Survival Of The Fittest

Two men in all black stood among other black-clad figures. One groaned, switched the side his weapon was slung on, and rolled the previously occupied shoulder.

“‘least we’re getting extra for this little holiday.”

The other man, tan complexion, bald head, and intense eyes, quietly checked his gear but didn’t respond. The boat kept moving forward. When there was rocking from the ocean, everyone shifted a little to steady their stance. Below them was the crunching of ice and churning of waves.

They had orders; it would be quick and professional, which was how they were in all matters. The island was in sight.

“Why couldn’t they have set up shop someplace nice, like South America? Palm tree country,” the first man grumbled.

The other man widened his stance and looked over his shoulder at a cache of medical supplies, counting in a whisper to himself.

The boats stopped moving and bobbed up and down in the water. The metallic clinking of the anchors rattled and high above them, seagulls cawed at the intruders. This team had been deployed when surveillance noticed an explosion on the shore of one of the islands. They’d been held back for hours waiting for the all clear, confirmation that the collars had been disabled and they could move in without the terrorists blowing everybody up. It had been the biggest concern of the higher ups. Each move they made followed by anxious waiting to see if the terrorists would just abandon their plan. The explosion had been all they had had to go on about the status of the students since the data had been wiped at the terrorist camp. But the explosion tipped them off and once they got a closer look…

“Did you… know someone they got?” he yelled as he and the other man got onto one of the dinghies. Only three soldiers per dinghy. The others could wait on the boat.

There was no response to the question. There was only the satisfying crunch of sand and pebbles as they made shore.

The figure at the front held up their arm and with two fingers in the air, thrust them forward in two directions. The man who wouldn’t respond to the questions took a megaphone from someone next to him and raised it to his mouth.

“This is the Interpol Incident Response team and SEALs. Your collars should no longer be active and you are not being monitored. Please make your way to the beach as soon as possible. You're going home.”

With that, the talkative man shot into the sky twice. Light exploded from the barrel of the red gun. Then, like a shooting star, a ball of light traveled up, started to arc, then exploded into a burst of red.

Not long after, the sound of a snowmobile engine cut through the trees.

((Juanita Reid continued from If You Want Blood, I'll Give You Some))

Fitz was a good deal lighter than Evie, and his frame was stretched over a good few extra inches, but he somehow seemed to occupy way more space on the snowmobile seat. He wasn't exactly a threatening presence, but he had been actively attempting to kill her and Evie, and, well, he was a guy and he was bigger than her. So, even though his death grip on her was extremely warranted given the circumstances, it made her entire body tense up. Every jolt rattled up her spine, jostling every vertebrae as it went. Her back probably sounded like a maraca concert to Fitz.

As they broke out of the treeline and onto the coast, Juanita spotted a dark shape not far offshore. A boat. Much closer there were dinghies, men dispersing from them. It was real. It was really, truly over.

The snowmobile started to sputter a bit. Juanita hazarded a glance downwards. When was the last time she had checked the gas gauge on the fuel tank? It had been low, but how long ago had that been, and how much gas had she burned in the meantime? She'd been driving it all over the island, and it'd have to run out sooner or later-

BANG!

The vehicle canted sharply to the left, and Juanita's leg erupted with starbursts of excruciating pain. She grabbed Fitz's arm to keep him from being flung off, and they tobogganed to a stop in the sand. Her bag was flung off, spilling all of its contents onto the ground. The snowmobile wheezed contemptuously and died.

"Crap. Sorry! Sorry, I..."

Juanita turned the key once, twice. Nothing happened.

"Darn it... are you okay?" She looked back over her shoulder. There was a large dead tree on the beach, with one of the limbs cracked off where they'd smashed into it. Come to think of it, was she okay? Her pant leg was torn, and she saw a bit of blood. Whatever was cut, she couldn't feel it through the firestorm of pain.

Juanita looked up, at the figures further along the beach. They weren't too far off, and some of them were heading this way. They must've heard the engine, probably the crash too.

"Okay... Okay, the soldiers are coming. They're gonna get us out of here."

She made a token attempt to stand up, but between Fitz's weight and the fire raging through her tibia, she didn't get more than an inch or two off the seat before slumping back down. They weren't going anywhere, not without help. She looked back at the soldiers and waved her free arm frantically in a wide arc, drawing their attention before she cupped her hand to her mouth and shouted at the top of her lungs.

"Help! Over here! We have wounded!"

((Juanita Reid continued in the aftermath))

Fitz didn’t pay attention to much on the ride over. He was too busy trying to hold onto Juanita. Hold onto the person who’d blown out his elbow… but that was the game, and this was now. And all that mattered was staying on this snowmobile.

The vehicle jerked roughly, and Fitz nearly got flung off it. Only Juanita’s reflexes had kept him on it.

His sense of equilibrium wasn’t good. Juanita was saying something. It took Fitz a little while to realise she was asking if he was okay.

“I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s...”

Fitz trailed off. He patted Juanita on the shoulder absently, then attempted to climb off the snowmobile. He didn’t end up climbing off so much as tumbling onto the sand and flopping onto his back.

His breathing was labored as his eyes travelled upwards, which from his view was the ground. The world was upside down from his view, and there were figures moving across his sky. Adults in black. Boats. Rescue.

“It’s fine,” he breathed again.

His hand found the strap of the bag that contained Alex’s head. His fingers tightened around it, then he let go and gripped Cedar’s choker, just above the explosive collar.

It wasn’t entirely fine. There could have been so many more of them.

Between twelve days of little sleep, and the pain that shot through one side with each heartbeat, he wanted to pass out and hope that he awoke off this island. But for now… he struggled to stay awake as he lay there on the sand, waiting quietly while Juanita called attention to them. Not many of them would see the end. Best to not sleep through it.

((Russell ‘Fitz’ Fitzroy continued in the Aftermath.))

"You should think about maybe losing some weight, you know?"

Leslie didn’t look up from his work, tinkering with his drone.

His dad folded his arms.

“How else do you expect to one day get a girl to come home with you?”

((Leslie Romero continued from If Walls Could Talk ))

Leslie and company continued ahead without Julia. If she wanted to go off and do something stupid, they weren’t the ones to stop her. They trudged through the snow at a power-walking pace, burning the bottom of his legs where his calves became ankle. He stopped suddenly when from their place on a little hill, he could see them. It was people in black. Leslie looked at Aracelis and the conversation passed silently between their eyes in the frozen air between them.

Leslie threw all of their bags and supplies to the ground, grabbed hold of Aracelis’s hand, and began to sprint. All those supplies they had fought and sacrificed for landed with a thud and without a second thought.

They flew forward, feet barely touching down enough to leave footprints in the snow, each step lighting up the white blanket beneath them. He didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

Trees, houses, and mountains blurred by and his lungs stung from the exertion and cold air, but they couldn’t stop. Not far of was a crashing noise. He could see two people up ahead that looked haggard and injured.

Finally, they came to a halt almost skidding into two of the black-clad figures in front of the small boats that bobbed like bath toys in the water.

“Leslie…”

He panted and swallowed frozen saliva that tasted like blood.

“….Romero.”

((Aracelis Fuentes continued from If Walls Could Talk ))

Julia gave her a gun then left. A weird and confusing series of events but it meant that Aracelis had a gun. That likely would have been more important if they weren’t rushing to get to the shore at the bottom of the town. They were free, the United States special forces had come to whisk them away to safety, all they needed to do was get to them.

Truthfully, she and Leslie hadn’t given Julia’s departure much thought. Instead their main focus remained tearing ahead and pushing through the weather to get to the boats. Their pace never slowed, no matter what they heard, even when she could have sworn she had heard gunshots in the distance. Her shins throbbed and ached as they continued forward, moving as fast as possible without breaking into a jog or run.

Finally they crested a hill and below them were their saviours. Dressed as they were in all black, clearly and obviously armed, and arranged in a semi-circle, some crouched, weapons pointed out they didn’t look like traditional rescuers. But to Aracelis it made sense. They’d said they were SEALs and Interpol, every face she could make out in the group was weathered, with sharp, intense eyes. They were real professional killers. Stood at the top of the hill, gun and bat clutched in her hands and with two bodies to her name Aracelis felt wholly and utterly inadequate. For a moment she watched them and as they scanned their surroundings she made eye contact with one of the closest ones. The moment passed as he turned to inform his commander of their presence, meanwhile Aracelis began to shake.

In the corner of her vision she saw Leslie moving. She turned her head and met his gaze, an entire conversation played out in the subtle movements of their eyes.

Then everything they had grabbed, fought and been injured for during the course of the game was thrown to the floor, some of it began to tumble back down the hill or down the pathway to the shore, coming to a rest in the sand. Her bag came open and disgorged a hysterical amount of water bottles.

Her baseball bat fell at her feet, the head and nails stained a rusted brown from the dried blood. Her hand felt empty without something to grip and Aracelis felt uncomfortable to have no weapon on her person. But then Leslie took her hand in his and she replaced her death grip on the handle of the bat with a white knuckled grip on his hand as they flew down the remaining distance.

Aracelis’ lungs burned and her throated tasted like iron as they sprinted to the finish. There were already two others there by the time they arrived at the beach, kicking up sand in their wake. Aracelis nearly stumbled and had to quickly regain her footing to avoid Leslie tugging her to the floor. But they’d made it, after everything, they’d reached the end.

“Aracelis Fuentes,” She gasped, her voice shaking as much as her body was as she copied Leslie because she didn’t know what else to do. “I’m Aracelis Fuentes.”

The man closest to them nodded and said something quietly but not to them. Maybe it was to the person next to him or an earpiece Leslie imagined that he wore like special forces guys always had in the movies. Leslie wanted to tell these people that they took their sweet fucking time and that he paid their salary with his taxes (ignoring it was more his parent's taxes), but he didn't have the strength.

He was quickly patted down, but Leslie still had a vice grip on Aracelis’s hand. It was embarrassing, but he felt now like they had always been holding hands and to separate them would be like cutting off a finger. Leslie hadn’t known their classmates well. He boarded the bus a stranger to them and would step back onto New England soil as part of a collection.

Leslie and Aracelis couldn’t walk forward onto a boat clinging together. Leslie willed his frozen, shaking digits to split open. Still panting, he swallowed dryly and pursed his cracked, bleeding lips. He let go of her and in the palm of his hand, he found a small yellow bloom that he let flutter to the ground.

"Thanks," he said, not specifying who or what the thanks was for.

He thought of Constance, how she was the first person he met upon waking up, and how she was dead, and how it was their fault, and how it sent a shot of pain through his chest to remember someone who had been alive who wasn’t anymore.

Every day he had survived here felt like dumb luck. Each day was a new spin of the roulette wheel, but now going back would send them into a new world that they hadn’t known before. He would never have pegged himself as a survivor, nor the girl who didn’t know he existed two weeks ago as a partner. He wasn’t a driven or clever or a sports star. But Leslie couldn’t deny that they set out a plan, followed through, and here they were.

He stepped over the threshold to a new world that he would enter, baptized in ghosts, but alive.

I... I'm going to be warm. Someday, I'll be warm.

((Leslie Romero continued in The Aftermath))

((continued from SHSL Lucky Student))

This was real, huh?

What a punchline. What a freaking punchline.

Part of Connie anticipated the swerve, the last second rug pull. Somebody had got their hands on the right piece of kit and decided that the field was thin enough to make their play. Called out, and were lying in wait to see who was dumb enough to stumble into their trap. Or otherwise maybe things really had gone south, and this was the terrorists' messy way of wrapping it all up.

Would be a stupid way to go. But know what? An even worse way would be skipping on an actual rescue because of paranoia. Frame it as a choice between leaving a stupid corpse and leaving no corpse at all, and the choice pretty much became a no brainer.

So Connie lined up a half dozen or so comments. Picked out some last words she didn't think would be total shit, and headed for the rendezvous.

And well, wouldn't you know it, when she saw the locked and loaded group arrayed in front of the boats, she couldn't think of a single smartass, pithy thing to say.

She was alive. What the fuck.

(continued aftermath)

The soldiers patted them down but neither of them had anything. The one who was tasked with Aracelis couldn’t hide the way his eyes looked over her wounds, her bruised face, bandaged eye and tightly bound arm. She realised that she stank of the rancid wet iron odour of dried blood. It had long before seeped into her clothes and settled there, while she remained oblivious to it. Aracelis suddenly realised that she hadn’t shaved her legs in over two weeks, a realisation that was so ridiculous that she would have laughed if she hadn’t been completely exhausted.

Leslie let go of her hand in order to climb aboard one of the dinghies and Aracelis immediately felt self-conscious and exposed, stood as she was, panting on a beach surrounded by strangers and classmates she could barely recognise through the grime of the time they’d spent surviving on the island. It was a feeling she guessed was akin to the dream people always described of being naked in class. The feeling of every single aspect of herself being on display and visible for all to see, but when Aracelis looked around she found no one was paying her any attention. The soldiers all faced the approach, while her other classmates she could see were focused on getting first aid.

Once he was settled, she gingerly followed Leslie onboard the dinghy, her shaking beginning to rock the boat at first until she took a deep breath and pulled herself over using her good arm. As soon as she was aboard Aracelis collapsed into a heap next to Leslie, her unlikely ally and partner of twelve days. A marriage of convenience, with more arguments than an impending divorce. But for some reason they had stuck together through it all. She knew nothing about him she realised, nothing about his home life or loved ones. Aracelis thought about how she needed to make sure she asked him once they were safe.

But sat in the boat all she could do was repeat the same three words under her breath.

“We made it.”

It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep on Leslie’s shoulder.

((Aracelis Fuentes continued in The Aftermath))

((Jacob Winters continued from silence tells me))

The beach they'd been signaled to come to wasn't so far from Greg's tomb. It was a struggle to get there in timely fashion - Jacob's leg wasn't any less shot, and his head wasn't any less concussed - but they didn't seem in a particular hurry to go anywhere just yet. That was good. Travel across the whole island, or however much was still available to them, took time. Giving everyone a chance to get here was only fair. And maybe if they stuck around long enough, they could investigate the place, get clues on the terrorists or some shit. Maybe if they stuck around, they'd retrieve Greg and bring him home, at least in some fashion. Him and everyone else that was gone now.

Judging from the boat they'd brought to shore, none of that was in the cards at all. But it would've been nice.

Jacob limped onto the rocky shore. It was tricky terrain at the best of times, and a genuine struggle to move across now. He watched as other kids, other survivors, each trudged up and boarded the boat themselves. It was a simple process; no need to beg for a ride or anything. They were just picking up whoever came to them, no questions asked. Molly had worried they might not let her and others like her - people who'd killed someone - on, but it seemed like they probably were. A shame they'd come too late for her. He silently moved past the soldiers, barely acknowledging his presence, or that of the other kids. As he sat on the boat a fog took over his brain. It still didn't feel real - this, or the past two weeks - and he was struggling processing much of anything now.

But he'd have time to process later. He was going home.

((Jacob Winters continued in Aftermath))

((Marshall West continued from One Last Roll In The Dark.))

“Fffffffffffffff—Iseeit,” Marshall wheezed as he marched along.

Carrying Matthew in a piggyback ride had been a mistake. A necessary one, but he was heavy and Marshall – so used to being careful to always eat enough nutrition to power his lifestyle – was so hungry and so tired and didn't have the back-up energy to use up on this. He’d made the mistake of trying to jog some of the way, but that hadn’t lasted long.

But he could see the beach. The boats. Adults in black, and a few students – so few.

“Is that it…?” he said in a ragged whisper, more to himself than to Matthew, as he slowed down and walked towards them.

So few. People that Marshall hadn’t even seen on the island. He knew Juanita – she was a lacrosse player, too. The only one left, and she’d killed over and over. The others by sight. Classmates. From classmates, to contestants in a game, and now back to classmates again.

How was school going to function after this? A silly question to think about at a time like this.

Marshall turned his head to look behind him, then looked down at the radar on his arm. June and Evie weren’t within his eyeline, but he could see them on the radar coming up behind. He breathed a sigh of relief, then raised the arm and waved at the nearest adults as he hauled Matthew towards them.

“Hey! Wounded incoming!”

He arrived in front of the army and the boats, and unceremoniously dumped Matthew on the sand. He nearly collapsed himself in the process, but managed to stay on his feet after wobbling a bit.

“Don’t let him near any weapons,” Marshall said, raising his other arm. “I’m unarmed. So’s he.” Then he started to try and peel off the tape keeping the collar radar stuck to him. “I have this radar. It might help.”

“Hey, hey, watch it!” Matthew protested as he was tossed down onto the beach without a thought. Jeez, quality bed manners we have here, huh? And hey, no weapons? Shit, what was he gonna do with weapons, sit down and shoot people? Flail a knife or an axe at them threateningly? At least the impact didn’t make his leg bleed any more, but it was throbbing like a bastard from that. Scoffing and glancing up at the sky, Matthew watched the clouds moving, the seagulls sailing and crying overhead.

He'd made it. Soon he was gonna go back home – probably to a goddamn hospital or something first – then he’d get to see Mom, Dad, Gatta again. So many people on this island had died, most of them who didn’t deserve it. Corbin should have been here and so should Shawn. They should have been celebrating together, high-fiving and hugging, knowing that all of this was over. But Shawn was lying on his back in the forest, gazing up with one eye at the same sky that Matthew was looking at forever. He’d go home, make a life for himself. Nobody who died could do that.

So, yeah. It was good to know he was going home. But it felt hollow.

Pointless, even.

Shifting himself back up into a sitting position, he glanced around at the assembled students. Juanita – he caught himself reaching for that gun formerly in his waistband on instinct upon seeing her – on a snow mobile alongside uh, Fitz who’d been shot as well. Christ, the combat medics were gonna have a field day. Aracelis and uh… honestly, Matthew couldn’t place the guy next to her, Jacob who wanted to kill Salem and then uh, Connie who’d just shown up by the looks of things.

Basically, the worst of them were gonna make it home, including him. He couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle at that.

“Oh, yeah, uh, we’ve got two more incoming, one of them’s been shot in the leg.” He sorta directed that at the guy closest to him, who just nodded and mumbled something into his earpiece or whatever they had. So, uh, you count everyone who’s here plus June and Evie… ten. Ten people.

Jesus. Hadn’t like, a hundred people gone on this trip? More? He didn't know the exact numbers, but there was a hell of a lot more on that bus than what was assembled here, getting onto boats or standing around.

Speaking of the boats, that guy he'd talked to moved over and helped him to his feet, Matthew hissing again as he put some weight on his wounded leg. He didn't know how bad it was, but he figured that might have an impact on being a quarterback, at least for a while. If it was gonna leave lasting damage, well...

Stepping onto one of the boats with the help of the army and taking a seat, Matthew exhaled. Fitz looked like he was getting the medic's attention at the moment, so he'd just quietly sit and wait. Think about what comes next.

Because whatever the hell that would be, it was gonna be a hell of a thing.

((Matthew Bell continued in The Aftermath))

[Evie McKown and Jude Madison continue from Arrow.]

The journey wasn't long, but it wasn't easy either. Height and strength were all well and good when moving under one's own power, but leaning on someone significantly less fit? The majority of Evie's muscle simply became dead weight, a rapid drain on June's middling stamina. By the time the unlikely duo reached the shore, Evie had begun to worry she'd have to hop the rest of the way.

But before long, they rounded the last corner between them and view of the landing craft, and the rush of adrenaline seemed to be mutual. Safety was in sight. Despite everything, they'd made it. Survived. After damn near two weeks, their ordeal was over. Before Evie even had time to think to call for help, a pair of soldiers - no, sailors Evie thought, Navy troops could be particular about that - soon came over to relieve June of her burden. Looping her arms over two pairs of significantly stronger shoulders, she was lead away in the direction of a medic.

Along the way, Evie looked around to take stock of those that had already arrived. Fitz, Juanita and somebody else she didn't quite recognise at first were off in the direction she was headed. Connie had made it as well, evidently even luckier than Evie herself - no blood of her own or anyone else's to be seen. Elsewhere one of the cheerleaders - Aracelis? - slumped on the shoulder of a short boy whose face she couldn't glimpse. Added to her and June, that was what, eight? No, another guy further past Aracelis and mystery boy, one of only a few African-American students at JEM who she ultimately identified as Jacob. That made nine then. Even with her injured leg, it stood to reason some more survivors might take longer to arrive, but problably not very many. Her estimate of close to ten had been about right, accounting for the recent death of Kaede.

Claire was noticeably absent, but frankly, fuck her. Evie had meant it when she spoke of hoping not to see her again.

Hobbling away to medical attention, Evie the Killer, Evie the Survivor, caught herself wondering if she could've beaten the eight people she saw now. Fitz was down an arm, Juanita barely had both legs functioning. The boy with them - was that Matthew, the JROTC guy she'd played Rainbow Six with a few times? - presumably wasn't in much better shape. Aracelis' head was heavily bandaged, hard to say how bad that was. The boy with her looked weedy, but that wouldn't have meant much if he was well armed. Connie was definiely never armed and didn't come across as a danger to anyone, unless her luck was going to manifest like Domino. Hard to get a read on Jacob, but she didn't recall hearing that he'd killed anyone, probably had no weapon worth a damn and just kept his head down the whole time like Connie. Evie the Killer was pretty sure she could've swept what was left of the field, sorry state that they were all in. Hell, the only reason she was wounded was that someone had decided to start taking pot-shots after the final whistle blew. Give her time to shake off the pepper spray and a fair competition, the crown was hers to lose. No wonder she'd felt cheated when the rescuers had arrived.

Speaking of which...

"There should still be a handgun in my left pocket," she offered, unprompted. "Careful, it's loaded."

In the end, it didn't matter though. She'd read somewhere that rolling a die was an act of violence, it took as many possibilities as the die had sides and annihilated all but one of them. She'd never quite understood the notion, until she found herself agonising over what could have been. The chain of possibilities that could've left her as the only survivor rather than one of a handful. But it didn't matter, because all of those possibilities had been pruned away in favour of escape. No more dice rolls, just a long ride home.

Facing her parents again would be awkward. She'd killed six people. She'd probably need therapy. Might have to change her identity. Going to college as Evie the Killer could get weird.

But most of all? She couldn't wait to have a hot shower.

[Evie McKown continues in the aftermath.]

In front of one of the houses, in the distance, stood a corpse, suspended by its right arm, hooked through a window pane. There were rust-brown scrawls next to it, and though she and Evie had been too far to read it, the stance of the body itself, bloodied death-mask permanently etched into an expression of pride, said enough. The lack of a collar on his neck said enough.

In the church on the hill, off in the horizon, June had waken up, gotten scared, started the cycle of reciprocal violence that had marked her and Iris' stories on this island.

In another one of the houses, right alongside she and Evie's path, June had slept across from Medea and thought of violence, contemplated death.

On a door, a message containing five names promised safety, etched its promise into the wood. Only one of those names was alive now; a bloody handprint was dragged over the rest of the words.

Their journey to the beach was not long, but, despite Evie's presence, it felt desolate. She wanted Medea to be the one draped over her shoulders. She wanted K to be by their sides. She wanted Dick and Darryl and California and Kai and even Iris to be here, she wanted all of them to be alive.

The soldiers came over, took Evie off her back, and so June found herself standing alone, weightless, bare.

They were around a dozen, from the one hundred and thirty or so that had gone on this trip. A survival rate of less than ten percent. And, the ones that were here with them weren't even the best of them. Murderers, people that had just gotten by, a disparate collection of people no more united now than they were the day they'd been dropped here, the only common factor being the school they attended and the trauma that would haunt them for the rest of their lives, however long or short it may be.

To be stood here was the ultimate victory, to have arrived here without having been on the announcements even once higher still, and yet it all felt so hollow. So lonely. She was supposed to be happy, but she was just tired.

But yet, as she finally caught glimpse of Marshall's face, as she raced towards him, one arm up, before slamming into him and grabbing him into a warm, tight embrace, there was one thought that coursed through her, thawed all the ice-cold within her.

She'd made it. They'd both made it.

((June Madison continues in the Aftermath))

Marshall would have tried to go back for June if they’d lagged behind much more. But they arrived, and once Evie had been handed off to the medics… Marshall didn’t even have to move, he just turned barely in time to catch June with his arms. That hug took everything he had left, and fatigue swept over him now that he was allowed to feel it.

In June’s grip, he clung tightly back while tears leaked out of his eyes. He watched Evie over her shoulder. Alive, because of them. He didn’t know how to feel about it, and eventually decided the best thing to do for now was to look away.

Wordlessly he and June kept one arm around each other and half-carried each other to the boats. And they didn’t say anything else.

That was it. Twelve days of hell over.

Over those twelve days, Marshall had sustained two missing fingers, frostbite across his nose and cheek, cuts in his scalp and bruising from being pistol-whipped in the skull. He’d lost his shirt to the lake and his sweatervest was probably wrapped around the frozen corpse of Jess Kawazoe. He was cold, hungry, sore and fatigued, and afraid to look underneath his bandages for fear of the infections that might be growing there.

Jacob Lang was somewhere in the depths of the lake. Dead because of Marshall, even if the terrorists had never said it over the announcements. The rest of the dead in a pile. His team. His friends. People he hadn’t known well enough before all this. Jess. Chloe. Iris. Richard. California. Kai. Even guys like DeMarcus… even that was a tragedy. He saw the few that were left, and wondered if… perhaps if those first few days had gone better, maybe there would have been more to save than the nine around him and whatever few others might be coming.

But he had June. They’d both survived the game. They’d saved Evie. Maybe Matthew, too. If only from someone else doing a more lethal job of stopping him – or from Marshall shooting him himself.

They hadn’t lost everything. They could still hug on the beach. For the rest, only time would tell. And after twelve days… finally, there was time to spare.

((Marshall West continued in the Aftermath.))

Amy held her hands up. Just in case.

The boat in front of her was so much smaller than she thought it would be.

"HELLO," she called, voice hoarse. Her next words were a bit choked up, a bit quieter.

(Where is the girl she just met?)

"Um."

She scanned her eyes for anyone she recognized.

Nobody.

She blinked. She thought about the people who had to kill, and the people who looked at their would-be killers in the eye. She thought about sobbing, about the survivor's guilt, about the people that could've made it but were failed by the ones supposeed to protect them.

She wondered how they felt. Amy didn't know. She didn't feel much, right now. She just was. Just existed. Overwhelmed and numb at once.

"I want you to know," she started towards the military men, "That I love you." She tried her best to feel that love in her heart. It would be symbolic, Amy decided. That her first words on the boat meant something. That she was kind when she got on the island and she was kind getting off of it. It made it more paletable, that way. A narrative arc, concluded.

Later, she would write in her journal that it was because she was lonely. Every conversation she's had was tainted by a layer of stress and paranoia, of the looming threat of death. These were the first people that she could actually, genuinely trust.

Afterwards, as she sat on a couch for her mandated therapy sessions, she would re-re-contextualize this burst of talkativeness as a fawn respose. An immdiate, instinctual need to make herself soft in front of predators, in front of the people who can kill her in a second, who beat back her tormenters. These men dressed in black with guns on their hips.

Nobody would really know for sure.

She took a few more steps forward. One foot, then the other. A single step at a time.

When she got on the boat, she looked back. Just once, to look, one last time. The diapilated houses, the rocky shores, the looming peaks. There was, objectively, a kind of beauty in it. Despite all of the blood and the tears and the sweat that tainted the ground. Some day, she thought, I'd come back her again. A new little Aecor, repackaged and re-written, when it didn't hurt as much. But not yet.

And then she turned, walked in, and collapsed onto the ground, exhausted, but still alive.

(Amy Chen continues in the aftermath.)