploding from the trees. Instinctively, Hansel had the gun upright, cradled against his shoulder in a sloppy firing position, aiming down the iron sights. The stand mounted to the barrel bruised the palm of his hand as his finger lightly wrapped around the trigger in the direction of the scream, his breath increasing, hands trembling with the sound.

Had the game claimed its first victim?

Without stopping to ponder it, Hansel moved closer to the sound, not daring to lower his weapon in case he stumbled across any number of gruesome images - a man beating a woman to death, a girl carving up a football player, consensual sex. Anything.

With the parting of brush brought an interesting visage - Theodore, one of those people who claimed to be bisexual. A classmate that Hansel would've spat on at any other given time, or at least sneered at in quiet.

Except this time, Theo had a gun.

"Theodore," Hansel said, making his voice drop an octave as he tightened his hold on the rifle, the duffel bag swaying slightly.

A voice.

Hansel.

Theo spun to face the speaker, and indeed recognized him as Hansel Williams, quite possibly the worst person to meet on the island. Hansel was the kind of kid who hated Theodore for his sexuality, liberal views, and pretty much everything else. Before, he'd just been an irritant, someone who was annoying to talk to but not a legitimate threat to anything beyond Theo's patience.

Now?

Now he was in a game where Hansel murdering Theo would be acceptable, logical and quite probable.

Theo leapt up onto his feet in a flash, aiming the gun right at Hansel's face  like a TV cop and trying desperately to not tremble. He paused for a second to actually cock the gun, then resume aiming it at Hansel. Theo saw that Hansel had some kind of big gun. Bad news; Theo knew that, if Hansel wanted, he might shoot him in an instant and it'd be game over with no continues. Thus, he had to keep him away from him, force him to leave until he could find allies.

"H-hey!" He said, trying to sound authoritative. His voice cracked. "Back off. Just...put down the gun, or put it away and leave, and I won't shoot you." Theo wasn't sure why he was threatening the other boy. It seemed reasonable as he said it, but now he worried he'd be targeted more than if he hadn't. Still, he needed to keep Hansel away so he didn't go all Paladin-Smite-Evil-Kill-Sinner mode on him. He was pretty sure people did that in this game. People did lots of things in SotF. "We clear? Just...just back off, and leave me alone."

Hopefully, Hansel would comply, because Theo wasn't sure how to use the gun. Sure, he'd read the instructions and all, seen it on TV, knew how it worked conceptually, but that wasn't exactly experience with a fired weapon. So if Hansel decided he wanted Theo dead, even with a head start Theo might not be able to defend himself properly.

That'd be good game, you lose, no continues, you died.

"Get real, Theodore," Hansel said, keeping his voice low, keeping Theo sighted. "I ain't a fool. Leave m'gun and walk away, huh? Reckon  I can trust a man who can't even pick a gender t'fuck?"

The words seemed ungenuine, even to Hansel, as he spoke them. He was clinging to old, hard-coded reactions to people and things. Hadn't he learned by now that alienating people wasn't the way to go? Especially now, when allies could mean life or death?

But the pressure of the situation overrode any rationality he could've dredged up.

"How th'fuck do I know you ain't gonna shoot me in the back, faggot? You lay down your gun, then I reckon we can have ourselves some easy conversation."

Shit.

This was a bad sign.

"No." Theo said, refuting the other boy. His temper had flared, as it did whenever Hansel brought up his bisexuality. "I don't want to have a calm conversation with you, I want to live. You're going to kill me, aren't you? You want me to put the gun down so I can't defend myself!" He accused the boy with a sneer. He was set in this idea now, convinced that he was right; the other boy was going to murder him if he could.

But Theo wouldn't let him.

"So fucking leave me alone or I'll shoot you." Theo said this coldly, angrily. He wasn't going to die. He certainly wouldn't die to this bigoted prick. He deserved to live, didn't he? Longer than him, certainly. His finger slid into the trigger hold, and he started to squeeze...

He froze. The gun didn't fire.

He couldn't shoot this boy like that! He was an ass, but did he deserve to die, at the impulsive whim of Theo? No. Then there was only one choice. If Hansel didn't back down, Theo would leave. Better to run than to die, after all.

Theo slowly started to back up, still facing the other boy, eyes locked, gun tight in his grip. He just needed to get to the treeline, about 15 or 20 feet behind him. Then, he'd be safe.

Hansel didn't know where it came from, but suddenly he was filled with a dark rage that filtered through him, bubbling from somewhere that he hadn't known existed until the slight boy whom he had harboured a healthy disgust for squeezed that finger around that trigger, and seemed visibly surprised when a bullet didn't explode out of it.

His dark eyes narrowed, his shoulder rotated until the gun was higher up, easier to sight, better against recoil. With a sure thumb, he lifted his hand, kept Theo in his sights, and flipped the safety.

Snick.

"You d-didn't juh-hust t-try to shoo-hoot me," Hansel managed, his cool long gone. His voice was rising in pitch and getting more and more desperate, aware of the very possibility that he could've just died. And if he had died, this skinny little fuck would've been the one to take him out.

Hansel advanced, then, a dark grunt leaving his throat as he tried to swallow. "Tha-hat d-d-didn't ju-hust hap-ppen."

Theo didn't mean to fire the gun.

But when he heard Hansel's words, saw him step forward, saw him cock his gun, Theo panicked. He stepped back, faster, almost into a run, stumbled and landed square on his ass. That was it. He fell down, it was an accident he didn't mean it that  was just an accident oh shit.

The jolt of landing caused his finger, still on the trigger, to tighten. The gun exploded, with a sudden jolt as a bang went off. Theo cried out in shock. "Agh!" He knew immediately he'd just made a fatal error.

Shit.

Theo didn't want to see if he hit the boy. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to know if he'd just accidentally murdered a fellow man. He rolled over, and crawled swiftly through the flowers, until he managed to get enough of a grip to stand and go into a proper sprint. He ran into the woods, fleeing for his life and his sanity at once.

Theo knew he could outrun Hansel, should he still be alive. Theo was on track, he could run for a mile before even feeling tired. He could run, above anything else in the world he could play video games, ace a test and run and that was about it. So he ran, desperate to escape two things; he wanted to escape retribution from the angry boy.

And he needed to escape the consequences of his actions.

[[Theodore Fletcher's story continues in Always Gold]]

When an actual explosion did report from the gun, instinct had Hansel's legs twitching, throwing himself to the side and attempting to roll as something hit his left arm, jerking him to the side. His side-roll became a flop onto his back, the breath escaping him in a jarring woosh as he hit the ground and slid, his finger squeezing the trigger briefly.

Three rounds erupted through the brush of the forest, shredding vegetation and smashing into trees from that single clench. Hansel immediately released the assault rifle, his ears ringing from the sudden noise, bringing both of his hands to his face. His left arm felt heavier, slower to respond. Carefully, he examined it.

The shot had evidently been wild, slicing through a chunk of flesh on the outside of his shoulder. His red button-down dress shirt had a gaping hole where flesh and blood intermingled in a strange cocktail, oozing down and darkening the already vibrant colour.

It hurt to shrug; a slow, burning pain waving to him each and every time he tried to roll, flex or move the shoulder. Utilizing his right hand, he sat up, clambering slowly to his feet, being careful to see if he was hit, where hurt. Nothing but the shoulder wound and a skinned knee.

Grunting, Hansel dipped downwards, placing his stetson back atop his head and scooping up the assault rifle with his good arm, flicking the safety back off before he was fully righted. There was time to patch himself up later, he decided. First, he needed to get away from the lingering sound of gunshots, violence, and destruction.

Still, there was a niggling doubt as he walked away, holding the FA-MAS between his hands, wincing with each step that jarred his shoulder. Doubt that had begun to climb rapidly ever since he had a certain discussion in the lunch room. Doubt that had increased over the past week, looming until it was difficult to ignore.

You could be wrong.

((Hansel Williams, Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway))