There's A Moral In This Somewhere

[nope†]

((Danielle Champney continued from It Hurts))

Danni was pissed.

The girl stomped angrily through the mud several yards ahead of her companions. Droplets of moist sediment came flying from under the merciless fall of her dirty leopard-print chucks & came back down like meteors of shit colliding with a sea of more shit. The trio had been walking all night after the run-in at the bridge. They hadn't slept, they hadn't stopped, they hadn't even taken a break to have a spot of tea and chit-chat about the weather. Danni was fucking tired. She was sick of seeing these goddamn trees too. She needed a building, something with structure. She decided that if she ever made it off this island, she would make sure she never saw another tree again. She'd move to a city. She'd burn down any park she came across. She'd open a paper mill and make it her mission to erase all the goddamn trees off the face of the motherfucking planet. Fuck trees. She wanted a Hilton.

There was a maddening itch between the girl's legs. She gave it an unladylike scratch. She realized too late that Trish and James were probably close enough to see that. She blushed furiously and continued walking, not daring to look behind her to see their reactions. The itch had been her unwelcome partner since back at the bridge. She noticed it a bit when she'd helped Trish hobble along, but as the hours passed and her legs began to chafe it became all too evident what the culprit was. She'd hosed her knickers. Again. Just when she'd gotten over the quiet, inward humiliation of that first unfortunate accident, her bladder goes and fails her again. She cursed her vagina and prayed to God for a place to change. When the stingy bastard didn't give her so much as an outhouse, she cursed Him too.

Specks of moisture became illuminated by the lazily rising sun and drummed delicately on her mess of bleached hair and ginger roots. The storm was dying, but it had outlived most of her classmates. Yet here she was, in piss-stained tights and a foul mood, inexplicably alive. What the fuck made her so special? It certainly wasn't her charm, grace, good looks or overwhelming usefulness. She should be dead. It should be her instead of them. The guilt was more persistent than the itch. She didn't think there was a cream for that.

Despite its occurrence at the same time sharp for the nine days prior, the sudden blaring of the announcements still caused her to jump. The smug drawl of the Man Behind the Curtain flooded through the trees with all the fluidity of the Half & Half the girl used to douse her coffee in every morning, minus the calories.

"Oh, fuck you."

Danni plugged her ears with her fingers. She didn't care about dead people or dangerzones or any of that bullshit. If the old turd made the whole damn jungle a dangerzone, they'd be fucked anyway. She just wanted to continue on her merry way and die in peace.

"Can you believe it's been a week and a half!? Version two was already finished at this point! You kids sure are tenacious..."

This wasn't working. The smarmy bastard's voice still cut into her like a very sarcastic jackhammer. She had to resort to drastic measures.

"La la la la la la."

"First off is our resident tough boy..."

"La la la la la."

"...cut down to size by Mark Tavarian. Though, I guess..."

"LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAA-"

Inspiration hit her suddenly, as if her muse had chucked a brick at her head. She did not cease her la's but instead swung off her pack and began to dig through a small pocket it its front. She found what she was looking for quickly.

The little iPod Nano with the pink slip-on cover as wrapped in a cocoon of teal wire. In a few well-practiced motions she tore the thing out, straightened the wire, popped in the high-quality Swedish earbuds, activated Apple's little miracle toy, scrolled down to "Shuffle Songs", cranked up the volume and prepared herself for the sweet, sweet relief.

YO I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT

Perfect.

The girl grabbed up her muddied pack and leaned herself against her mortal enemy The Tree while she waited for her comrades to catch up.

[DetectiveArcher†]

((Morgan Green continued from I Love the Dark... But I Hate Nature))

He'd expected it to be hard. He could deal with hard. What Morgan hadn't realized that his wounds would make travel nearly unbearable. The painkillers had begun to work their magic, and it was through that miracle alone that the boy could move with any sort of speed. The bandages he'd applied were already showing spots of red. The bleeding was slowing, evidently, but wouldn't stop without a fight. He'd get Eris back for this. All of his injuries would be paid back in full. With interest.

The prospect of killing the pale cunt helped to keep him moving as well. One foot in front of the other, he forced himself onward, through the thick foliage of the jungle. Every few steps, his pack would rub against his ribs and elicit a sharp grunt of pain. He tried his best to ignore it. Morgan needed someplace to hole up, but most of the buildings were becoming danger zones. There were a few, and the boy had presence of mind enough to know that students would be drawn to shelter. So, logically, the open environment would provide a better refuge.

Sweat dripped down his face and body. He wondered how bad it would be without the codeine. He grunted as the bag pressed against his wounded core again. It was heavier, now, the morning star and broken sword tucked safely inside. If he found trouble, the straight razor in his pocket would have to suffice. It had served him well enough, so he didn't doubt its lethality and didn't obsess over the matter. He doubted he could wield the club or broken blade properly anyway.

One foot in front of the other. After a short time of walking, the dusty haired boy felt his shoulders slump with a mixture of bone deep weariness and painkillers. He needed to keep moving. To his credit, if his foot hadn't caught the root sticking up from the ground, he probably would have soldiered on. Instead, the short trip to the ground was made all the more painful from his various injuries. He cried out sharply, tears welling in his eyes. Painkillers or no, the stumble had sent waves of anguish rippling through his body.

Rolling onto his back, he clamped his arms around his midsection, hoping to somehow contain the agony. It didn't help. Opening his eyes, Morgan saw the wild haired young woman leaning against a tree. He tried to get to his feet, but only succeeded in struggling to his knees before collapsing again, prompting another pained scream.

[Crash†]

(Trish McCarroll continued from It Hurts)

As usual, after their eventful day away from the messy foliage the group had retreated back into the surrounding jungle, only this time Trish had little complaint. The fiasco at the swinging bridge had proved to be quite the ordeal, and while it had made a machine out of Danni - who was now quite a few paces ahead of the pair, taking charge with her recently acquired firearm - Trish couldn't have been more grateful to be as far away from there as possible.

For some reason, illogical pricks had made a habit of making her life a living hell for the last week and a half. It all started with Jeff Thorne, who after killing Jake spent his last moments begging for Trish's forgiveness. In the heat of the moment she'd granted him his final respite - in essence, she was sure she'd meant it - but it hadn't undone the eternal pain he'd inflicted on her. Sloan had followed right after, for some reason demanding to know if she was sane as she mourned the corpse of the person she'd most likely under normal circumstances have considered her best friend. In retrospect, though, she had absolutely no qualms about killing him. He started it, the prick.

Nick Nutbrown rounded out the trio, but at this point she was beyond trying to make sense of their motives. The remorse was slowly creeping up on her, but she quelled and dismissed it by justifying her actions internally. There was no way around it; if she hadn't filled him with lead it would be her corpse lying beside the bridge, waiting to be pecked to death by vultures. There was no way she was going to die like an animal...and more importantly, there was no way she would lose herself in this mindfuckery. She'd be better than Sloan and Nick. She was better than them.

She bumped into James lightly while lost in her thoughts, and after muttering a quick apology to him continued along beside him through the jungle. Danya made his presence known via the announcements once again, and while Trish paused, intent on filling the new danger zones in on her map, Danni seemed to have a different approach.

"La la la la la."

"Heh..." was all she managed, impressed by the girl's childish tenacity.

As Danya continued on, Danni seemed to be determined not to be beaten.

"La la la la la."

"Uh, Danni, the danger z-..."

"LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAA-..."

There was no way Trish could compete, but shortly after she resigned herself to not hearing the rest of the announcement Danni ceased her auditory distraction, shoving her iPod into her ears. She didn't blame her for not wanting to hear Danya - he wasn't exactly Trish's best friend, either - but as he announced the new list of danger zones she made sure to shade those areas out on her map completely. She didn't care how messy she was anymore, she'd never have to bother cleaning it up.

A muffled scream broke her out of her organization, and as quickly as she threw the pencil and map back into her bag she made to snatch up the AK-47 again. She was tempted to shoot without thinking, but part of her wondered if the scream had come from James. She darted a quick glance back in his direction, but the confused look on his face told her that he wasn't the source of the distraction. Distantly, she wondered if Danni had even heard it.

A few seconds later, another cry of pain erupted close by.

Without hesitation this time Trish flicked the safety off her gun, wildly firing her entire clip in the direction of the screams. It took her a few seconds to realize that the boy they eminated from was on the jungle floor yards away from them, and consequently all her bullets had soared right above him and embedded themselves into nearby trees. She was beyond trusting anyone now, and as she kneeled down to grab a replacement clip she looked towards the boy. Morgan...looked like shit.

Still, as much as she wanted to put him out of his misery, a clawing part of her conscience was telling her that it wasn't her place.

"Fucking hell..." she whispered, the gun and her gaze loosely diverted towards Morgan.

[nope†]

SLAM YOUR BODY DOWN AND WIND IT ALL AROUND
SLAM YOUR BODY DOWN AND WIND IT ALL A-

BANGBANGBANG



Danni ripped at the colorful cord of the earbuds with such panicked ferocity that one of its rubber covers remained in her ear. She threw her body on its bruised side with a painful splash. She was met by a free all-natural facial and dye job. Only then did she think to find the source of the disruption, and looked up with mud-filled eyes to see that a stony-faced Trish was the gunner.

"Jesus motherfucking Christ." She gave a sigh and lifted her sore frame back up. She gave a few futile shakes to dispel the mud, but despite her efforts the muck adhered stubbornly to her skin and polycotton dress, making her look somewhat like the product of a tryst between Julie Adams and the Creature From the Black Lagoon. Deciding to take her defeat with grace, she instead forced an expression of sangfroid on her face, lifted the mireless side of her America Apparel gown and drew the Mauser from the waistband of her tights. She fumbled with the safety for a full minute before deciphering the damn device and trained it towards where her companion had shot.

At first, the girl was puzzled at why Trish seemed so threatened by a patch of empty air. Then her eyes caught the squirming boy and her Della Street pokerface snapped into a perfect "O" of surprise. They were holding a cripple, a possibly already dying boy, at gunpoint. She shot a look of concern at Trish, but met only a cheek and so shot it further back at James. Even from where frail little Danni was standing, this kid didn't look like much of a threat.

Danni kept the pistol aimed with one hand, but freed the other for more important tasks. She wiped more of the sludge from the side of her face and plucked the rubber cover from her ear. She tossed it atop her daypack, where she was surprised to find her iPod had also landed. She may not have known how to save her own ass, but she sure could save the merchandise. She gave another shake to her muddy mane and lifted her eyes back up to the grunting thing before her.

[DetectiveArcher†]

The rattle of gunfire ripped through the air, as Morgan curled up in the dirt. The gash across his ribs scorched his midsection sharply, in protest. Ignoring the fire in his abdomen, he screwed his eyes shut as bullets tore through leaves and thudded into trunks. Covering his head, the bespectacled boy flinched at every twig or leaf or fleck of bark that dropped onto his head, expecting the impact to rip his skull open.

The sharp "flit" of the rounds whipping through the air and foliage made his body tighten and draw in on itself. Shit, I'm gonna die! There's no way I can compete with that! What the fuck is that anyway?! The straight razor wouldn't be enough this time. None of his weapons could hold a candle to a machine gun, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't put up some kind of fight.

His good hand extended cautiously, shaking as it snatched up the boy's daypack. Drawing it to his chest, he hastily tore it open, digging for his more useful weapons. The bullets stopped as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the broken saber, the weight of the blade steeling his resolve. I can't die here. I won't die here. I'm going to get out of this and kill that cunt, Marquis. The best chance of getting out of the situation alive would be to run. If the person with machine gun stopped, it probably meant they were reloading. Perfect time to get away.

He began counting backwards, from three, in his head. At one, he would force himself to his feet and sprint for the horizon. Casting a quick glance back, he felt his stomach sink. The wild haired girl, Danni, he thought her name was, leveled an ugly black pistol at him. And just like that, he knew. This is it. I'm fucked. His grip tightened around the hilt of the blade, keeping it inside the pag, hidden from sight. He just hoped he'd get the chance to put up a fight.

"Gonna' kill me?" he grunted roughly.

[nope†]

The rat-panic, frenzied digging through the daypack was what really got to the wild-haired girl. The bespectacled wreck before her was not a killer. He was a scared kid. He was the Danni of a few days ago. Now she was on the other side of death, she could taketh just as He could giveth. But she wouldn't. Half of it was general cowardice, she knew that all too well, but the other half was just how similar this terrified dirty-blonde boy was to her. If she had enough strength to hold a gun to that, she'd have been found in a bathtub at home long before this damn island had rudely interrupted her grayscale fog of a life. That courage would have been a nice thing to have back then, she thought upon her reflection. But its absence would save this boy's life.

Danni had not expected the glass-encased gaze to turn to her so suddenly. Trish had the big gun, after all. The dull little orbs locked with hers and she tore them away as if she'd just accidentally come across some grotesque scene. She'd seen a look like that before. When she was five, her parents brought home a little golden retriever puppy. The perfect pet for their whitebread, upper-class suburban family. She named her Tammy. Tammy was the epitome of what joy should be, careless and full of care and curiosity for the world around her. She was everything little Danni wanted to be but never could courtesy of her highly evolved hominid mind, genetic predisposition towards depression and that crushing sense of failure that would be closing in by her tenth birthday. But the good in this life was never meant to last, and several weeks later the sweet began its natural decay into rotten and sour. One night while mommy and daddy were out at a romantic dinner, wringing out whatever feelings were left of their stale marriage, Danni was screaming her little mind off at the stiff and shaky little thing stumbling around her bedroom floor.Those tiny brown dumb-dog eyes conveyed more confusion and pain than the little five-year-old could bear. But determined to keep the Champ in Champney, as her father might say (it was a phrase she would later come to loathe), she stayed with the shivering, scared thing until half an hour and two puddles of half-digested Alpo later, her parents were rushing their candy-apple-red SUV to the nearest vet that would take their calls. Despite medication, Tammy's defective little mind would wrest its control from her again and again, except for her eyes. Without fail, those eyes always met Danni, and each time the little girl's heart cracked just a little more. Three years later, almost to the day, Tammy was on the receiving end of a syringe full of pentobarbital and eleven years she would never get to live. An hour later, she was in the ground. Ashes to ashes, worm shit to worm shit. They marked the grave with a lawn ornament the pup had likely pissed on many times before. The Champney family was done with pets. But those eyes were never quite done with Danni. They'd crawled out of Tammy's rotted head and caught a flight from Highland Beach right to Morgan Green's skull. The shakes and shivers were of a different kind this time around, but that fear was so thick around him that she could taste its coppery smack all across her tongue.

"No, I'm not going to kill you. I'd like to help you, if that's alright." Her eyes stayed averted but she forced a reassuring smile on her face. She tried to coax Nurse Danni out from deep in the back of her mind, in some pink and wrinkly version of the Southridge nurse's office, but was instead met by a pair of terrified brown eyes on a cold metal table and a long indifferent needle stuck in a golden flank (jesus fucking christ why did they let a kid watch that why). She was flying solo again. She should be used to it, she supposed.

She replaced the Mauser back to its place in her waistband and hunkered down next to her fallen pack. She was relieved to have an excuse to have her eyes elsewhere. The iPod went back to its front compartment, and out came a first aid kit issued by the Red Cross some time back in the eighties (Jake's, though she hardly noticed). The daypack was promptly zipped and swung back on her shoulder. She made her way over to the crumpled pile of a boy with palms out as a gesture of goodwill, and a twisted mouth that may have been attempting to smile. She could feel stares of disapproval on the nape of her neck. She hoped they understood. She couldn't let Tammy die again. She knelt down before the boy and flipped open the plastic box of first aid essentials with all the gentle efficiency of the school nurses of days long gone. She'd hardly gotten a second glance at those eyes before she felt the tugging at her dress.

[Cyco†]

((continued from It Hurts))

James really wasn't digging the jungle right now. It was tremendously humid and muddy as fuck, sinkholes everywhere, and the assortment of bug bites he'd been collecting on his arms and neck were getting steadily worse. Still, he brought up the rear of the group with a watchful eye and a sensitive ear.

SQUISH.

"Fuuuuuck..." came a low grumble from the boy as he stepped in what looked like an ordinary puddle and was immediately pulled in up to his knee. He cast an irritated glance at Trish and Danni, mumbled something inappropriate and went about trying to free his leg.

The others hadn't gotten too far ahead when a muffled cry came from off the trail. James froze, his leg sinking back into the pit as he raised his gun toward the noise. His eyes darted over to Trish for a moment, who looked as confused as he was, and he quickly redoubled his efforts.

A second scream sounded off and Trish went a little nuts, emptying her clip in its direction. James was free of the sinkhole finally, and began to rush over to see what had happened.

SQUISH.

"Arrghhh..."

[DetectiveArcher†]

A distraction! Morgan turned the idea over in his mind, hoping to find some way to get out of his situation, without being brutally killed. Throw out something and run! No, that wouldn't work. A quick spray from the machine gun would negate any benefit that might give me. Rush the machine gunner? They must still be reloading. No, Danni's pistol would drop me before I got anywhere near the other one. Probably before I got away either, come to think of it. Morgan cursed. Even discounting the girl's ugly pistol, rushing or running wouldn't have accomplished much, anyway. With his wounds working to slow him down, any sort of movement was already unnecessarily difficult. Even breathing was becoming a labor, burning his lungs and abdomen.

With no way to attack, no way to escape and no way to defend himself, Morgan Green was well and truly fucked. The thought had crossed his mind before, but it seemed important enough to bear repeating. He felt his mouth go dry and his stomach work itself into knots. This wasn't how he'd expected it to turn out. This was all wrong. Why was everything going so wrong? He was supposed to survive. He was supposed to go home.

Squeezing his eyes shut, the wounded student was reminded of the move from his old home in Utah. His father, spending much of his life at work, had decided the family needed a change of scenery. Said that Utah was a fine place to live, but that he'd always wanted to see California. His mother, never one to rock the boat, quickly agreed, despite showing a certain apprehension at simply pulling up roots and leaving. His father never even noticed. Morgan, though, had no qualms with leaving the dry, empty plains. He'd never had many friends. No real hobbies, no sports or clubs. Having constantly shied away from most of his peers, he'd never felt he had anything to leave behind.

In truth, he'd hoped the migration might help to kick start some kind of social life. California was supposed to be where great things happened. Beaches, parties, cute girls, the whole thing. Like you saw on television. Morgan figured, if he couldn't change himself in that sort of environment, he was pretty much a lost cause. The last few days before moving hadn't been anything special. A few, halfhearted, goodbyes and a van full of crap later, the Green family was on its way. Fucking bastard old man.

To be fair, Highland Beach sounded like a decent enough place, at the time. And, Morgan's father had no way of knowing that he'd be putting his son in a brutal kill-be-killed game for the amusement of others. Sure, logically he knew that. But, curled up and clinging to a broken sword, Morgan wasn't feeling very logical or charitable. Tightening the grip on his sword, he thought of the scarred, red skin of his right hand. Fucking accident. I suppose cheating death only works once. The empty click of Marquis' gun echoed in his ears. Ok, twice.

Footsteps. Someone was coming. Machine gunner or Danni? He opened his eyes and saw the shock haired girl coming closer, her Mauser tucked into her the top of her pants. And a first aid kit in her hands. Grey eyes, behind silver rimmed glasses, blinked. What was she doing? Making herself a hostage, that's what, a voice in the back of his head chuckled. He couldn't help but smile. A way out? So, maybe he'd get a third chance, after all.

Pushing aside the flaring pain in his stomach and hand, the injured boy surged forward, hoping to catch the girl off guard. His hand sought the front of her shirt. If he caught her....

Human shield, hostage, bargaining chip. Such a useful woman.

[nope†]

Danni had always had a deathly fear of being exposed. Sure, there had been those naughty little late night webcam sessions, her modern spin on the lost art of burlesque theater, full of risque peeks and unintentional comedy. But in those, she was in control. The lighting was mostly flattering, the motions were practiced, and the lens was just out of focus enough to mask the imperfections while being just subtle enough that the presumably middle-aged men at the other end of that sea of plastic and metal would just blame their failing vision. Not to mention that blessed lack of scrutinizing eyes her magic glowing box provided her, and the belovéd red x that saved her from many a bad situation in a way she could only dream would exist outside the confines of her bedroom. But reality had a harsher light and a much finer focus. Locker rooms were her mortal foe, one-piece bathing suits a dear ally. Danni had become a master of masking as her self-esteem steadily dwindled in her teenage years. To be exposed was to be dead. That's why instead of pulling away from Morgan's grasp on her ripe-to-rip American Apparel dress that she was now sure was not worth its price for its shoddy quality, she leaned into his pull to avoid her bony form being exposed to element and eye. It was a mistake she would have plenty of time to regret afterward.

As it turned out, the boy could scurry like a rat, too. In the blink of an eye one arm was around her neck and an over-circumcised sabre was being brandished in her face. She screamed, stomped, and swung her pack at him, but his grip was constantly readjusting and growing stronger with each grope. Realizing her advantage in height, Danni began trying to swing her vertically challenged foe around her, hoping to positioning him between herself and her friends' guns, but his vicegrip was persistent and he struggled valiantly. Their almost-comical dance routine continued until they reached a garden of particularly nasty bethorned underbrush. Danni saw her opportunity, and she seized it. She launched her pitiful body weight into her pernicious playmate and into the trove of thorny delights.

[DetectiveArcher†]

Perfect. His arm wrapped around her neck, Morgan brought the saber to the girl's throat. The sudden jolt of movement seemed to have caught her completely off guard. She hadn't even thought to draw her pistol again. The shadow of a smile played across his lips. It seemed Morgan's luck was beginning to turn around. With such a pretty hostage, all he had to do was keep the sword ready and back away into the jungle. He would simply disappear. If they decided to open fire, his meat shield wouldn't last for long, but he hoped it would be enough to provide for an escape. Everything seemed to be going so well.

He hadn't expected any sort of counter attack. It hadn't occurred to him that the nervous looking scene girl might be brave enough to try to resist. The captive woman thrashed in his grip, swinging at him with reckless abandon. Twisting her body, she almost spun them both about, nearly putting Morgan in the way of her partner's machine gun. A slender hand latched onto the wrist of his sword arm. She forced the point of blade down, away from her throat. As they stomped back and forth, vying for supremacy, it took Morgan a moment to realize that the scuffle must have seemed like some sort of perverted waltz. If he hadn't been so hell bent on staying alive, he might have laughed.

Bright stabs of pain lit up his free hand and midsection. His feet stumbled back, against his orders. Groaning loudly, sweat pouring down his face, Morgan barely held his ground and hostage. If I wasn't so fucked up, I would win... The realization served only to make the desperate skirmish all the more terrifying. If he lost, if he couldn't subdue this girl, he was going to die. Before, he might have been able to talk his way out, judging from the first aid kit the girl had been holding. But, they wouldn't be so kind as to put up with an attack so late in the game. Then, I can't lose. I've got to win. I won't die here.

Another push. Another stab of pain in his side as he was forced back. The ground disappeared beneath Morgan's feet. The stumble cost him dearly. Slamming into the underbrush, thorns dug into his clothes, tearing at his skin. The painful scratches erupted into agony as the weight of Danielle Champney drop onto his chest, still wrestling for the broken blade. Pain flared in his ribs as the bandaged gash across his abdomen reopened. The boy's pain was suddenly compounded by a surge of vertigo.

The ground sloped downwards, sending the two brawling teenagers tumbling through the thorns and rocks of the underbrush. Brief flashes of stone and branches flashed in the corners of his eyes, as they fell. Thorns slashed at his face and arms. Roots and rocks jabbed at his ribs and shoulders. All the while, he struggled, trying to reestablish his control. The jungle floor evened out as the two crashed in a heap. Morgan could taste and smell blood. He could feel it on his chest and arms. He wasn't sure how much of it was his own and, for the most part, didn't care. Ignoring the debilitating fire in his abdomen, he struggled to right himself.

[nope†]

A savage sense of triumph was rising in the girl even as she fell. The next few moments played out beautifully in her mind. She was already twisting to position the boy under her. As soon as they met the ground, she'd launch herself to the left, grab her gun, scramble up and aim it at the little fucker before he even realized what had happened. She imagined it would almost feel good to hold the Mauser to the mouse this time around. Something in her smiled as that feeling of power rushed through her arms and her head carried by rejoicing red blood cells, each with their own shit-eating grin on their biconcave faces. She tensed her body for the pounce...

But she was still falling. Why was she still falling?

Her answer came when her left shoulder collided with something hard and jagged and definitely not on a flat plane. The boy's weight drove her into it even farther and there was a sickening "pop" and an intense pain. She shrieked but the world did not stop to call foul on the rock, nor did her fall. She tumbled ass-over-teakettle down the steep, washed out slope, screaming and grunting all along the way. Her best efforts to favor her injured arm mid-flight were in vain, and her war against gravity cost her two left fingers in casualties, bent at angles they could have never achieved on their own. Finally Mother Earth had had her fun and Danni collapsed in a screaming, sobbing heap just before the much steeper descent of a dry ravine, carved millenia ago by an all-seeing God for just such an occasion. But for now, the importance of its well-practiced role was lost on the pair, just as her attacker's presence was lost on Danni through her pain; there was only the awkward angle at which her shoulder now sat, her ruined hand, and her renewed hatred for that very same God.

"Fa- ugh! Augh! Fuuuck!"

[DetectiveArcher†]

Edges blurred and faded. Individual shapes became harder to identify. Greens, browns and reds smeared together, mixing with white and black. Morgan swore sharply. He must have lost his glasses in the fall. The hazy figure to his right gave a sharp curse of her own, grunting in pain. Goddamn woman deserved everything she got, just like that cunt, Marquis.

Every joint in Morgan's body screamed at him. He shuddered as he rose to his hands and knees. His head swam, pain hammering at the back of his eyes. Fresh blood soaked his stomach and face. The injuries from his earlier fight reopened, in addition to new wounds sustained in the fall. The entire left side oh his face was slick with blood and sweat.

Get up. Gotta get up.

With arms made of rubber and legs full of lead, Morgan lost the battle of rising to his feet. Collapsing in a heap, Morgan felt another gouge of agony ripple through his body. Shutting his eyes and taking several deep breaths, each one searing his chest and lungs, Morgan forced his head to clear. Lying on the ground wouldn't accomplish anything. He needed to move. If Danni managed to get the drop on him, it would be over. Letting his eyes open, his imperfect vision locked onto the brass handle of his saber protruding from the brush.

Several grunts, curses and stumbles later, Morgan was on his feet, grasping the hilt of the broke blade. Inhaling sharply, the boy drew the sword from its place in the ground. He tried seeing himself as a sort of King Arthur, but the image simply didn't come through very clearly. Just as well, he supposed. He didn't feel very chivalrous at the moment.

Droplets of blood dripped thickly to the ground as Morgan limped towards Danni's vague outline. Stupid girl. Stupid goddamn whore. Fucking cunt, just like Eris Marquis. People thought that he was just an easy target. Nerdy, bookish Morgan Green would be a quick and easy kill to add to the tally. Well, fuck that and fuck them. Morgan Green wasn't going to lose. He would lie and cheat and kill to make sure that, if anyone was going home, it was going to be him.

Reaching down, he took a handful of shocked white hair. Pulling the scene girl to her feet, Morgan began to lose the feeling in his arms. "See, what you've done to me? I'll kill you for this, you stupid cow." Breathing heavily, he thrust the sword towards Danni's side.

[nope†]

Despite numerous dye jobs and nearly two weeks of malnourishment, years worth of TRESemmé® brand haircare products had repaired all that nasty damage done by blowdryers and Elmer's Glue and left the girl's hair soft, lustrous, and strong as steel cords. The Mouse lifted the writhing and sobbing waif easily by her messy mane. Her pain was momentarily forgotten in her fear, but it was a sensation no more pleasant than her last. She made sure her eyes made contact with his. She wanted him to see Tammy in her. She willed her fear and pain towards him and hoped he'd take pity in her the way she had him. His vision may have been impaired without his spectacles, but she could clearly see there was no compassion in there. She was defeated, and she knew it, but the primal core of her brain forced her to continue, sending that tiresome command to live. Her squirming intensified with her sobbing and the pleas from her mouth matched the pleas in her eyes even as he lifted the sabre.

"Oh please no. Please. Please no, oh god no, please, please-"

Pain transcended pain and she could no longer manage to even scream, letting out a pathetic grunt in its lieu. There was a strange sensation of lightness in her midsection. Then an intense burning. Her stomach had become a chemical furnace, spewing chemical fire across her innards. Her legs gave out and the pitiless Rat cast her aside like a broken doll. She landed hard on her misshapen shoulder and all the girl could do was wish she would just die already. But God would not be so merciful to Danielle Champney.

Something splashed against her cheek. He'd spit on her. Through the fog of pain some anger managed to ignite. He kicked her. The flame grew. The fog was a catalyst, a thick gas waiting to be set alight, to damage and destroy. He pulled her up by her hair again, sabre poised. That gas lit and the fire engulfed her. Something primal and vengeful filled her veins even as the blood drained from them. It was then that the ravine's gape and its stupidly hanging lip caught her eye. She saw her chance. After years of hiding behind others, her parents and her internet persona and Trish and James, she was ready to defend herself.

Her leg shot up with a strength and speed neither child had expected. It collided with the soft hanging tissue between the boy's own. He let out a pained scream (but it wasn't nearly enough, she would show him real pain) and she was freed from his grasp. As he stumbled back Danni helped gravity do its noble deeds. She found the strength to scream again. Her vocal cords shook with such ferocity that it was only by some miracle they did not rip free from her neck. She lowered her head and put her thick skull to work. The hair that moments ago been pulled was now pushing. Her scalp collided with his middle and she would not stop until air filled that space instead.

[DetectiveArcher†]

It was harder than he'd expected. The blade had lost much of its point in the break. The slender sliver of metal that remained was serviceable, but not optimal. Morgan found that he needed to apply more force than what he'd anticipated, to punch through the skin and muscle. The wet hiss of metal sliding into flesh brought a grin to the boy's lips. Nothing left to worry about. He'd managed to eke out another victory, against all odds. He was getting to be damn good at the game.

No, he told himself, not a game. It stopped being a game a long time ago. It's a competition. Evolution in action. He'd almost been unable to go through with it. The girl looked so helpless, so pathetic. So innocent. Her eyes gave him pause. He'd hesitated; even if Danni hadn't noticed, he'd hesitated. Her pleading stare made him wonder if what he was doing was right. He'd already gotten his hands bloody, but that had been in self-defense. The fight with Eris, too was spurred on by self-preservation. But Danni, she'd only been trying to help him.

Morgan wondered if he was ready to become a killer, like many of his fellows. What else should you be? Humans didn't evolve because they were weak. Killing's one of the first things we learned. And it's a good thing too, or humanity would be dead and some other predator would rule the earth. Not a game, then, but a competition. A thinning of the herd. Survival of the fittest. In that instant, Morgan Green knew what he'd become and didn't care.

The sharp grunt of pain reached his ears, but didn't tug his heartstrings. He was ready to go as far as was necessary to win. Whatever he needed to do he would, without hesitation. He spit, the thin stream of saliva splashing against her cheek. He didn't feel sorry for her. Empathy had left him, now and he was the kind of person, the kind of monster, the competition required of him. His leg drew back before snapping forward, hammering in the girl's ribs. The almost ritualistic beating scoured what little humanity he still carried from his heart. Time to finish up.

Reaching down, he took hold of her hair again. The throat this time? Yes, that would do. The heart seemed much more compassionate, but if he missed it would just be another painful wound. The throat would at least be quick. Morgan wanted to be nothing, if not efficient.

His breath slammed to a halt, a car wreck blocking his wind pipe. The saber and girl thudded to the ground as the strength went out of Morgan's hands. Doubling over, he moved to cradle his wounded manhood. Couldn't think. Could barely breathe. A flash of shocked white hair. Another bright flash of pain. The cartilage and bone snapped in his nose. He could hear it. Something more pressing caught his splintered attention, forging it back into a single focused mass of terror. He was falling.

Blood streaming down from his ruined nose, the ground pulled away from the boy's feet. Tumbling end over end, the fall almost made him feel weightless. He slammed into the ground, a crunch punctuating the impact. His body tumbled, rolling to a more stabile position than on his neck. No pain, just a change in direction. Morgan was dead before he could feel pain.

Male Student no. 98, Morgan Green - Eliminated.

[nope†]

Danni hadn't prepared for the sick slap of the boy against the rock below, nor had she his ragdoll fall down the ravine's slope. The vulgar prattle of the body breaking as it tumbled assaulted her and forced the burning in her midsection to spread up to her chest. She wished he had screamed. Screaming would be easier.

Several yards later, the body finally stilled, gravity having had its fill of him and spitting him back out. Danni prayed for movement. She wasn't a killer. After what he put her through, he had no right to pour his blood on her hands.

"H-hey!"

The corpse refused to hold up his end of the conversation. She shouted again. The form didn't even adjust its awkward position. The truth glared up at Danni with a vicious glee but she was determined to refuse it its satisfaction.

"Come on! Get the fuck up!"

It yielded more of the same. She turned her face away with a frustrated cry. Something in her weakly tried to justify it; she'd only been trying to protect herself. She was only trying to live. It was promptly drowned out by a chorus of guilts. She had no reason to protect herself, to live. The only reason she was still alive was because she had never possessed the strength to end it herself. She had no intentions of playing and only a slight hope of winning that had long since dwindled away. She didn't deserve to live, not after Reg and Jake and so many others far more deserving of it had already been lost. Days ago, she had made the decision to go out with dignity. She wanted to live her last days in a way she never had the courage to live the rest of her life in. That was now robbed from her. She'd killed. She'd given into that more primal part of herself and contributed to the body count. She was now exactly what the Smarmy Bastard On the P.A. wanted her to be. She was a murderer.

All she could take comfort in now was that she wouldn't have to live with it for much longer. Her right hand found Morgan's parting gift and she hissed. It came back warm and wet. Her other hand still hung uselessly at her side with fingers curled up carefully where they met the ground. It was a problem. She slowly set her back down on the mud, favoring the dislocation as she did. Her right hand went gingerly towards it. The nerves lit up with caustic alarm. The pain came readily whenever the fingers were near like churchgoers in a litany, dumbly reciting a programmed and practiced response. Her aching throat let loose another pained roar. Vomit rushed to her mouth (causing a strange and unpleasant sensation in her damaged innards) and she had hardly managed to turn on her side before acid and blood came rushing out. She gagged and coughed and agonized for several long minutes. She lifted herself up with her good hand and wiped away the residue from her mouth with a muddy sleeve. Her useless arm would stay useless, she decided. It hadn't been doing much before anyway.

For the first time, she had a proper look at the slope that had caused her so much grief, the plan-spoiling plane. She was shocked by its steepness and length. It was a miracle she hadn't snapped her neck (his survival had been an ironic one, as it turned out). She spotted the Mauser several yards up from her. The thought of retrieving it didn't even cross her mind. She had no use for it.

Her bag, however, was not an earthly possession she was quite ready to give up. She was fucking thirsty. She stumbled a few feet over to where it rested, unzipped, and dug out a water bottle. She squirted onto her face and down her scorched throat. She emptied the thing and tossed the non-biodegradable plastic into the ravine. She felt no guilt in littering. If she had to rot here for an eternity, it was only fair that it should do the same. With some difficulty she managed to swing the (now much heavier to her) pack onto her intact shoulder. She glanced back at the slope. There was no way in hell Trish and James would take that route. They'd find a way around. It seemed like a reasonable thought that she should meet them halfway. After all, she had some goodbyes to give, it just wouldn't do if she croaked before they reached her.

Danni spurred her legs into motion for the last time.

((Danielle Champney continued in Birds Of a Feather Burn Together))