Words Can't Bring Me Down

[Namira]

It was, Brock considered, just yet another godawful situation brought along by the one thing that had dogged each and every last step he'd taken in... well, in his entire life. It was a simple progression. Brock was a year older than the vast majority of his classmates. Why was that? Because he'd been held back a year due to flunking. Why was that? Dyslexia.

He'd gone past the denial of the situation and the onset of panic, managing to calm himself down to a degree. Brock wasn't the smartest guy around, but nor was he hysterical, either. All whilst contemplating this calmly, he'd still come to the conclusion that trying to take part would be all too fucked up. No matter most of the year hadn't tried to befriend him, beyond the football guys which let him hang around because he was a solid part of the team, you didn't kill people just because somebody said that you should.

Was he capable of killing? Brock couldn't say. But he wouldn't set out to do it.

That decision had given him plenty of time to contemplate and decide dyslexia was pretty much at fault for just about every one of his problems.

Were it not for his stupid fucking condition, Brock wouldn't be about to die.

...Were it not for that, he would never have met Hilary.

Hilary vs. being dead... Okay, sorry Miss Strand but Brock liked breathing. It wasn't that he didn't care about her, but meeting a girl that he'd cultivated a sort of weird awkward relationship with was a poor trade for being dead at nineteen.

And Brock had this fatalistic certainty of his fate why? Because of the little booklet that lay alongside him as he sat with his back against a tree. It held the key to his means of defence, the little pistol that even now lay on the top of his daypack.

It was the instruction manual to the gun.

And Brock couldn't read it. The words were a tangled nonsensical mess, the explanations lost on him. He hadn't even figured out what the pistol was called. So that figured. He'd had a lucky draw and it was useless to him...

Because he couldn't understand the manual.

Brock threw back his head and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

[AtomicWaffle†]

((Steven Hunt continued from Feeling Kind of Anxious))

What the FUCK was that!?

Steven Hunt rarely broke out into a run, and when he did it was never pleasant. In a life or death situation on the other hand, the dull pain he always felt while running was seemingly inconsequential. Eric Lorenz, the boy he'd met almost as soon as he awoke, was more or less killed before his eyes. Thrown down a rocky hill onto a chain link fence. There was barely time to react before the killer turned his psychotic rage on Steven, so he took off in one direction, and didn't stop. That is, until he tripped on a root and fell flat on his face. He let out a brief yell that was cut short by his head hitting the ground.

Then... laughing? Who was laughing? Thoughts swam back into Steven's mind with a cavalcade of pain following closely behind.

I've got to get up.

I could be vulnerable.

Who the hell is laughing?

He suddenly became aware of the KA-BAR Knife he'd been carrying with him. Hopping off of the ground, he brandished the knife, looking around for the source of the voice he'd heard moments before. To his left, a boy was sitting against a tree, chuckling to himself with a gun in his lap. To Steven, this guy was either a complete psycho or he just saw Steven trip and fall spectacularly. Steven lowered the knife, noting that if the other student decided to shoot him it wouldn't do Steven much good. Steven brushed his dyed hair out of his eyes and looked down at the boy against the tree. The rush of running for his life had left him a bit speechless, so he had to stare for a moment in order to compose what exactly he was going to say.

"Umm...."

He cleared his throat.

"Hey there... Please don't kill me."

[Namira]

The laughter faded, although it had been ringing hollow in the first instance. Brock let out a sigh and looked up at the sky, much of which was visible through gaps in the tree cover. There was some natural beauty, if you cared to look for it, but that was more or less lost on Brock. He wasn't in the mood to be appreciating the marvels of the scenary. He mind had just returned to cursing his inability to read the instructions for his weapon when a voice snapped him from his thoughts.

Brock looked over at the newcomer without much interest. He made no move towards picking up the pistol. No sense in antagonising somebody with a weapon that he couldn't fall back on. Hunt, the kid from Canada. If he thought hard, he remembered vaguely that he was involved in the drama club. Oh yeah, the guy was gay too, not that it particularly mattered. The important thing was that whilst he was packing a knife, Hunt didn't look like he'd be much a threat. That was good, even if Brock was going to die, he was in no mood to hasten that event.

He was a little surprised to hear Hunt (what was his first name? Brock couldn't recall) make such a plea, at least at first, but then he reconsidered. Why wouldn't he be scared? Hell, Brock was scared and he had a gun (albeit one he couldn't use, but... still). Confronted with somebody as big and strong as Brock, well, it wasn't a massive shock, ultimately, that Hunt had hit a panic switch.

He didn't say anything for a few seconds after the other guy spoke, then gave a hefty shrug. "I ain't gonna attack you. Don't plan to go after anyone, really. Gonna die soon enough without inviting it on, anyhow."

[AtomicWaffle†]

Steven exhaled a sigh of relief. It was a mildly stupid question to ask, especially considering that most people probably wouldn't reserve to killing everyone in sight right off the bat, and if the boy in front of him wanted Steven dead it wouldn't have mattered to ask politely in the first place. Still, he stood seemingly awaiting an attack. He slowly put the knife back in his daypack, caked on blood flaking off as he did so. It was only now he noticed the cricket bat sticking out of his duffel bag. He was not much of a fan of the sport, but he now remembered fondly the film Shaun of the Dead. The memory was made bittersweet by the thought of having to brain some of his peers with it.

Examining his newfound surroundings, he saw a mildly dense forest surrounding him that wasn't much different than the forests in Northern Ontario. It was a bit thicker, but it was most likely similar in terms of having to survive in it. Back home (way back home) he did quite a bit of camping outdoors, and knew for better or worse how to deal with survival in a forest. Of course, people weren't trying to kill him back home; just enraged bears. Whether that was better or worse, Steven wasn't entirely sure.

Upon the boy's surprisingly calm comment towards his own demise, Steven raised an eyebrow. He couldn't understand someone not being at least a bit irate that they'd been kidnapped, fitted with an explosive collar and left to die on an island. Shaking his head, he couldn't help but chuckle at the boy's placidity. Cracking an almost invisible smile, he responded.

"Umm... sorry, you seem a bit calm about... uhh.... this whole thing. You're just ready to die like that?"

[Namira]

"Am I ready to die?" Brock let out a bark of laughter before turning despairing eyes back to Hunt. "No I ain't fucking ready! Who the fuck is ready to die when they're nineteen!?" Brock slammed a fist into the tree he was leaning against, sending a jolt of pain through his hand. "But I'm smart enough to know I ain't smart enough to do jack shit about all of this. I can't come up with some kind of super-genius plan to get out of here, and even if by some miracle somebody did, who the fuck is going to invite the big stupid jock along!?" Brock was degenerating into full-on ranting mode now, something which was somewhat out of character for him. He was usually more reserved. "And if that ain't enough, I have a weapon I can't even use because I'm FUCKING DYSLEXIC!" in a fit of pique, Brock picked up the manual to his gun and hurled it in Hunt's direction.

There was nothing he could gooddamn do, especially since that even had the manual be comprehensible, he would have had no inclination to use the gun. Hell, for all his complaints, Brock could probably have figured out the pistol with a little bit of care and attention but in a way, it was a relief that he couldn't. Being armed was a responsibility, one that Brock didn't want in the slightest. It was authority and Brock had never been much of a leader.

What he happened to be was fucked all over. People were going to look at him and see a threat, they were going to remember all those times when he'd just gone along with some of the other guys who'd decided to be less than friendly, they were going to see his size and physique and get anxious. If there were more people with guns out there... well, spooked and armed wasn't a good combination. Maybe he could find some of the other footballers...

Or Hilary. Damn. If he was scared, then what sort of state would see be in? She wasn't a massive dude on a sports team with a gun, she was a little half-british girl who seemed scared of her own shadow half the time. ...If anyone was going to need watching over, it would be her.

Was he a knight in shining armour? Hell no, but he was probably the best she'd get.

[AtomicWaffle†]

Steven took a step back as the jock in front of him slipped into a brief fit of rage, tossing the manual for his handgun in Steven's direction. Adrenaline still in his veins, Steven was able to catch it as it was fluttering in his direction. It appeared that he was armed with a Smith and Wesson Sigma 40P. Smith and Wesson weren't particularly known for the quality of their semi-automatic pistols, moreso their revolvers thanks to Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry. Still, having a vested interest in firearms since he was a preteen, Steven had a decent base of knowledge in the subject. It always came as somewhat of a shock to him that a lot of people still had very little clue how guns worked, and he was still even more astonished of the amount of people who were actually able to effectively use firearms on the island.

Looking down at the manual, then at the boy in front of him, Steven smiled. It would seem that he was more or less the perfect person to find to help learn how to use the gun. Living in the United States of America did have it's upsides - the lax gun laws compared to Canada meant that Steven had quite a bit more fun at shooting ranges than he did back home. He'd shot Glock handguns, a Colt M1911, a Beretta M9, a Desert Eagle, and a few revolvers. The guys at the range basically picked out most of the guns that people would see in television, movies, or on the belts of police officers - so they'd be more inclined to want to shoot them.

Although as much as Steven would be able to help him use the gun, he wasn't sure he wanted to. As of right now the boy in front of him was basically unarmed - he didn't seem to know how to load or cock it, so that was one less student on the island with a firearm and a survival instinct. At the same time, doing this guy a favor would mean one more friend on the island. A large, imposing friend with a gun. The thought also crossed his mind, although it bothered him to think this way, that with this jock beside him he wouldn't appear to be much of a threat and much less a target.

Before he could even attempt to help, Steven had to calm this other guy down. Find some sort of common ground. He'd never really fit in with the athletic crowd, and in fact had probably made enemies out of quite a few of them. Still, this wasn't high school anymore. Generally in life threatening situations people tend to band together significantly more. Steven took a quick glance in the manual to make sure nothing was particularly out of the ordinary about the operation of the gun - anything that might throw him off. From what he could tell it was basically a Glock clone. Glock pistols essentially were all extremely similar in design and were used by most police forces simply because they were reliable and easy to use. On the basis that it was a gun he'd practically used before, Steven felt very confident explaining it's use.

"Hey.... man, I think..."

Steven cleared his throat and spoke up, breaking the silence left by the other boy's bout of anger.

"I think I can show you how to use it. I've been to a bunch of shooting ranges, and I know a lot about guns; and honestly, it's really not that tricky once you get used to it."

He closed the manual and slid it into his jacket pocket for the time being.

"...and as much as you think that nobody's going to help you; you're a human being. Your life has value whether you realize it or not. You and I are in the same crazy situation and as someone who considers themselves a decent human being I couldn't live with myself if I just fucked off into the wilderness and left everyone else to die. What I'm saying is - if you want me to, I'll stick around. If not, we'll go our separate ways and hope we don't run into each other in worse circumstances. "

It was only a slight hope that the other boy would actually take him up on his offer, but it was one Steven held onto.

[armeggedonCounselor†]

((Awakening of [G053] Kayla McArthur))

Light filtered through the trees to awaken the still sleeping form of G053. She shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the heat and light against her face, before sitting bolt upright, breathing heavily. An awful dream, that's what it had been. She had seen SOTF before, just like everybody, especially people who went online pretty often. It was the rick roll of this decade, except less having a good song and more blood and sex and murder. She avoided those forums these days; even YouTube wasn't safe, especially after the third season ended. Then it struck her. This was not her house, and neither was it the badlands. She had been there once before, and this was far too forested. So where was she? And why did she have a tight feeling on... her... neck....

Her chest felt tight as panic flooded her body. She threw one hand to her neck to find the undeniable and unmistakable feeling of metal. A metal collar. The images from that one video she had seen flashed through her mind. The one from the auditorium.... The teachers. Oh God.... She felt sick and heaved slightly. She barely managed to keep her breakfast down as the memories flowed unbidden into her mind. She was not prone to panic, as she never would have survived childhood if she was, but the panic was beginning to make itself known. Tears flooded her eyes as the horrible realizations struck her. She was going to die. She would never see her family again. And... her classmates... would be the ones.... She laid back down and sobbed quietly, letting it all leave her body.

She was brought back to the present not by choice, but by the sound of Manic laughter somewhere to her left. She froze, expecting to hear a gunshot or a roar of anger or something coming at her, but she heard nothing. She wondered at the sound for a moment before she heard muffled conversation. She sat up, glancing around for whatever assets were left to her. In the underbrush to her right, she saw the daypack, which contained... everything. She crawled over to it, keeping low just in case, and opened it up to look inside. On the top of everything was a small booklet entitled, in a deceptively cheerful way, "Your Kampilan and You!"

She pulled the booklet out and flipped through the pages, reading quickly. It was about four pages long and gave instructions on the proper care and maintenance of her weapon. It also revealed that there was no way in hell the weapon would fit in here. So a more thorough search was necessary. It was also brief, as she found the weapon about five feet away from her bag. She stood up and lifted it. It was lighter than she expected, but still heavy enough to make her arms ache. There was no sheath for it, which was unfortunate because most of the care instructions emphasized the need to keep the weapon in a sheath, else it get banged around and dinged. Conspicuously missing from the booklet was instructions on the proper use of the exotic weapon, although Kayla thought she could probably get the basics down. She would never be as good as an expert, because an expert could probably swing it without getting swung in return, but she imagined she would be able to... to....

To what? Kill her classmates, her friends? No. She couldn't do that. But... she didn't want to die. It was a foolish statement, of course, because nobody... very few people actually want to die. But it was a goal, something to keep her mind on. Not dying. This weapon in her hands was her path to not dying. Her sword would be a shield, to protect herself and anyone else who needed it. 'Or it will just be a nice prize for the first person you meet who has a gun.' said her less optimistic side. She pushed the thought away. Positive thinking. Positive thinking would always be better.

With her resolve strengthened, Kayla gathered her daypack and hung it on her shoulder. She couldn't remember why she had gotten up to get this, until a voice yelled something about Dyslexia. That was when she remembered the voices. She turned toward the sound, swallowed, and started walking. Maybe it wasn't a great idea, but she was more likely to be safe with a group than by herself. Or so she hoped. It was a brief walk before she emerged into a clearing. Two boys were standing there, both of their names a complete mystery to her. She froze, Kampilan points down in her hand. She halfheartedly raised it across her body and said, "Um... hi."

It was really pathetic, she felt. Some little Irish girl whose first words to you are Um hi, and you're not going to pay them any attention.

[Moth†]

[[Celeste Beaumont, G042, start.]]

The first thing Celeste had done, upon reaching full awareness, was freak the hell out. She'd started shaking violently, hugging herself, pulling hair a bit...her under-arms were damp from sweat, and now she had two hideous dark spots under her arms...That's lady-like, she'd snorted when she'd calmed down a little.

It just couldn't be happening...this never happened to her, it only happened to other people. SOTF wasn't really real, it was just...just something that no one really went through, other people, people who you really couldn't care about because you didn't even know them. Hell, they didn't even exist because you didn't know and you didn't care. It wasn't supposed to happen to you! "Son of a bitch!" Celeste cried out, voice high-pitched, squeaky, a sharp contrast to the actual words--she sounded completely ridiculous.

Now what was she supposed to do? She couldn't stay in one spot--certainly not for long, she'd get killed. One way or another. Wait...Weapons. We got a weapon, she thought desperately, unzipping her duffel. She pawed through the items inside, tossing the bread and crackers out, shoving the first aid kit aside, and found...a sledgehammer. A fucking sledgehammer! "How in the hell am I...?" she asked out loud, slowly pulling the thing out and letting it fall on the ground in front of her. Shoving the other items back in the bag haphazardly, Celeste stared angrily at the weapon. It was a useful thing, yes, but...it was heavy! And almost as big as she was! How was she supposed to kill with that if she couldn't even lift and carry it easily? "Maybe I'll get lucky and trip someone with it...and they'll break their neck," she muttered darkly, rezipping the bag and slinging it over her shoulder. She stood up, bending down to try and lift the sledgehammer--she managed to lift it, though it was difficult, and balance it over her other shoulder. That shoulder was already a bit sore, and she'd have to alternate shoulders every...what, three minutes?...but it was easier to carry this way at least.

The dark-haired girl's head suddenly snapped up, hearing shouting nearby. Head for the voices. Stick with a group...that or kill them and get their weapons, Celeste thought to herself, slowly shuffling towards the sounds. Either way, she should probably alert them that she was there--sneaking up on someone in this situation would only result in getting her head blown off, or her heart shot with an arrow, or whatever. Like wild animals--nobody could be startled. "HEY!" she shouted out to them. "HEY, WHO'S OUT THERE? ANYONE OKAY?"

[Namira]

Brock gave Hunt an incredulous look as he made his offer. It sounded, well... nuts. You see a big guy with a gun that can't use said gun and his first instinct was to offer to teach him how to use it? It was placing an awful lot of trust in somebody, especially someone that you weren't exactly bosom buddies with. Brock couldn't see Hunt's angle, not unless the teaching he was going on about involved 'demonstration'. He'd effectively be making Brock into a much bigger threat.

Maybe he thought that in exchange for that, Brock would watch his back... shit. Another responsibility that he didn't want nor need. He'd likely have his hands full with Hilary, if and when he found her. He was a football player, not a babysitter nor a bodyguard. ...On the other hand, wasn't some back up better than no back up at all? Hunt didn't exactly cut an intimidating figure, but he was obviously no weakling, either.

"It all depends, Hunt. You ain't got anyone you wanna find? Buddies? More than buddies? I've got an agenda here and if you don't chime with it then it's best we know sooner rather than-"

The soft voice of a girl interrupted him. Brock looked around to see said girl standing not far from him and Hunt, holding some kind of sword. He couldn't recall her name, though knew her face from a couple of classes he was sure they shared. Probably one of the smart kids that breezed through every subject, he considered bitterly.

"What do you want?" Brock said bluntly, not bothering to stand. There wasn't time for socialising.

Then, somebody else called out. The jock rolled his eyes. These woods were a lot more crowded than he'd first thought.

[AtomicWaffle†]

Voices emerged from the forest. The first one was a shout, probably not the smartest thing to do. The second came as a soft greeting. Steven turned from Brock to face the direction of the voices, and two girls came into his field of vision. The first one he saw was too far into the forest to make out, but the second one was considerably closer, and wielding a sword. Judging from her particularly reserved body language, Steven didn't see her as much of a threat. Then again, what fans of SOTF call "players" tend to appear from out of nowhere, so he wasn't in the business of underestimating anyone.

For that matter, why the fuck was he trusting Brock anyways? The guy hadn't given him any reason to other than he hadn't thrown any outright aggression in Steven's direction. It didn't mean he would trust him, let alone with a firearm. It was an off chance that he'd actually go psycho and seriously harm or kill Steven, and the reward of having Brock as some form of protection was greater than the risk. Of course, if Brock handed him the gun, Steven could always just...

No...

Steven pushed the thought from his mind. He wasn't a killer and never would claim to be. It was against everything he stood for. Religion wasn't something Steven had much faith in - he instead believed very strongly in the value of life, and how it needed to be cherished and maintained at all costs. There was no way he would be able to murder someone, even given the situation right now. By the same token... it seemed he would still have to defend his own life as far as he would others.

Or I can just keep the dumb idea in my mind, and spin it around until I go crazy...


Towards the two newcomers, Steven was little more than apathetic. He wasn't sure he wanted to stay around too many people - it was too risky. In any case, he posed a similar question as Brock.

"Yeah.. we're kind of in the middle of something here... in case you guys didn't really... Look, what do you want?"

[Moth†]

Nobody was shooting at her at least. Celeste adjusted the hammer on her shoulder, shuffling closer to the group. As she came a little bit closer, she could see a girl--Lucky bitch got a sword!? she thought in shock--and two guys. From where she stood, neither male looked happy to see others...the girl, she had no clue about.

But even if they were less than enthusiastic about seeing her, again, at least no one shot her and sliced her open. Celeste frowned a little--briefly considering swinging the hammer, but decided against it. She was outnumbered, and no one had done anything to her yet. And she'd be much safer in a group than by herself, even if she did swap weapons.

"I don't want anything..." she called out again, switching the sledgehammer to her other shoulder. It was starting to ache. "I just thought I'd find people--civilization, whatever you wanna call it. Safety in numbers, girls being supposedly weaker sex, all that crap...I don't want to die, so why not find people who don't want to, either?"

[armeggedonCounselor†]

((FYI, I gave Moth permission to break order and go ahead of me.))

Kayla's initial reaction to the more threatening and slightly despondent boy looking at her and speaking in that flat tone was to step back and swallow. When the boy with the gun looked at her, she felt like she was being analyzed slightly. It was probably her paranoia and social insecurity saying that though. A third (fourth? Should she count herself?) person approached the scene- another girl. She was holding a sledgehammer on one shoulder. Kayla shifted slightly so she could see all three people other than her well.

The other girl said her piece, why she was here. Kayla found herself nodding slightly before she nervously blurted out, "Y-yeah. I k-kinda had the same idea. I-I'm probably strong enough to take c-care of m-myself, but why take chances? A-a group could only be beneficial."

She blushed slightly. It was pretty obvious that the two boys were not very interested in either of the two girls, besides rudimentary interest based on keeping themselves safe. Of course, they were interrupting a conversation. At school, she would probably have waited on the sidelines before approaching either boy. But, this was not school, and politeness would probably get her killed. Of course, rudeness would get her killed too.

[Namira]

Brock rolled his eyes. Of course they wanted to find buddies, of course they wanted to team up with somebody. That was a far cry from not wanting anything, and pretty much the sort of thing that Brock had been expecting (just behind the reveal of a hidden weapon and a hail of bullets). Alongside the first girl had appeared another, looking comical with a sledgehammer over her shoulder. Somebody else Brock didn't really know or particularly care to know.

"That ain't nothing," Brock said, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "That's saying 'I'm after somebody to look after me and watch my back'. Take a hike, seriously. I ain't interested in baby-sitting somebody I barely know."

Brock didn't usually get wound up like this, but it was a stressful situation, and the ulterior motives of the others had struck a nerve. Always the same, it was always the same. Big dumb dependable Brock could be your muscle, your bodyguard, all it took was a little nudge in the right direction and he'd be defending you all day long. He's just that guillible.

Not anymore...

[AtomicWaffle†]

As much as Steven would like to save every poor soul on the island, he couldn't help but agree. They had nothing that would help either Steven or Brock, and in the coldest way he could think of - they were extra baggage. The girls didn't look like they could hold their own in a fight, and Steven had little to no knowledge of who they were.

Then again, who DID he know? In the time he'd been at Bayview, he'd met only five or six people he could actually have an extended conversation with, and only one he could call a "friend." Luckily for him, he had caught the flu, and was bedridden when Steven last talked to him; he wasn't on the trip. Neither of them would've known at the time, that was probably the last time they would talk... That is, if Steven didn't make it out of SOTF, which wasn't very likely.

I will. I have to. There's no other goal, nothing else is more important than getting the hell out of here.

There was no one on the island he would actually actively seek out. Even if there were, he wasn't even sure he WANTED to find them. It would be almost easier to deal with his friends dying if he didn't have to experience it firsthand. Unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that regardless of where he was or what he was doing, death would be follow him. The stench of death was unfamiliar to Steven, but it was almost nauseating imagining what most of the island would soon begin to smell like... Already distant screams, gunshots, and what he could only assume to be a chainsaw could be heard faintly in the distance. It wasn't cutting through a tree, that was for damn sure. Jesus Christ.

Steven once again turned his attention towards the girls, scratching his neck nervously.

"Well... I mean, I'm not going to tell you not to stick around, but I don't really fell comfortable with..."

With what? They looked scared, maybe a bit helpless. Steven felt helpless too. What the hell do you do in a situation like this? How to you tell someone, who clearly doesn't want to be alone, that you're not going to stay with them? They could die in the next day or two, and even he felt like curling up into a corner and crying at the thought of it. He couldn't imagine telling someone on their deathbed that he wasn't going to stay with them to the end, how was this any different?

It's different because MY life is in danger here. I can get all sentimental about it, or I can think of it in terms of my own survival. I have to.

Still, he really didn't have anything to say to them. Maybe that was it?

"I... honestly don't know what to say. I don't even know what... I just don't know."

Defeated, Steven couldn't bring himself to look at the two girls. The pit in his stomach grew deeper. It would be nice to have a hope in hell of living past nineteen, and maybe have a reason to stay with the girls that wasn't just to have someone to call out to when you were bleeding to death. It would be nice not to have an explosive collar strapped to your neck. It would be nice not to have to watch the people he'd spent the last year around die in front of his eyes. It would be just fucking great if Steven could walk out of this saying that he didn't have to kill someone.

It doesn't look like that's going to happen, does it?

[armeggedonCounselor†]

Kayla winced at the hate in the jock's voice. Who really thought like that? She bristled slightly, unexpected even to herself.

"Yes, there are ulterior motives involved. Of course there are ulterior motives. I'd imagine he-" She indicated the other boy,"- has ulterior motives for offering to help you learn to use the gun. Just because we're looking for a group of people doesn't mean we're going to be burdens. Assumptions like that are only going to lead to you getting hurt," she said, her anger entering a crescendo before peaking at a mezzo-forte. It was weirdly comforting to let the anger she felt out. Felt liberating, really.

She glanced at the other boy as he said something that was entirely lacking in conviction or substance. He was second guessing himself, which made him easier to influence. If Kayla was a manipulative person, she would try and manipulate him into joining with them. Instead, she focused on the jock.

"Listen. I don't know you well either, but in this situation, you're alright in my book. You didn't open the conversation with a hail of bullets, after all. I can't swear to you that I will never be a burden, but I can say that I only expect what I give out of any alliance we form. All I can promise you is that I will watch your back and help you stay alive, which, interestingly, is all I'm asking of you. There's no downside to accepting the offer," she said, settling into a less angry tone. Persuading the jock was the important thing. It was obvious that he would end up the leader of the group; he was the strongest and had a sort of brusque charisma. Plus, he at least seemed like he knew what he was doing.