(Mentions of Lahela Nakoa with permission from Keaka)
"Greatest". That's what his name meant, and Dad had never tired of reminding him. Good job, boy, live up to your name and all that. It was a name for captains of industry, military leaders, famous athletes, born winners. Not idiots slaving away at a desk job all their lives, their names never mattering to anyone, not people who fail, not some kid stuck on an island with a bomb on his neck. He hadn't cried or vomited or freaked out on waking up, nor when he remembered where he was or what he'd seen, nor when he'd dug through his pack and found a bloody cigar instead of something useful.
He didn't even smoke.
So it was that he spent several hours walking, a numbness settling into his gut as fear and realisation seeped in bit by bit. Everyone on that plane was dead, they just didn't know it yet. He'd heard the gunfire as tree after tree passed him by, hills and slopes flowing under his feet in the endless woods, automatic weapons going off in the distance while all he had was a cigar that looked like it belonged in Dad's office.
He needed a plan. Everyone had a plan until the screaming and blood started, until it was time to face the execs in the boardroom. Everyone had a plan, except him. This game had happened too many times to hope he could just flash a few Benjamins and they'd give him a boat, or that Dad would show up with an army after a week. No, he had to figure this out himself.
The ultimate pitch... 'why do you deserve to live'?
Like all pitches, he knew, but the trick was convincing a bunch of others of that. A bunch of others, among whom some had a vested interest in him not living. Some had already started culling the herd - could he really lower himself to that? To get the blood and grime on his hands like some common footman in days of old?
Who knew. The hill he was on went up and up and up, branches swiping at his face and stabbing at his sides while he passed, thick bush reaching for his feet and trying to trap and twist. He didn't let them, but kept walking, cigar in his breast pocket and hand in front of his face. Eventually the defences broke, and he found himself on even ground, a carpet of wildflowers under his feet that bobbed idly in the wind. A few scattered trees heavy with fruit and leaves stood watch over the clearing, the dark greens and browns stark against the bright petals from their smaller companions. He blinked once, twice, then turned in the field, looking over rank upon rank of oaks and pines that eventually opened into everywhere else. He could make out cliffs and amusement park rides, the vague shapes of buildings in the distance, an airstrip and... some kind of mall?
He wished he could enjoy this view in peace, on his own or with Zoe, or probably with that lovely Hawaiian he'd taken home from Prom instead, whose company he'd so "enjoyed" after the dancing. It had been an entirely different dance in his room, but that girl - what had her name been again? Laheela? - had known the steps so well. He should have talked her into coming along, so it wasn't just him at the end of the world, looking out over for ever like this.
Oh well. Max Sawyer stood there for a moment more, drawing out the cigar and twirling it idly between his fingers while the island of death unfolded in beauty and terror before his eyes.
"Well, isn't this a view to die for."
We're Above It
We're Above It
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.
(Doubleposting to move along, because nobody's joining the thread.)
For quite a while, Max had peace, and in that sense he was better off than most of the island. Nobody shooting at him, no pain and horror, no blood splattering all over his expensive shirt, just hours spent relaxing in the sun and trying to think up some kind of plan. A not-insignificant number of kids had got out last time this happened, from what scattered memories he could dredge up, but they'd had help, hadn't they. A lot of very heavily-armed help.
Somehow, Max doubted a bunch of mysterious people with machine guns were going to be coming speeding over the horizon this time around, which meant they were on their own. Which meant he had to figure his own way out of this mess. Anyone who could help him was already stuck here and going along with the ride, so... think, Max, what does that give you to work with?
Think fast, because nobody's answering the ultimate question for you. They're all too busy trying to convince the board to take their pitch instead. So there was Max the non-smoker, twirling his cigar and figuring out things to do now his death warrant was signed.
Find someone dead, try to mess with their collar and figure out how it works? Wasn't tech stuff like that what made Dad rich, what Max wanted to spend his life working with? Gross, plus the bombs probably didn't disarm when you died, the engineering on these things was probably made to be meddling-kidproof, and somehow he doubted the monkeys upstairs would have any qualms about blowing him the hell up if they saw him trying to figure out the thing keeping him on this island.
Max quite preferred not being blown up, and that left what? Dancing to their tune and cigaring everyone to death? If he could do it, it was the one guaranteed ticket home, but those were pretty long odds when he heard gunfire in the distance and only had a nice smoke to his name. Besides... Max Sawyer was nobody's goddamn monkey. He mattered, he was going somewhere in life. He was smarter, stronger, faster, and nobody could outwit him in the boardroom.
Who the hell did these terrorists think they were? Who did they think they were screwing with? His life meant something, and he wasn't going to spend it being their plaything. Sawyers bowed to no man, and he wasn't going to break tradition and bend his knee to some psychopaths who got off on making school kids kill each other.
What options did that really leave, though? He'd studied the map, gone over plans in his head, tried to think about who was most likely to flip out and start killing everyone, or to be gunning for him specifically, or to actually be reasonable, he'd even taken pains to take stock of exactly how much kit he had to work with in terms of keeping himself alive and healthy. God, those power bars had been tempting, but he'd have to save them for a big push. All the thoughts running around in his head came to one thing: Sure, he'd get out of this fine, but things were going to get really ugly really fast unless he was super careful.
It was the ultimate high-risk, high-reward investment plan, really. Live or die, with no in-between. He wouldn't be some terrorist's plaything, but that didn't mean he was going to let himself go down either. Time to do this smart.
Max had lost track of the time, but eventually he got to his feet, pocketing the cigar, made one last comparison of map to the view of the terrain he had up here, then he put all his kit away and trudged back down into the woods.
He was above them all, and as long as he didn't get stupid, that's how it would stay.
(Maximilian Sawyer continued in Nobody Wants This)
For quite a while, Max had peace, and in that sense he was better off than most of the island. Nobody shooting at him, no pain and horror, no blood splattering all over his expensive shirt, just hours spent relaxing in the sun and trying to think up some kind of plan. A not-insignificant number of kids had got out last time this happened, from what scattered memories he could dredge up, but they'd had help, hadn't they. A lot of very heavily-armed help.
Somehow, Max doubted a bunch of mysterious people with machine guns were going to be coming speeding over the horizon this time around, which meant they were on their own. Which meant he had to figure his own way out of this mess. Anyone who could help him was already stuck here and going along with the ride, so... think, Max, what does that give you to work with?
Think fast, because nobody's answering the ultimate question for you. They're all too busy trying to convince the board to take their pitch instead. So there was Max the non-smoker, twirling his cigar and figuring out things to do now his death warrant was signed.
Find someone dead, try to mess with their collar and figure out how it works? Wasn't tech stuff like that what made Dad rich, what Max wanted to spend his life working with? Gross, plus the bombs probably didn't disarm when you died, the engineering on these things was probably made to be meddling-kidproof, and somehow he doubted the monkeys upstairs would have any qualms about blowing him the hell up if they saw him trying to figure out the thing keeping him on this island.
Max quite preferred not being blown up, and that left what? Dancing to their tune and cigaring everyone to death? If he could do it, it was the one guaranteed ticket home, but those were pretty long odds when he heard gunfire in the distance and only had a nice smoke to his name. Besides... Max Sawyer was nobody's goddamn monkey. He mattered, he was going somewhere in life. He was smarter, stronger, faster, and nobody could outwit him in the boardroom.
Who the hell did these terrorists think they were? Who did they think they were screwing with? His life meant something, and he wasn't going to spend it being their plaything. Sawyers bowed to no man, and he wasn't going to break tradition and bend his knee to some psychopaths who got off on making school kids kill each other.
What options did that really leave, though? He'd studied the map, gone over plans in his head, tried to think about who was most likely to flip out and start killing everyone, or to be gunning for him specifically, or to actually be reasonable, he'd even taken pains to take stock of exactly how much kit he had to work with in terms of keeping himself alive and healthy. God, those power bars had been tempting, but he'd have to save them for a big push. All the thoughts running around in his head came to one thing: Sure, he'd get out of this fine, but things were going to get really ugly really fast unless he was super careful.
It was the ultimate high-risk, high-reward investment plan, really. Live or die, with no in-between. He wouldn't be some terrorist's plaything, but that didn't mean he was going to let himself go down either. Time to do this smart.
Max had lost track of the time, but eventually he got to his feet, pocketing the cigar, made one last comparison of map to the view of the terrain he had up here, then he put all his kit away and trudged back down into the woods.
He was above them all, and as long as he didn't get stupid, that's how it would stay.
(Maximilian Sawyer continued in Nobody Wants This)
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.