My first thought was, he lied in every word

[MurderWeasel]

((Sven Vee continued from Pregame))

Sven Vee's life was over. This was a fact, simple, indisputable, not worth the time to rail against.

He knew, because he had been told.

He sat in the center of the ruined building, legs as close to crossed in a lotus as he could comfortably come. The wind whispered through the shattered walls, but not as loudly as the voice whispered to Sven.

You're dead, it said. No matter what, you're dead. This is where your life comes to end, on this island. Maybe not now, not today, not tomorrow. It's hard to say. It's fate and chance, but I don't think it's fair to do anything other than be upfront about this. You are doomed.

"There could be a rescue," he said.

That's true. There could. There could be a rescue, or an escape, and that could help others, but not you. You would die on the way to the boat. You would catch a bullet from the one panicking asshole who had something to prove, or you'd fall off the boat, or your collar would somehow go off. From here on out, your life is measured in hours and minutes.

"I could be the last one."

No. You couldn't. No chance. And even if you were, you'd still die. From wounds, before they picked you up, or in one giant explosion. If you're last, then nobody makes it. Just how it is.

"Okay. Good to know."

He felt a little unfairly treated by that, really, but could it be a surprise? Life, as it was, what remained of it, it made sense again. For that one beautiful, crazy, glorious week in Washington DC he had spent day after day in the hotel room, lost and alone and without purpose because the inevitable disaster had seemed like it wasn't going to show. Then, it had. The world was right again. It was sad, but only to a point. The hope that had been dangled felt cruel, but par for the course, and this was easier in a way.

"Ms. Garcia should've checked the windows, I guess," he mused.

It really doesn't matter. They would've opened, probably. See, there are these things called electronic locks. You push a button and then the windows don't open anymore, even though they did before. They brought a special vehicle all tricked out for this. We're talking about a terrorist organization that has given every government in the world the slip for over a decade. They're not going to be thwarted by a fucking bus window inspection.

"Right. That makes sense, I guess."

It's security theater. You feel safer because they check the windows, and since the vast majority of classes are not kidnapped everyone can pat themselves on the backs and say the precautions work. The only funny thing here is, a whole lot of people will make the same assumption you did and not realize how utterly pointless the whole affair is. But it's like taking your shoes off at the airport. It's an inconvenience that you feel, to make you feel like measures are being taken, even if they're pointless.

"Mm."

It felt like it should be cold, but it wasn't. It was really quite warm. The sun felt nice on his head, and it wasn't too bright because of his glasses. People were talking outside.

"I think I'll just sit here until I die. It's nice enough."

Sorry, Sven.

"Sorry?"

No can do. You have a thing or two to take care of first.

He considered that.

"What if I don't feel like it?"

A pause.

"What if I say no?"

Sven got up, and made his way out the door, not because he wanted to, but because he really had no choice in the matter. He stepped out of time and space for a while, but a moment later he found that he was no longer alone.

((Sven Vee continued in Just keep breathin' and breathin' and breathin'))