Rats By Moonlight

[MurderWeasel]

June 15, 2018

"Are you sure you really want to do this?" Mr. White asked, at least two seconds belatedly.

By this point, Alton had already scrambled most of the way up the chain link fence. His movements were quick and smooth, the toes of his shoes slotting neatly into the gaps, fingers lightly finding purchase. The metal was rusty, but did not scratch him. This was far from his first time going over a fence.

"Positive," he called back, giving her a grin over his shoulder. Mr. White stood below, tilting her head upwards, lips a narrow line.

"Why," Alton added, letting an edge of mockery slip into his tone, "could it be you're afraid?"

He gave a wide theatrical flourish with his left hand, hanging to the fence with his right loosely wrapped around the top, level with his knees.

"Feel free to wait for me if you'd prefer," he added. "I can try to make this quick."

"Oh hell no," Mr. White replied, a more determined expression settling over her features. She made her way to the fence and began her own ascent, a couple feet to the right of Alton. "I used to do this sort of stuff all the time. I just thought you might get cold feet."

Alton swung his legs over the fence, one after the other, his center of mass soon following. The fence rattled as Mr. White made her way up, rather more cautiously; Alton looked at the ground, assessed, pushed off, and dropped the ten or so feet to the dry grass on the other side, letting the momentum carry him a few steps onwards, absorbing the impact. Turning, he saw Mr. White more hesitantly perched at the top of the fence, her knee-length blue pleated skirt draped awkwardly as she straddled it. He could tell she was gripping tightly even without a clear view of her knuckles.

"You know," Alton said, walking back towards the fence, "you didn't have to go that far to convince Numbers we're just putzing around the mall all day."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She repositioned, reconsidered, finally made her way entirely to the proper side. It looked like she was planning to slowly climb her way down.

"I mean you're dressed for shoe shopping, not breaking and entering," Alton said. "Here, I'll catch you."

She opened her mouth, closed it, scowled, then nodded. Alton watched her take a deep breath, then push off. As she did, there came a loud ripping sound. A split second later, she dropped into his arms, Alton again letting the momentum carry him backwards a bit.

The moment her feet touched the ground, Mr. White spun, examining herself.

"Shit," she muttered, "shit."

"I'll wait here if you want to go get changed," Alton offered.

She hit in the arm, hard enough he felt it, not enough to hurt. Her skirt was torn about two thirds of the way up her right thigh, in ragged imitation of the slit on a prom dress. It was clear at a glance, as she tugged at it, that her leg had not been scratched in kind. Alton turned away, letting her adjust herself as he gazed out over the vista before them.

All along towards the sea stretched the derelict remains of an amusement park. A still Ferris wheel towered high, with a rollercoaster beyond, all skeletal white beams and struts. The pathways were lined with shuttered stalls, windows barred and prizes removed but faded signage intact, promising photographs, funnel cake, toys to be won, skill to be displayed, fun to be had, fried clams and corn dogs. The foliage, once neatly maintained, now grew wild or lay desiccated. The garbage cans were full not of plastic bottle and candy wrappers but of chunks of drywall, wires and cardboard boxes, building materials Alton couldn't identify—the detritus of construction or deconstruction.

"We're not gonna spend all day here, right?" Mr. White asked, walking up beside Alton and squinting at the expanse of decay, then at the sky. "I think it's going to rain."

"I thought you did this sort of thing all the time?"

She kicked a chunk of brick that had come loose from the pathway, not hard enough to move it more than a few inches.

"It's been a while," she admitted.

"Let's look around," Alton said, "keep our options open. I'm sure there's somewhere with a roof."

She grunted, granting grudging assent at least for a the moment, and they set out, walking down the winding path, taking in the ruin around them. It was fascinating to Alton. He didn't even have to close his eyes to repopulate the place in his mind. He could see young couples trading gossip over cotton candy, parents standing beneath oversized umbrellas as they kept half-attentive watch over their offspring, a group of middle school boys laughing and bickering as they made their way towards the rollercoaster, the tallest among them—the birthday boy—the one least convinced he was actually up to the trial.

"Why'd you want to come here, anyways?"

He contemplated Mr. White's tone for a second, assessing what she was expressing and searching for. He decided to give her this one at face value.

"I came here once as a kid," Alton said. "Always told myself I'd come back, but never got around to it."

He shrugged.

"Life is short. Who knows if I'll get another opportunity?"

"Mm hm." It wasn't as mocking an utterance as it could have been. Alton wasn't bothered either way. They walked another fifteen seconds in silence.

"How's it living up to your expectations?" Mr. White asked.

"Exceeding them completely," Alton said with a smile.

It was true. The last time he'd thought about this place, he'd told himself that he didn't regret his failure to return. When one door opened, another closed, as the cliché went, and while there was a certain undeniable appeal to the raw hedonism of an amusement park even at his current age, the more innocent magic of it had long fallen away. Alton did not consider himself particularly susceptible to nostalgia, and yet when he had heard from Carlos that the park had closed down, it had stirred something difficult to categorize within him. In a way, it was more of a reminder of the fragile transience of life than the disappearance and all-but-certain deaths of his classmates. They were just people, but this park had been magical to Alton, once, a part of his past and a piece of his aspirations, something he had yearned for but been unable to attain. It hadn't bothered him much when he knew that he could have it again at any time if he only said the word, but shut down? That was something else entirely.

But when one door closed, another opened. It hadn't taken long at all to track down an urban exploration discussion board, make an account and read what other intrepid souls had to say about the place and its security (or lack thereof). Alton had spent just enough time on the site to plan an avenue of attack, but had avoided pictures as best he could. He didn't want other people's experiences. This adventure was for him.

Well, him and Mr. White, dutifully bound to follow and make sure he wasn't turning around and reselling his oh-so-precious information to half a dozen other buyers, double-dipping his unique resource for all it was worth. He rather enjoyed the way she was obligated to keep him close. They were, he thought, coming to understand one another. In all likelihood, a good part of that came from the certainty that there would be quite a few of these aimless days as they waited for the feeds to go live. Mr. White, whatever her other virtues, was clearly not somebody who dealt with boredom any better than Alton did. She had been quite easy to ply when it came to planning this excursion, a ready accomplice eager to pull the wool over their patrons' eyes as to their exact destination, though she had become more and more obviously nervous the closer to actually manifesting the endeavor had come.

"Well," she said, "I'm glad. That's good."

She paused, rolled her shoulders, planted her hands on her hips.

"Maybe we'll get another amazing new adventure and get to experience jail together too," she added.

"I think they'd probably put us in different facilities," Alton said, kneeling down and picking up a small silver disc from the ground. At first he thought it was a token, which was odd; he knew that many entertainment centers used their own proprietary currencies to fuel games, but could not recall that being the case here. As he turned the disc in his fingers, however, he noted the circle cut in the middle, the perfect smoothness; it was just a washer, fallen from some toolbox or sprung loose from some dismantled piece of machinery.

"Besides," he continued, "there's no way this lands us in jail."

"That's what you think." Mr. White's voice was harsh, but playful at the same time. She wasn't as serious as she was posturing. "Cops are bastards."

"Some," Alton said. "But we're not talking about cops. We're talking about one part-time security guy sitting in a tool shed somewhere ignoring the monitors so he can finish the latest Stephen King."

"If he's reading Stephen King in an abandoned carnival, I don't want to mess with him," Mr. White said. "All it takes is one guy who wants to be a hero."

"We're not robbing a bank here," Alton replied, standing on his toes to examine a sign as they came to a three-way crossroad. He wiped a layer of dust off with a tissue he produced from his pocket. "What this guy wants is to sit around and get paid for it, and not to take any risks. If he comes and bugs us, we say, oh, sorry, must've gotten lost trying to take a shortcut to the beach. And if he really wants to push it, I have a couple hundred-dollar bills in my wallet that say he has better things to do with his afternoon than fill out paperwork, so we can take a warning and beat it."

Mr. White laughed. From somewhere in the distance came the faint rumble of thunder, or maybe a heavy door being slammed.

"You doubt my ability to talk us out of trouble with a rent-a-cop?" Alton asked in faux-outrage, giving her a lopsided grin and raising an eyebrow, then moving down the lefthand path.

"No, no," Mr. White said. The fingers of her right hand played unconsciously with the ripped edges of her skirt, flashing glimpses of tanned thigh. "It's just..."

She laughed again.

"You know what you're doing," she said. "Back in high school, I used to boost stuff from Sephora and Forever 21 and whatever all the time. And that, that was pretty much the trick, you know. Anything you're taking, make sure you have enough money in your wallet to pay for it, and if they stop you, apologize and say you had a long night and forgot you hadn't checked out yet and then go buy it and never, ever rip that specific store off again. It's like, they have enough to deal with, and they can't prove shit, so they just let you pay and leave to get you out of their hair."

"I had a few friends who used to run the same scam," Alton said, smiling at her. "You still have to be pretty slick sometimes."

"Oh yeah," Mr. White said, "it's all in the delivery."

She leaned forward, tugged on the bottom of her tank top and puffed out her chest, not so subtly maximizing the cleavage she was flashing.

"Oh, jeez, sir, I'm sorry, sir, I just, I, I had such a long day and I just wasn't thinking, I was sure the checkout was this way, this is so embarrassing, I'm sorry and I'd just be so, so grateful if you would point me in the right direction, pretty please?"

"That can't have worked," Alton said.

"Depends." Mr. White resumed her usual stance without seeming to move much at all. "You play it by ear. Obviously doesn't help if LP's a woman."

As they talked, tiny speckles dotted the ground in front of them, a rain so fine that Alton could only faintly feel it dusting against his forehead and hands. The light had gone grey, though, clouds truly rolling in now. He didn't think the weather would last too long—no more than an hour or two, based on what he'd seen online earlier, and no guarantee it would even escalate beyond a sprinkle.

"I'm sure your parents were very proud of you," he said.

"Hey, you gotta use what you've got," Mr. White replied. "You wouldn't believe how easy it is to cheat on math tests when you're a girl and the teacher's a guy. What you do is, you just hike up your skirt and write the equations on the inside of your legs. He might know you've got 'em there, but what's he going to do, call you up in front of the class and check?"

"Resourceful," Alton said approvingly. Ahead, a low building with nondescript bluish siding marked the end of their path; while a sign hung over the entryway, it was covered entirely in a moldy beige tarp.

The drops turned heavier.

"We almost done here?" Mr. White asked, adjusting the denim jacket she wore over her tank top and pointing to the latter. "I'm wearing white here."

"There are a few more things I wanted to check out," Alton said, reaching out and trying the door. With a creak, it slid open. "Why don't we step inside?"

The passage was dark, but when Mr. White pulled out her phone and turned the screen up, it was enough to illuminate the warped mirrors attached to all surfaces, some spiderwebbed with cracks. Hanging from the ceiling was a sign which Alton recalled mirrored the covered one outside.

It read: "Welcome To The Funhouse!"

[MurderWeasel]

July 16, 2018

"And you were starting to doubt me."

The only sound in the room was the faint manic laughter coming from Sakurako as she tried to will life back into Cheridene's broken form, projected from tinny laptop speakers. The volume was turned down low; they'd seen this scene before. It had played into discussions of those fortunate enough to have lived beyond this day, but now the time had come for reckoning with the departed.

Normally, they didn't play the tapes back at this stage unless something really merited a second look—Alton just fired off some rapid musing, in many cases of a less-analytical, more-cutting nature than with those whose odds were still a matter of debate, and then they adjourned for drinks and much-needed rest—but tonight was different. Tonight, it was time for gloating.

Mentally, Alton counted the seconds. Neither Carlos nor Mr. White seemed inclined to break in at first, but when he hit seventeen, the latter finally spoke up.

"That's all we're going to get, huh?"

Alton smiled, shrugged, spread his arms wide.

"What more need be said?"

Carlos tapped away, but the moment he was done he eyed Alton, appraising.

"Okay," he said. "But seriously: how did you know?"

In the space of the day's viewing, two thirds of Alton's bottom tier had fallen, including the ones that the others had politely but skeptically referred to as his "long shots." Their tunes had changed, perhaps from self-awareness, perhaps because Alton had made no effort whatsoever to conceal his mounting smugness.

"Well," he said, "it has a lot to do with presence and with social situation."

He let it hang for a moment, but did not force the others to prompt him further; he could, when he so chose, be gracious in victory.

"Cheridene was on the basketball team," he continued, rolling his right wrist around to show his open palm, "which is a major potential force, as we've established. But she was never the star, never the one everyone paid attention to. She was never in the thick of any conflicts, never the center of anything social of note. She blended.

"What does that tell me?

"It tells me she doesn't have the same sort of connections others do. No resources to tap reliably. No clear picture of who's dangerous and who can be relied upon. She's flying blind, and lacks the force personality to commit and make the most of that. She's fit, sure, but what does that matter? Physical strength is a single tool, that can be leveraged in a few types of situation, but the components of the game are far more diverse."

As he spoke, Alton allowed his manner to slip into something like one of his teachers might have used. The others were hanging on his words, Carlos seemingly wrapping his head around them, Mr. White presumably trying to figure out if he was pulling her leg.

Naturally, she was the one to immediately question.

"If that's true," she said, "what about Quinn? Why wasn't she down there too?"

"Basically, a lack of meaningful resources is not the same as a lack of meaningful data," Alton said. He crossed his arms, letting the satisfaction permeate even his posture. "Quinn kept a low profile, mostly, but there was an element of not wanting to be known. Quinn chose not to stand out, while Cheridene failed to. That meant Quinn had something hidden. It could've been vulnerability, true, but betting on that would have been riskier than I like to play it."

"Well," Carlos said, "however you did it, you did it. Speaking of..."

"Right," Alton said. "Who else proved me right today?"

---

"Okay, okay," Carlos said, "but here's one we can both agree on: Bryan."

They had gone through several further names since touching on Cheridene—Alton's victory lap had continued most notably with Tristan O'Hara—but he had eased up a little to avoid wearing out his welcome with the others. Their faces had been rubbed in their skepticism enough to rankle, but not to truly injure. It was a fine line, but one Alton had been walking as long as he could recall.

"Very good," he said, and meant it. He was pleased to see Carlos pushing back, especially at an angle that had been the subject of some debate the day before. In fact, his capsule for Claudeson had come before they'd watched the boy blow Bryan Merryweather's head apart, so there was room for a little more discussion than the norm among the deceased.

Mr. White was stretched out on the bed behind them, one knee raised, one arm dangling over the side to drag her fingertips along the floor, the other resting on her stomach. She looked over and raised an eyebrow, but did not speak.

Alton took a deep breath and held it as he composed a statement.

"The problem with being a zealot or an idealist," he intoned, "is it's too easy to get stuck in your own perspective, to imagine that everyone sees the world through your own lens or else one diametrically opposed. I'm pretty sure Bryan had no idea what hit him, and wouldn't have even had he watched Claudeson pull the trigger."

"Mm," Carlos said. "Told you you can't trust a bible-thumper."

"I like it," Mr. White chimed in, though she didn't move. From his chair, Alton could see that her eyes had drifted closed. "You're talking about both of them."

He smiled, quirked an eyebrow, even though she would not benefit.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, so she would.

"From what you've said, Claude is an idealist too—maybe even a zealot." It was strange, though not objectionable, to hear her use a casual nickname for one of his by-now-former classmates. "We don't know why he did what he did. We just have his words, but he thanked Bryan. Promised to save him. Then shot him dead."

"Sounds like a big load of bullshit to me," Carlos said. "Lulling him into a false sense of security."

"No way." Mr. White's eyes snapped open, and she rolled around on the bed, ending up a moment later in a much more intent sitting position, leaning forward. "He was already off his guard. Whatever it was, Claude meant something by it. But there's no way Bryan would've expected it to be death, not in a million years. But Claude probably thought he was being perfectly clear."

Claude, Claude, Claude. The name rippled around Alton, but he didn't let it show.

"If we could see it his way—if we could get into that... that zealotry?" She sounded unsure if it was an actual word, and turned to Alton, who nodded and smiled reassurance.

"If we got him," she continued, "we'd know why he did what he did, and also what he'd do next."

"Exactly," Alton said.

For a brief time, there was a warmth about the room, as if they'd come to something profound.

"But you don't understand him," Carlos said, and the spell shattered. "You never have. Most of them, you've got their number, but not him."

Mr. White leaned even closer, scrutinizing Alton's face, and for just an instant he felt cornered between them. His fingers twitched, as if there might be something to conjure out of thin air and lash out with, but he stilled his hand reflexively, and gave a genuine laugh.

"At the start of this, I didn't get him as well as I prefer," he admitted. "But now?

"I think I'm starting to get the picture."

Silence returned, but this time Alton didn't bail them out or give an inch of ground. Instead, he swept them along unfulfilled.

"So," he said, "I believe we're almost ready to call it a night, once we reckon with these last few deaths..."

[MurderWeasel]

June 15, 2018

"No way," Mr. White said. "Let's go again."

In a distant, out of the way corner of the funhouse, she and Alton huddled together on their knees on the floor, her in front, him behind. They faced one of the intact, relatively straight mirrors. While most of the building was dark to the point that they had to use their phones for illumination, this little alcove was faintly spotlit by a high window which allowed thin rays of grey light to filter in.

The patter of rain had faded at least half an hour ago. They had not been disturbed by the hypothetical security guard, though the theoretical risk had given the whole affair an even more tantalizing air of danger and forbidden excitement. While somewhat chilly and dusty, they had found passably comfortable places to pass the time as they explored, including a room filled with peeling paintings of clowns and a padded bench in what must have been an employee preparation area.

After occupying their time with sightseeing and various other activities, they had fallen to playing tic-tac-toe.

Alton leaned toward the mirror, over Mr. White's shoulder, steadying himself with one hand on each of her upper legs. His left pressed against the bunched fabric of her skirt, while his right lay flat against the smooth skin of her thigh. The rip had migrated northwards, her garment hanging together only at the thicker waistband. He had already made the requisite walk of shame jokes.

In the mirror, he took in her messy hair (his almost never showed mess) and her disheveled outfit (on this front, he was equally guilty; it was fortunate that the dust didn't make him sneeze). Her eyes met his gaze and held it. The slight curvature of the mirror made them incredibly large. He winked at her, and she wrinkled her nose and shook her head at him, but couldn't restrain the giggles.

With a long, smooth exhalation, Alton erased her face from the mirror, spreading a canvass of almost-opaque condensation. Quickly, he freed his right hand and drew a grid with his index finger, then made a circle in the upper righthand corner. The glass was smooth, but not like the skin of the girl pressed into him, too hard and cold but just as pleasant in its own way.

"Why do you always pick O?" she asked.

"Most people like X better," Alton said.

"Magnanimous." The sarcasm in her tone was easy to read. "Would it bother you if I forced you to swap next time it's my turn to lead?"

"Not at all," Alton said, scratching at the side of his head. "Whatever you prefer. But it's your turn."

Mr. White pursed her lips, then leaned in herself, quickly making an X in the middle square.

"You," she said.

Alton returned his finger to the glass, rested it next to the grid for a moment, drawing the chill into his skin as if contemplating, then making another circle directly opposite his original, in the bottom left corner.

Move made, he returned his hand to Mr. White's bare leg, pressing the tip of his index finger tightly a couple inches below her hipbone. She yelped and jerked against him, not quite away, but almost. She flailed her hand for a second, looking for something to slap, and settled for his right leg.

"What was that for?" she asked, looking between him and the board as she hastily made an X in the upper left corner.

Alton traced a quick O in the bottom right, blocking her advance.

"You lose," he said.

She looked at the field of play for a moment, then turned and craned her head backwards, making direct eye contact with Alton this time. As they gazed at each other, she hit him again, harder this time, though still not enough to actually hurt.

"You cheated." Her tone was part outrage, part grudging admiration, but the parts weren't equal. She was more impressed than angry. It was one of the things that made her interesting. It wasn't a unique reaction—he could rattle off half a dozen girls he might've expected the same from in his class (Ariana Beryl Camille Sakurako Teresa Tirzah)—but in this context, with who she was (to him, in general) it was distinct and appealing.

She could probably make his life very unpleasant, if she wanted to. At least in the short term.

"What rule did I break?" Alton usually didn't lay it on as thick as he was doing here, but their relationship was built in part on affectation and masks. He was pretty sure she'd appreciate it.

"You distracted me," she said. "I wouldn't have... I would've made a better move."

"There's no time limit," Alton countered. "You lost track of the situation. You played yourself."

She huffed, pouted, pressed her back into him almost hard enough to tip him sprawling to the floor, but he repositioned his left hand to brace, allowing them to remain upright.

"I'm going to get you," she said, "eventually."

Alton smirked, because she couldn't see from her current position.

"What do I get if you don't?" he asked. He thought to maybe pinch her leg, thought again. It might be a step too far.

She shifted in his grip again, facing him more directly now, and he could see in her eyes that he should've pinched. He'd overplayed his hand anyways.

"What's the trick?" she said. "What don't I know?"

Alton's smirk morphed into a more typical smile. He nodded to buy a moment as he considered his tone. Proud would be the wrong choice; she would not appreciate even a hint of patronizing or condescension, especially after how this excursion had gone so far. Faux-guilty, then. The scoundrel's play, caught red-handed but unrepentant.

"The game's been solved," Alton said.

When a second passed and it became clear that didn't immediately clarify, he spoke again.

"There are only so many variables, which means there are an objectively optimal set of moves. Do them right, and the worst you can manage is a draw, no matter who starts," he explained. "We talked about it in chess club some—chess, by comparison, has so many variations that there's no way to guarantee anything until you narrow the field."

There was much more nuance, of course, and Alton was no chessmaster, as he had proved fairly conclusively in the not-so-distant past.

"So," Mr. White said, in that same less-than-conflicted tone, "you've been cheating the whole time, then."

"It's not cheating if you agree to play a game you can't win," Alton countered. "And it's good tactics to hide your hand when it's a strong one. If your opponent doesn't know what you know, you have a serious advantage."

She laughed, loudly, and it echoed through the still interior of the funhouse.

"You're ruthless," she said. "I should've known, with how you talk about your classmates."

For a few minutes there, Alton had almost forgotten just what the circumstances were that had brought him to this place, playing games with this woman. He wondered in passing which of his erstwhile peers were even now choking out their death rattles.

"Pragmatic," he corrected. "Besides, you were picking it up. You were getting a draw, what, three out of four times by the end? It's why I had to alter my tactics."

She shook her head, reached out, and pressed both of her hands against the mirror, making smudged fingerprints and using the leverage to push her body against Alton more firmly, forcing him backwards. He scooted back a couple feet, giving her room to turn around and face him. The condensation had faded from the mirror behind her, erasing their game, just as all the ones before it had dissipated in short order. Most likely, Alton mused, she would've figured it out much more quickly had she been able to examine each past match as they went.

"You're shameless," she said, crawling closer to him. Her smile was perhaps even wider than his.

"Do you want me to be ashamed?" Alton asked. He doubted he would get a response, which was too bad. He truly was curious.

"I want you to teach me the trick," she said, reaching out. He watched her thin lips form the words, and so was caught off guard when her arms snapped up suddenly. She took his face in her hands and pressed his cheeks between her palms, both icy cold from being held against the glass, her frosty fingers dancing around his ears. He sucked in an abrupt, sharp breath as she leaned closer still. "In just a few minutes..."

[MurderWeasel]

July 17, 2018

"I can't wait to hear this one," Carlos said.

It seemed like he meant it, too; he had, for the first time this evening, let his stylus rest and turned his entire attention to Alton. The boy somehow managed to still look composed in his own special way; the fatigue settled under his eyes in a manner that Alton thought came off more like dedication than being harried. His navy blue shirt had some wrinkles, but the dark color gave it dignity. It was a solid look for sitting in a room only populated by co-conspirators.

The little slip of paper on the table read: Quinn Abert.

"You moving her up another notch?" Carlos asked. "Is it finally time?"

Alton glanced over at Mr. White, who had dressed down as much as Carlos had dressed up. She wore dark grey sweat pants and a white tank top, and her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, though strands escaped on both sides of her face. She shot Alton a smirk and a wink, surely aware of what he was about to say. His lips quirked up as he fulfilled her expectations.

"Nah."

Alton stood from where he'd been sitting by the coffee table. The room was not yet starting to feel truly claustrophobic, but he could see all the signs coming on. He'd have to talk Mr. White into some sort of excursion later, probably under the guise of exercise. Sleep time was precious and limited, but he was more than willing to sacrifice some of it for the sake of maintaining his mental state.

Carlos just looked on, questioning.

"I'm rather torn on the prospect of Quinn with a gun," Alton explained, swishing his left index finger in a horizontal semicircle like a professor. "More tools in her arsenal isn't a bad thing, but she's already getting confident and is the biggest threat in play. If she gets too ambitious, it could easily turn on her."

The gun in question had belonged to Richard Smith, right up until Quinn shot him and left him to bleed out more slowly than was strictly necessary as he tried to taunt her. Due to the distance and timing elements in play, the three of them in the hotel room had been able to skip sitting through the entire process, flipping to something else after a few minutes and then tuning back in just to be certain he had actually expired without further notable incident. Mr. White had seemed pretty relieved to miss out on the process, and even Carlos—though he'd tried to mask it—had clearly been uncomfortable with it.

Alton didn't quite get that. He certainly didn't revel in observing suffering, but he found the psychology on display fascinating. There was something different about watching someone come to understand that they were done, and seeing what they did in those moments of true freedom that remained. So much of what his former classmates spent their time on the island doing was ultimately pointless. They scrabbled for fleeting extensions to their lives, for days, hours, minutes, even seconds. But they were all going to die—had all already died—except for one. So, then, there was nothing to gain. They were just as dead at the end as they would've been had they jumped off the cliffs to begin with, the only difference being whatever experiences they'd collected on their ways out.

"You know," Mr. White chimed in, "there's another thing too: do you think she's even going to use it well?"

Alton gave her a cocked eyebrow and a smile. As soon as she said it, it clicked into place, but he prompted her anyways. It was, after all, her point to score.

"Oh?" he said.

"I mean," Mr. White said, shrugging, "she hasn't exactly been about quick and clean so far. Effective? Yes. Efficient? Not so much."

"I think you're right," Alton said. "It gives her some options, but it doesn't alter her fundamental style."

Break over, Carlos typed away, recording everything for proper transmission.

---

"Trouble in paradise?" Alton said. "Not exactly, but Lizzie and Morgan get to average out to a solid Unfavored."

They were by now engaged in a late meal of Chinese takeout. Alton had paused long enough to speak, but quickly scooped up a chunk of orange chicken and a clump of rice with his chopsticks and stuck them in his mouth. It was delicious, the soft rice and sweet sauce perfectly complimenting the slight crunch of the chicken. The arrival of dinner had precipitated a turn to discussion and reviewing of the day's less-brutal happenings, not that Alton was personally easily put off his appetite.

"So, like," Mr. White said, "how do these two know each other, anyways?"

"I don't really know," Alton said.

That brought a quiet for a few seconds, challenged only by the faint squishing sound of Carlos first stabbing with a fork and then vigorously chewing a piece of beef.

"They were at Prom together," Alton continued, "but it didn't feel like it was just a spur of the moment thing. I know Morgan wasn't involved with her a few weeks before, though."

"Maybe they were just quiet about it," Carlos said.

"Maybe," Alton said, and shrugged. "But I offered to help set him up with someone for the dance, and he seemed to be considering it."

Mr. White choked and coughed into her hand. The boys both rose, but she waved them off, gestured them to sit back down.

" 'm fine," she wheezed, "fine."

She took two deep, shaky breaths, and wiped at a speckle of orange sauce that had stained her tank top. A moment later, voice recovered, she spoke again.

"You're right," she said to Alton. "There's no way—no way—he'd put himself or her or, or some random girl through the awkwardness of getting asked when you've already got a date. I've been watching him. He seems too nice for that."

She narrowed her eyes at Alton and took a swipe at him with her left hand, but he was well out of reach.

"Besides," she said, "who'd want to date some sophomore when you've got other options? Lizzie's pretty cute."

"There are cute sophomores." Alton winked at her. She hadn't eased up on this point since he first let his own Prom history slip, and he'd found it was easier to just lean into it.

Mr. White scoffed.

"You're terrible."

"Anyways." Alton shook his head. "They seem to work alright together. Morgan's more tenacious than I expected. But he might curtail some of Lizzie's more proactive tendencies. We'll see. Plenty of room to move."

He let a smirk slip through.

"In either direction."

---

"Madison is still a prisoner of her own making, and Nathan is still her deputized jailkeeper."

The words hung in the air, full of gravity that Alton could sense but had not imparted consciously.

"Damn, man," Carlos eventually said, "that's cold."

Alton kept his eyes on the man in front of him, who made eye contact for a moment before turning to tap away at his tablet. He did not look at Mr. White. He could guess she would be no more thrilled at his description.

"Yeah," he admitted, "it is."

That got Carlos' attention right back on him. It was a moment outside the norm for Alton, one where he let down the shields a little and grappled with the horrors of what he was saying—or, at least, he let it be that right now, when it needed to be. It was tactical, in its way; he felt it important to take these chances to build the image of himself and their task in a way that would carry them through the job.

"But," he continued, "so is all of this. We're sitting here talking about how my classmates lived their last days and horribly killed each other, and analyzing that to make money. There's nothing about this that isn't cold, and drawing the line about where we can be flippant or blunt at Nathan is arbitrary and trivializes everything else they're suffering."

His tone was perfectly pleasant, his face neutral, his gaze on Carlos only—but he was listening, heard the faint shifting off to the side, could imagine the evolution in expression that he wasn't watching. It was exactly what he wanted.

Carlos looked, for just an instant, like he might protest. Then he sagged.

"Yeah, man, I didn't mean to—you know, it's just tough," he said.

"I know," Alton replied. "I just, look, we all deal with this how we deal with it, you know? For me, sometimes that's being clinical."

"Right." Mr. White finally weighed in on the matter, if not with a tremendous amount to say. But her voice sounded how Alton wanted it to. "That makes sense."

He nodded.

"So, then," he said, "the thing here is that Madison has assigned herself as Nathan's caretaker. But the problem is, so long as that's her primary goal, she'll be putting whatever resources she has into it, all the while setting herself further and further behind. And while Nathan is in some ways an asset, much of that value is lost when they have no food and no diplomatic possibilities."

"Mm hm."

Carlos sounded like he just wanted to move on. For a brief moment, Alton considered denying him that release, but there would be nothing truly valuable to gain from it, so instead he shrugged.

"She stays at Unfavored," he said. "Anyways, who else do we have?"

[MurderWeasel]

June 17, 2018

"Hey, Mom."

"Yeah, good to hear you too. I'm sorry I haven't been able to talk until now. I know texting isn't quite the same."

"I'm doing well. I'm having a good time so far. How're you?"

"That makes sense. It must be weighing on everyone's minds."

"Well, yes, of course to some extent. But it's easier to get away from it here. It's easier not to be surrounded by it."

"Oh, still on the East Coast. Actually, you'll never guess where I am right now."

"Nope. Close, but no: Denton."

"Yeah, I thought I'd just pass through but, you know, there's a lot to see here. It's changed a lot. You know, even when we moved it was starting, and that's..."

"Exactly. It feels... not like a new city, but not like where we lived either? It's mostly better, but..."

"I don't know. I haven't made it by there yet, but I can take a look. I can't imagine they changed it too much, you know—you remember how hard it was to get them to deal with any maintenance. I did go to Sweet Bay, though."

"More or less the same. Just like I remembered it."

"Martha? I don't remember..."

"Oh, oh right, her. No, I didn't see her. I didn't recognize anyone, but if I go back I'll ask around. But it's been a while and, you know, the people in those jobs..."

"Really? Since 1998?"

"That's incredible."

"What else, hm... Oh, the amusement park closed down. The one by the ocean?"

"Well, you didn't hear it from me, but it's still more or less the same, just abandoned. They put up a fence but it's not well-guarded."

"Oh, don't worry. My bail fund is intact."

"Yes, I'm doing fine with money. I don't need—I actually haven't been spending too much on the trip. I—ow."

"Oh, oh no, I'm fine. there's just this girl I'm staying with, you see, and she bit my ear."

"Why would you tell her that?"

"You shouldn't bite off more than you can chew—ow."

"You'll pay for that later."

"No, no, sorry. You'd like her, I think. And yes she does know I'm not here for too long.

"But enough about me. How about that guy you were seeing? What was his name again?"

"Tomas, right."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Hey, hey, you know what they say about fish in the sea.."

"Yeah."

"I'm not quite sure. I'm going to stay here at least another couple weeks, I think."

"No, not just for that."

"Mom, I can't talk about that when she's—yes. I know. I'll be careful."

"No, I haven't yet. I'm not sure if I will."

"It's... you know, it's the whole reason I didn't go. I wanted to have fun with it. If I go now, will it be fun? Or will it just be full of memories? It might be better to let some more time pass."

"Yeah. All the time in the world."

"I'll call you again before too long. Take care of yourself."

"Oh?"

"What's her—oh, Kylie? Yeah."

"I don't think I can do much for her, but if I can I'll get in touch. Otherwise I'll see her when I get back."

"No. Not like that."

"Anyways, take care of yourself. I'll call you again soon."

"Love you too."

"Bye."

[MurderWeasel]

July 18, 2018

"Sakurako Jackson," Mr. White intoned. She looked at the paper in her hands; they'd been pulling as a tiebreak, when nothing specifically pressing had occurred or when they needed to shake up the flow. Alton was a big believer in the value of a little intentional disorder.

"Well, that moment with Thomas caught me off guard," Alton said. He let the pause hang, as if he might just leave the commentary there, but only for a moment or two. "I think it should prove grounding for both of them, though, and it certainly represents a tactical shift—I do not expect him to leave her behind anytime soon after that display."

"So," Carlos said, "unchanged ranking?"

"Yeah." Alton nodded.

"Why'd it catch you off guard?" Mr. White asked. "He was obviously way into her."

The atmosphere tonight was more than a little fatigued. Last night had seen the death that marked the end of the first third of the game, and so it had become necessary to compile observations on the success of the process to date. On the one hand, it had been a vindicating endeavor, and one that boded well for all of their futures and prospects. On the other, it had meant more than an hour of extra time spent digging through data and talking about trends, and that was before Alton and Mr. White snuck up to the roof of the hotel to enjoy a different view and experience of night in the city.

"Yeah," Alton nodded, ceding the point, "but I didn't think she reciprocated. I didn't even think she swung that way."

"Was it the glasses?" Carlos asked.

Alton chuckled, Mr. White groaned, and Carlos held a hand to his chest in mock defense.

"What?" he said. "I'm allowed."

Alton shook his head, letting the sounds of mirth trail off.

"I'm pretty sure they were friends at school," he said. "Thomas seems like a fine enough guy. But he wasn't subtle. So why now?"

"You think she's pulling something?" Mr. White asked.

"Nah."

"Good," she replied, "because I don't either, and we can't have you losing your touch."

"I think," Alton clarified, "that Sakurako isn't manipulative enough for that. She's too manipulative for the innocence to be an act, too."

"You don't think some people really are just innocent?" Carlos asked.

"I'm sure they exist," Alton granted, "but on the island?

"I think they're all long dead."

---

"Shauna and Tanisha have to have more impotent firepower than any other duo right now." Alton stretched his legs towards the end of the bed, pointing his toes. His socks were black, featureless except for a spot at the big toe of the left where it was starting to wear through and a faint sliver of his toenail was visible. He'd need to replace that soon. "When someone kills them and takes their guns, it'll be a very interesting redistribution of potential."

Mr. White was settled on the floor beside the bed, resting the back of her head against the edge of the mattress. It was just a few inches from Alton, within easy reach. He wondered whether she'd noticed, and whether it was intentional.

"When you put it like that," Carlos said, "it sounds sort of like they're... like a walking Overshield or something."

"A what?" Mr. White looked first to Carlos, who offered nothing, and then craned her head around towards Alton, pulling back some as she saw his finger held up inches from her nose.

"It's from Halo," he explained. At least that seemed to make a vague impression. "Video game power-up."

"Oh," she said, "alright."

"I can show you, if you want," Carlos offered. "Sometime when we have time again, I mean."

"I think I'm good." She pulled a face, then added: "Don't you think they could swing things, though?"

"How do you mean?" Alton asked.

"Well..." Mr. White twirled a finger in her hair for a second, in an action that could've been either unconscious or ironic affectation, "If you look at it, they've got some big guns, like you said. And ones that are more forgiving when it comes to aiming, right?"

Alton just nodded; there was a lot of nuance to how shotguns worked but he was no expert and felt no particular need to push too hard on something that was, as far as he understood, still true enough.

"So then," Mr. White continued, "they could just get lucky. Between the two of them, they just have to pull the trigger a few times and that might be it for someone. That's..." Her eyes narrowed as she beamed her teeth at them. "...a blue shell, right?"

Carlos caught Alton's gaze, rolled his eyes theatrically, and shrugged.

"Yeah," Alton said. "That's the vernacular."

"I think you might not be giving them enough credit," Mr. White concluded, leaning back again and directing her gaze to the projection on the wall, which had been on a frozen frame of the girls talking for some time now.

"We'll see," Alton granted. "I'm really not sure either will find it in herself to take even that first step."

---

"Ace Ortega," Carlos called. Then: "I wanna hear this."

"No movement," Alton said. This was, of course, not the "this" that Carlos wanted to hear, and they both knew it, so Alton plunged right ahead.

"Losing Meilin has to hurt," he said. "Losing Angie isn't a great look either, but she was becoming a bit too much of a wild card."

Then, before either of the others could chime in, he held up his finger, closed his eyes for a second, and continued.

"I don't know if that was intentional on Ace's part or not, actually; if it was, ditching her gently while remaining on good terms was actually pretty slick."

"He also took the gun," Carlos noted.

"He's probably hurting," Mr. White said. "I don't think it was intentional. He just lost someone he cared about—someone he really fucked over. She died for him, and he knows it. He's not thinking straight."

They hadn't moved much in the past half hour, but Alton was casually twirling some of her hair around his fingers, making sure not to pull it taut enough for her to actually feel it. On those occasions she turned towards him, he let it slip from his grasp. The strands were smooth, soft. She had a good regime, though her shower habits had suggested as much from the start.

"I don't know," Carlos said. "How much do you really care if you just jump into the arms of the first—"

"I think," Alton interjected, quietly but clearly enough that he killed the building tangent, "you're actually both right."

He let the hair fall again as Mr. White turned, and masked the motion in a greater one as he shifted and pulled himself back up to a seated position, cross-legged on the bed.

"I think Ace is a pretty genuine guy," he continued. "There are a lot of people in my class who think they're very smooth at social games, but he's not one of them. He's so straightforward it's disarming, in a way."

Mr. White was nodding along, but Carlos just watched, pensive; he knew a twist was coming, and he trusted. That was good.

"But," Alton said, and nobody was surprised, "that can be a tool in its own right. People cultivate this sort of veneer of bluntness and authenticity, and then that gives them more room to move about and work anyone who believes it. In Ace's case, I would not be at all surprised if he feels like he needs space, and also could use the gun, and so he just does what he reflexively does—turns on the charm, lets his seemingly-uncomplicated manner color the whole thing, and then gets what he wants and walks away with no hard feelings."

"When you put it like that," Carlos said, "it sounds easy."

"Maybe." Alton shrugged. "I don't know. Making it work is, I think, partially out of anyone's hands. I don't know if I could do it if I tried."

"I just feel bad for him," Mr. White said, examining her lap with great intent. "He thought she was right behind him, and he ran away, and so he wasn't there when she needed him. And now he has to wonder what he could've done if he was there. And he'll never know."

"He probably would've just died too," Carlos said. "He froze up, and then he ran. Quinn isn't stupid. He had the gun, so he would've been the first target."

"We'll never know either." Alton cocked his head to the side, but kept his focus on Mr. White. "We ready to move on?"

She nodded.

"Okay. Let's see who all is left..."

[MurderWeasel]

June 20, 2018

Alton hadn't exactly been planning to blow everything up when and how he did, but it wouldn't be accurate to call it entirely unanticipated, either.

After a week and a half in the Triangle Hotel, he felt like he'd explored and experienced much of what there was on offer. He'd gotten to see the city, had completed initial assessments of all his classmates, had figured out, to a certain extent, what sort of situation he was dealing with and how much slack he had. He had proven himself useful—vital, even—to his benefactors. He'd roamed around, gotten into some trouble, caught up with Carlos. He'd gotten to know Mr. White, too, to the (pleasantly surprising, he had to admit) extent that she was willing to become acquainted with him.

But still, he was just a little bored.

It came from having something more within reach, Alton thought, something he could see and touch but was expected not to for one reason or another. It came from pursuing a game that had become too easy, because he was the only one who knew it was in progress. He didn't want a simple, hollow victory. He wanted to play.

He'd decided to roll the dice some time ago. Before the phone call, he was pretty sure. He'd considered the repercussions, and he was fairly convinced that he was unlikely to be murdered and dumped in the ocean. There was a chance that the whole venture was called to an abrupt halt, that he was told to pack up and go home, ordered to never mention or give any sign of what he'd seen, informed that any compensation he was entitled to was forfeit.

But that was pretty unlikely, in his assessment.

Far more probable, if things did turn sour, there would be a very awkward and tense few hours full of toothless threats, and then some other replacement warden would be dispatched to watch over him, most likely offering him far less leeway than he'd enjoyed thus far. It would be a shame, spending his days in the company of some bulky, middle-aged, monosyllabic tattooed man, but he figured it was worth the risk. After all, if luck was on his side, this all stood to become very interesting indeed.

And even if it wasn't?

His victory would be known.

It was maybe eleven in the morning. Alton was perched on the side of the bed, dressed already, though he had yet to conduct his morning routine. It had been a late night before, ample free time and boredom and the generally safe knowledge that it was at least another ten days before the earliest reasonable broadcast date encouraging him and Mr. White to let loose a little, entertain themselves and each other and have perhaps a drink or two more than strictly wise. The sheets behind him were shoved up against the wall, crumpled and twisted. Across the room, the other bed was perfectly made, almost untouched.

Sunlight filtered into the room through the sliding glass doors to the balcony, which were covered by light drapes which only slightly dimmed the illumination, sanding down its roughest edges. None of the lights were on; they didn't need to be. The balcony door was cracked, allowing a slight air current, and faintly the sounds of a day in the city could be heard, buses honking and engines running and indistinct shouts and a sort of general hum. It was a nice day. The carpet was coarse and warm against Alton's feet. There wasn't much of interest happening in the social media feeds on his phone, mostly just more speculation about what might have become of his missing classmates as if they didn't all know. There were no plans today, so far. He'd have to make sure it didn't become boring.

The shower clicked off. Alton's lips quirked up.

For a few minutes, nothing much changed. Then the bathroom door opened and Mr. White stepped out, wearing only a white hotel towel, which was wrapped around her head.

She smiled at him, not a hint of shame on her face, and Alton smiled back, giving her exaggerated elevator eyes and raising his left eyebrow in appreciation.

Then she set him up so perfectly that what had until then been idle ponderings about playing his final card instantly coalesced into a course of action.

She put a hand her hip and tilted her head, regarding him with a flirtatious smirk.

"Morning, Al," she said.

"Morning, Em," he replied.

The reaction was all he could've hoped for and more. While her complexion made it more subtle than it might otherwise have been, he watched her pale and then flush. Her face shifted from instinctual recognition to dawning comprehension to total incomprehension to a twisted grimace of rage and fear. Her hands and arms shifted, suddenly eager to cover herself, then as she realized the utter futility of the endeavor, she gave it up, instead putting one hand on each hip like a schoolteacher about to give an errant student the scolding of a lifetime. She took deep but quick breaths, audible clearly across half the room.

Alton offered a mild smile. He was relieved that she hadn't defaulted to grabbing for a bag or diving for a drawer in one of the nightstands. He'd been pretty sure she wasn't hiding any weapons after this much time for observation, sure enough to take the chance, but not positive. But what was life without a little risk?

Mr. White's voice was full of icy fury.

"How did you know?"

The next few minutes would determine their future together, if there was one, but Alton found he wasn't too concerned. This was his victory lap. He kept his tone conversational, like a mostly-naked woman staring daggers at him was something that might happen any day of the week.

"I went through your wallet while you were in the shower," he said, glancing at the pile of clothes and other belongings lying a few feet from the bathroom door. He could tell that she knew that he knew more than just what he'd said, so he shrugged. "Looked you up online. It wasn't too hard."

Her tone became more dangerous, but was Alton flattering himself to think there was an element of pleading to it?

"When?"

Good. He was glad she'd figured out that this wasn't spur of the moment. It felt good to get the credit he was due.

"Oh, over a week ago," he said. "That first night after we finished the roster. You mentioned my social security number and I thought it was only fair."

She pursed her lips, making them even thinner.

"That was a tremendous breach of privacy."

"Yeah," Alton said, "it was. And you know what? I'm glad I did it anyways."

He stood up but did not move forwards just yet, though she drew back a fraction of an inch anyways. She was tall, but he was taller. Outside, a far-off wave of car horns cut through the more muddled hubbub.

"I have to watch out for myself too," Alton said. "For all I knew, you were going to slit my throat and bury me in the foundations of some new apartment block. No, I wanted to know what I was getting into."

Now he did advance, one slow step and then another. She looked half ready to bolt back into the bathroom, but a breath steadied her. He was watching her reactions closely, all attention on face and posture, trying to read any signs that this might abruptly turn more dangerous. This was it; the next few moments would decide whether this was the end of their dynamic or merely a shift.

"And," Alton said, "it may sound strange, but I wasn't surprised by what I found."

Another step, slow and careful. He kept his hands at his sides, loose. He didn't want to be threatening, per se.

"It helped me feel more at ease around you, for what it's worth," he said. "It helped me understand what you're getting from this particular job."

She looked away from him, eyes darting, but not to anything specific. It looked like she was looking for something to look at. Alton took another step. He was almost close enough to touch her.

"Why didn't you just keep quiet?" Mr. White mumbled. "Why are you doing this? Why now?"

"Because," Alton said, taking another step closer, "I feel like, now that we've gotten to know each other better, we might as well not keep secrets. Especially when I already know most of it."

He reached out, slowly, carefully, gently, but insistently, and took her chin between his left thumb and index finger. Her eyes widened, but she did not flinch or swat him away or resist as he turned her face back to his, meeting her gaze. Her skin was smooth and still warm from the water.

"I think," Alton said, "we have a lot of things it would be very interesting to talk about. And I think we have a lot in common."

Slowly, hesitantly, she nodded. There was a moment of released tension, not a breath let out—Alton paid too good attention to hold his breath unknowingly, at least when he was the one calling the shots, and he was close enough that Mr. White couldn't have masked one—but something that felt similar, though no tangible physical change accompanied it. This wasn't the end, then. At least, not right away.

He was glad.

"Okay," Mr. White said. "I... guess, since you know. I guess I can, maybe we can... talk. About it."

"Good." Alton released her chin and her hand came up to touch the spot where his fingers had been, though her gaze did not shift and she seemed unconscious of the movement.

"So," she said, her tone slowly starting to regain a hint of its confidence, "what did you... want to discuss?"

"I guess we should start with the basics," Alton said, turning around—he was, now, secure enough to show her his back, thought it would if anything help win her trust by telegraphing his—and trotted back to the bed, dropping back onto his spot. She still stood where he'd left her, fingers still running over her chin. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?

"Instead of dead on an island somewhere?"

She laughed, though there was not a hint of joy or mirth in it. Her hand fell from her face, not back to her hip, but to hang loosely at her side.

"Okay," she said, "okay. Fair enough.

"It was... You see, some friends and I, we decided to end the year with a bang. Go down in history, I guess. It wasn't my idea.

"We snuck into the school, and trashed the place. I guess in my head it was just some little joke, but we did a lot of damage. We knew enough to try to keep who was in on it secret, but did a pretty half-assed job. But all of us had code names. We stole them from Reservoir Dogs.

"And I was Mr. White..."