Lost

[Solitair†]

Lance Adams's last days began when he opened his eyes, pupil contracting to shut out the light that surrounded him. He rubbed his eyes, face wincing with discomfort, then blinked until he could see clearly.

This is not my school, he noted. What school would be taught in a patch of rocks next to a steeply sloping mountain? As he looked around, he noticed a daypack marked 'B34 - Adams'.

Ah, yes. The terrorists. He remembered their orientation, remembered the rape of Mrs. Saranna, remembered glaring at the men in charge. He remembered watching a rerun of Hawley Faust and Helena Van Garrett, remembered how one of the men practically threw up upon watching the movie. He remembered that man's protests and how he served to demonstrate the explosive potential of the collars.

Too little, too late. If you didn't want to wallow in filth, you shouldn't have become a terrorist. Lance had a mental list of the aspects of life he despised, and terrorism neared the top. This should have been a no-brainer, but he was amazed and disgusted at how many people stood up for these fanatics. He hoped that no one had sympathy for the devil in this case.

And with that, he opened his daypack.

Rations. There wasn't much in there, nor was it particularly appetizing. As far as Lance could guess, you were meant to get more by taking it off your kills. Disgusting.

Map and Compass. Lance studied the map, connecting the mountain range in the northern part with his current terrain. A remote area on a remote island.

First Aid Kit. It wasn't much, but at least it was something.

Flashlight. Not very useful now, but when the sun set, he'd need it.

Mooring Rope. Was this his weapon? Lance tugged on it experimentally and determined that it was quite sturdy. He could use it as a makeshift garrote. I'd rather have a gun, though. I know how to use that.

His own backpack. Lance was gratefull for his pencil and paper, normally used to write down some creative ideas he had. Now he could communicate secretly with anyone he met, if he was careful.

Mr. Danya's Survival Guide. Lance flipped through it, letting Danya's black humor soak through him. He used to like that sort of thing. Then he saw the first SOTF.

He had been introduced to it by a classmate of his, Burton Harris, and was soon caught in a vortex of debauchery and drama. He saw every single second of footage that Danya took of Adam Dodd, Sidney Crosby, Jacob Starr, and everyone else, and when all was said and done, he became Lady Macbeth, staring at an imaginary spot on his body that would never leave him. Even though there was always some doubt in his mind that the program was real, it crossed the line anyway.

He knew that Danya's words weren't completely arrogant. He'd seen the entropy present in the first SOTF and knew he had to be careful. He needed a gun. He needed some help.

He needed to find Kasumi. Before drinking the drugged water offered to him by the terrorists, he found Kasumi sitting a few desks away from him. Their eyes met, and Lance had given what he hoped was a reassuring nod before downing his drink.

He knew Kasumi wouldn't be as prepared as he was. The girl always tried to help people, convert people, but he knew that some people on the island simply weren't going to be Saved. Being with her would make their stay much more comfortable, he reckoned.

With that thought, he slung his daypack over his shoulder and stood up straight, keeping the rope coiled in his left hand. He knew he didn't look very tough; he didn't lift weights, instead opting for gymnastic exercises, which he realized would be more handy on the island anyways. His face was also a bit on the nerdish side, and this was indeed a reflection of his personality, as he loved fiction, particularly anime.

As he left the foothills, his mind focused on one particular show. Lost, in his opinion, was the pinnacle of live-action television, and he began making connections with it and his real life situation.

Faraway Island? Check.
No Hope Of Escape? Check.
Chance Of Death? Check.
Tense, Emotional Scenes? Check.
Illicit Deeds And Murder? Check.

He knew it wasn't an exact match. There were no hatches or mysteries to be solved, just death, death, and additional death.

Nevertheless, he marched on, wondering which of his classmates he could still trust...

...and which ones had thrown in their lot with the Others.

This place is a prison...
These people aren't your friends...
Inhaling thrills through $20 bills
And the tumblers are drained and then flooded
Again and again

Ther're guards at the on ramps...
Armed to the teeth...
And you may case the grounds from the cascades to puget sound
But you are not permitted to leave

I know there's a big world out there like the one i saw on the screen...
In my living room late last night,
It was almost too bright to see

And i know that it's not a party if it happens every night...
Pretending there's glamour and candelabra
When you're drinking by candlelight

What does it take... to get a drink in this place?

What does it take... how long must i wait?

THIS PLACE IS A PRISON by THE POSTAL SERVICE

((Continued in Fighting for Something You Already Lost))