Target Acquired

[Grim Wolf]

(Karen Idel: Level One)

DANGER

That was the first thing she really noticed when she woke up, splayed on the ground half-spooning a duffel bag.  For several seconds she was groggy, confused, haunted by a vague sense of nightmares and worries.  She rose slowly, wondering where she was, worried she'd been drugged and then raped, her memories erased (idiot idiot idiot falling asleep on the plane how could you fall asleep on the plane).

Wait.

The plane?

Fighting to keep her eyes open but she'd slept well last night her father had taken a surprisingly strong stance and insisted she go to bed early, that she not game, and that was fine but there was no reason for her to be this tired, no reason at all, so why...

That was when she'd known something was wrong.  Not consciously but subconsciously, at some level that keyed her in, like sending a probe to an enemy base only to learn that there configuration doesn't match what you expect.  It means that either they're an idiot or...

Or they're trying something new and you might not be able to deal.

It was only as she was sorting through all this that she saw the rusted "DANGER" sign.  Only then that she remembered.

Mr. Davidge.

Her chest suddenly felt tight, too tight, like some invisible assailant had her in a bear hug.  And then her throat felt tight, too, like someone was choking her with an invisible hand (and oh how she'd hated that the first time she'd seen Star Wars, watching Vader choke that soldier and feeling her own throat constrict in response and God it hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt).  And there was that collar on her neck, choking her with its presence, reminding her that she could die at any time at any moment they owed her nothing one quick press of a button and poof there went the life of Karen Idel.

She sank slowly back to the ground, pulled her knees to her chest.  "Breathe," she whispered, barely able to speak, but she had to speak, had to give herself the order, had to remind herself that she was in control.  "Breathe."  Hadn't had an asthma attack in close to two years she could not have one now she absolutely could not have one now she wouldn't let herself have one now not now not now not now not when there were people out there, people with blades and guns and sticks and pipes and fists and even if she could trust her classmates there were other people the people who'd shot Mr. Davidge and oh God oh God oh God...

Her chest was tight, so tight.  Her eyes flickered to the bag and she tore it open, ripped through its contents, threw them all out to the side (her box of tampons she was starting her period in three days but she might start bleeding well before that now).  She was sobbing, looking for something, anything that might help this awful feeling go away.

Her hand found a familiar plastic shape.  With a short sob of relief, she pulled out her inhaler and lifted it to her lips, careless of danger, careless of some crazy fucking terrorist poisoning her inhaler for shits and giggles, desperate to breathe, breathe, breathe.

But she couldn't quite bring herself to use it.

It hadn't been all that long ago that a high pollen count could make her day a long-lived nightmare, but even before she'd started steroid treatments Karen had been reluctant to use the inhaler.  It felt too much like a crutch, like cheating somehow.  She was relatively healthy, except for her weight.  Doctors had commented on it.  She could understand treating her condition, figuring out a way to improve it, but using the inhaler was admitting that her weakness could not be corrected, that she'd always feel this way.  She'd learned a few methods to ease her breathing--focusing on her breathing, flexing and relaxing her muscles all across her body.  Whether it was a placebo effect or not, she always felt better.

Now, she hardly needed it.  And the truth was, she didn't need it now.

She pulled the inhaler away from her mouth and studied it for five full minutes.  Her tears dried, leaving her face feeling sticky and puffy.  She took a shallow breath.  Then a slightly deeper breath.

She lifted her head and stared at the sign.

DANGER

Oh, I know.

Danger.  Danger like Mr. Davidge going rigid, screaming that awful muffled scream as he rattled in his chair.  Danger like a bullet smashing into Mr. Davidge's head, scattering pieces of him all over the stage.  Danger like being half-conscious on the pavement, the world going dark as your brain starved.

DANGER

Deeper breaths.  Her chest felt better already.  Her head felt clearer.

She reached for the collar around her neck (still choking her a little, making her feel a little weak), then frowned and looked at the stuff she'd scattered around.  Some of her clothes.  Some of the stuff she'd packed with her.

Some.

My journal.

She grabbed the stuff and started putting it together in one pile.  The task of searching and organizing helped her to feel a little calmer, a little more in control, a little saner, but even then her dread persisted, the sense that she would share Mr. Davidge's fate, that she would die for nothing, die in pain, die alone...

She grimaced and kept searching.  She found a box of condoms that she certainly hadn't brought with her, but no weapon.  Had this been what they gave her?  Those sons of-

Ultimately, she had her stuff back together, sheepishly cleaned of any apparent dirt.  But she could find neither her journal nor the notebook of graph paper she used for sketching maps.

She felt a very strange irritation, at odds with the empty dread that seemed to have otherwise taken her over.  They'd taken her things.  Her maps.  Her plans for campaigns.  They'd taken...

They've taken stuff I'm never going to use again.

The tears were coming back now, and the fear, and her chest was feeling tight again, as tight as her throat still in the grip of that collar.  What did her old campaign notes matter?  Her ideas for maps and games and new strategies to try?  Those things were over, those things were dead, as dead as she would be within days.

She knew very little about SotF.  Some of the chats and forums she frequented mentioned it, and there was the occasional news piece.  A game she'd played for a month had done an event on the anniversary of the Minnesota kids--a PvP island-based death match--but they'd gotten a lot of backlash about it.  She knew about the students who'd made it home after the last game--the ones who were supposed to have broken the game.  The long hiatus.  How it had gone from a phenomenon that was almost mainstream to a bizarre fixation on the outskirts.  There were some groups on some of the games she'd played that had vague SotF themes, always hostile, always PvP oriented.

But what did that tell her about these people?  These monsters who killed teachers and kids for no reason?  These sick twisted fucks?

Only that their legacy was hate and pain and fear.  Only that they were monsters and she couldn't hope to beat them.  Only that it was better to grab onto this collar and yank and hope that it blew her up before they killed her.

Her fingers started to curl around it.  Started to reach for the skin beneath her collar.  It had just a little give to it, enough so that she could dig her fingers beneath it a little, though it hurt.  How many tugs would it take before it blew, and took her with it?  

And the thought of dying was enough to tighten her throat again, squeeze her chest, leave her feeling weaker than before.  How could she trigger an explosion with these fingers?  How could she?  But wasn't it better this way?  Better to die in one quick, clean blow then to be shot and stabbed?  To be left bleeding slowly in some godforsaken place, feeling the life drain away from her?  She'd been through that once.  She didn't want to do it again.

So it was better to die now, before it all went wrong.  Better to die.  Better to die.  So why couldn't she do it?

Am I that much of a coward?

Didn't her body understand that this was cowardice?  That she was choosing the easy way out?  Because she was going to die and she'd die alone and in pain and that wasn't up for debate that was just the way it was going to be.  What could she do, without a weapon?  How could she outfight all these other kids, who'd worked out, who'd gotten lucky with weapons?

They've been beaten before.

Her fingers were pressed against her skin.  Her breathing felt heavy.  Her body felt weak and meaty and stupid and her mind was sluggish and then that thought came ringing out, resounding through her mind and her heart.  In an instant her breathing seemed easier, and she jerked her fingers away from her collar.

They've been beaten.

Well, that wasn't true, was it?  Some extra kids had gone home.  More than one.  But that was hardly a defeat for them.

Except they claim to be infallible and they're not.

No?  Then how did they capture us all?  And all those other schools?  How do they do it time after time after time?  How do they do it so perfectly?

Not perfectly.

Not perfectly.  Not perfectly because in spite of their claims that only one student was going home they'd failed before.  Not perfectly because when they'd taken them—when they'd been gassed on the plane—she'd noticed.

And maybe she couldn't have done anything about it.  Maybe they'd been beaten on the plane.  But there were flaws.  Holes.  Tiny things that didn't quite add up.

They killed Mr. Davidge.

God, that image.  The blood.  The brains.  His face.  Those wide, pained eyes.

Him, and all the other teachers.  All gone.  Just like she would be.

But what if she'd spoken up?  Warned everyone?  What if they'd realized what was happening?  What if she'd reached for an oxygen mask to keep herself away?  What if she'd listened to herself and seen what she might have done?

This thing.  Survival of the Fittest.  It didn't always work.  It couldn't.  No human was good enough to be perfect.  Other students had escaped.  They could this time, too.  That man who'd spoken

(Danya, standing triumphant next to the bloody body)

Danya said otherwise.  Danya said the process had been perfected.

Maybe they'd sealed the holes that had hurt them the last time.  But there were other holes.  For instance, why take her journal away?  Did they confuse her game notes with something that could be useful?

Could they be?

All strategy is predicated on understanding your opponent's assumptions—on what he is capable of, on what you are capable of.  What your numbers are.  How aggressive you are.  How intelligent.  How foolish.  Understand these assumptions and you understand what your opponent's weaknesses are.  Understand these assumptions, and you can see the holes.

There had to be holes in their system.  She'd nearly spotted one.  So...

So was she really going to let herself die?  Was she really going to ignore the warning sleepiness overpowering her, and let them make the rules?  Like those tower rushes or quick tricks others used to subvert the normal order of the game, was she going to let them dictate the terms?  

Or would she do the tower rushing?  Would she do something they didn't expect?  Would she find the holes in their assumptions, and rip them open until they were bloody wounds?

They'd taken her journals away for a reason.  She wasn't sure just what that was yet, but she had some ideas.  Collars, cameras, filmed.  What was the point of SotF?  What did those running it have to gain from it?  How did they go about gaining this, and what was the weakness in that plan?

She'd played this game before.  Never like this.  Never tired, dirty, and alone.  Never far from running water, where she could get killed by a student or a soldier or get a disease.  She'd never played like this, where her actions could kill her.

But those were details that mattered more to a scared little girl huddled in front of a sign in the woods, crying and thinking of suicide.  Those mattered less to a strategist.  To a player.  To someone who could think of a way to win.  To a strategist, a player, a winner, those were just irrelevant details informing a larger picture.  

So was she a scared little girl hiding in the woods, dreaming of an easy death?  Or was she a strategist?  A player?  A winner?

She closed her eyes and took a single deep breath.

It took her a few minutes to sort her clothes and her other goods (first aid kit, bag, water, bars each 1500 calories god she'd better find some more food that wasn't gonna be enough).  She kept a single bottle out, and drank half of it one pull, relishing the cool water as it coursed down her throat.  The bag felt far too heavy on her thin shoulder, but she didn't yet know what she'd need and she wasn't discarding anything but that stupid box of condoms.

She kept the map and compass, though.  She didn't know much about using either, save for a brief section on orienteering in 8th grade that she'd never gotten to put to practical use since she was unable to go on the field trip.  But she could read the map, sort of.  She had a few ideas of where to go.

For one reason or another, those in charge had decided she shouldn't have paper.  She wasn't totally sure why, which was uncomfortable.  Any hope she had of taking these people down rested on her understanding and suberting their assumptions, and her lack of information could force her into making some problematic ones.  But...

But they didn't want her to have paper.  To have her notes.  She knew that because they'd taken it from her to make her still more powerless, along with her phone and her Ipod.  

So she was going to find some.  She was going to figure out why they didn't want her to have paper, and what their other fears were.  And then was going to become those fears.  She was going to destroy them.

Because she was not a scared little girl in the forest, thinking that it would be far easier to blow this choking collar than to face them head on.  Because she was a strategist.  A player.  A winner.

She looked over the area once more, to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything.  She noticed her inhaler discarded on the ground and picked it up.  Dirty now.  Even if she needed it, she'd be reluctant to put that into her mouth.  Maybe she could find a place to wash it.

As she rose to her feet, she saw the sign again.

DANGER.

Damn straight, she thought, setting her mouth into a thin line, and went stocking off away from the sign.

(Karen Idel advancing to Level Two: Assumptions)