After wandering around aimlessly after the bathroom debacle, Leslie found himself a little sailboat somewhere on the rim of the floatilla. She was a tiny one, probably fairly old, too; if he had to guess, she was probably born sometime in the late 80's. He'd always see plenty of these out on the open Miami water during summer and sometimes even winter (well, the "winter" Florida got, you know what he meant).
She must've been a pretty little thing back in her heyday, but neglect and simply time came for her like it did for all of us. Her paint was chipping off, her hull was scarred with rust, her sails desperately needed a stitch or three. She didn't know her own name anymore, even when Leslie asked.
But she kindly offered him shelter, or rather what little she could in her exposed hull. Leslie obliged and took a seat.
It was probably gettin' close to noon now. The sun beat down as it tended to do, slowly singing Leslie's face and neck. But it felt better than the stings of the tears and the rage that had subsided for hours now but still haunted him relentlessly. Plus, the sun just made the sea and the other boats glitter spectacularly, just like back home.
And he just sat there, watching the water and the boats ebb and flow with the waves. He smiled for the first time he could remember in several days.
But that smile faded as quickly as it came.
Leslie didn't want to die, let's get that sorted out. Of course he wanted to fucking live. He had plans. He had goals. He was gonna graduate, move out and get his undergrad degree, get a good job, maybe move again for a better job, buy a house and 20 acres far away from everyone else, and live the rest of his days as a grouchy old curmudgeon. If he died now, it would be as if he never had those plans in the first place. But the more and more he thought about it… this was all a trap. Everything was a trap.
Make it to the end and win? Goodbye any sense of real privacy for the rest of your life.
Kill 10 people and get out that way? Same thing, plus your whole sense of identity was gonna be tied to the fact that, hey weren't you that guy that killed a bunch of people on television just because you thought you were the only person who deserved to go home? Good luck putting that on a job application or getting hired by anyone who actually was sensible about how fucked up all of this was. Though there was the chance he could just rely on the goodwill of someone else to bail him out, but… nah. Getting out that way just meant you condoned those actions by someone else. He also didn't take handouts, and… dunno. It was still murder and all. Not that he wouldn't mind never seeing 90% of his classmates again, considering that's what he planned on doing after graduating in the first place, but… still.
Leslie supposed he could escape, but even then… the people behind all of this were as dumb as they were smart and probably planned this all out for people to take that bait. Those kinds of TV producers were always slimy sons-uh-bitches, they'd be willing to self-sabotage their own production if it meant driving revenue and discourse and clicks for listicles written by people in their own sphere of influences down the pipeline. You got books written about you, even if you didn't want to. Escaping just meant you were playing their game all along. Besides… it wasn't like Leslie really had much of a home to escape to, anyway.
Leslie didn't want to be famous. He didn't want people talking about him and psychoanalyzing him like they knew who the fuck he was. He wanted to just be a no-name in life. He just wanted to be left alone. They fucking took everything from him.
About the best thing someone could do was just hang back, be boring to watch, but not too boring so random fuckers on the internet don't turn you into one big joke forever. Which… fuck, guess it was too late for that. It was already fucking embarassing enough that three of his classmates saw him crying like a pussy bitch, but now the viewers back home did, too.
Maybe he was going about this the wrong way, but… he didn't know what to do. What he did know, though, was that he was just gonna sit in this boat away from all that nonsense and not think about it. And there was nothing no one could do about that.
The trance of the ocean broke with the rumbling of his stomach that tore about the seams of the boat. That meant it was his favorite part of the day: lunchtime.
...In all this excitement, it only just now occurred to him he never bothered giving his bag a deep going-over. Guess he might as well do that now.
He tore his bag open and pulled out its contents one by one.
First up was what looked like… yeah, a map. Awesome. His eyes and nose weren't lying then… they really were stranded in the middle of the ocean. You'd think he'd feel more comfortable considering Leslie was in his element and everything but… well, nevermind.
There was a… sextant, too? It's been… a while… okay, it's been never. But he was smart. He could figure it out. If people 500 years ago could use it, he could too.
Let's see… what else…
A bunch of clothes like he was packed for a weekend getaway, which he guessed this technically was, but… anyway it looked like a bunch of different red shirts. Well, not quite; it looked like they gave him some sort of Navy getup, like the kind of thing sailors these days wore. The shirt even had a little nameplate on it that said "Lowell". Got a cool hat too-
Fuck. His hat. He forgot his hat in the bathroom. Dammit. Probably gone by now. In the few times Leslie was even around Mariko at school, he got the feeling she was, well, mean, and mean people did things like take hats just to prove a point. Maybe he could check later, but… sigh. Not like it was that important, but...
...Nevermind. What else.
...A single leather work glove? Why would they give him this? Did it go with that navy outfit? Where was the other one?
Medi-kit… will probably need that.
Con-.... moving on.
Flashlight…
...Huh. They gave him a few boxes of pistol rounds, too… was this his weapon? Just dumping a bunch of ammo on him with no gun? Must've thought they were so fucking hilarious.
Oh man, here we go. Fucking smorgasbord of food going on. Tuna sandwich… oyster crackers… seaweed… the rum Mariko wouldn't shut up about… It was a very… aquatic smorgasbord going on, but Leslie didn't mind at all. Though, how many days was this supposed to last? You had to ration this shit out, but honestly Leslie usually devoured more than this in less than a day. He looked down at his stomach straining against his shirt… God, he was such a pig.
The sandwich was probably gonna go bad soonest, so…
He tore open the vacuum seal on the tuna sandwich and took a bite, then another. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chewed and looked around the flotilla a bit before swallowing and doing it again. He hated Subway; that funky aftertaste of the pitiful excuse for bread usually made him gag, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Maybe the salty air helped give it some flavor for once.
He unhinged his jaw to take another bite when a wah-wah-wah sound came from his right. He froze, mouth still agape until the sound came again, but closer. He turned around and saw a single seagull standing on the dock, looking right at him. Followed by another wah-wah.
"Ca-I-hel-ya?" Leslie asked, jaw still ready to take another bite.
The seagull squawked.
He lowered the sandwich from his mouth, and the seagull's eyes followed before it stepped closer.
He looked between the sandwich, the seagull, and back to the sandwich before he sighed and said a defeated "...Fine." He always heard bread wasn't good for birds; something about the wheat or the gluten or one of those buzzwords being bad for them, but Subway bread barely qualified as bread in the first place to begin with anyway, so.
Leslie broke off a piece and tossed it at the seagull's feet. It wolfed it down. He took a bite for himself and did the same thing again.
In the middle of another bite, the microphone on his collar came on, and with it came a rather matter-of-fact sounding voice.
Claudia wrote:“You good, buddy?”
Leslie flinched, but didn't say anything. He just huffed and threw the seagull another piece.
The microphone came on again.
Claudia wrote:“Take that as a no.”
…
“Well… uh… if you want to talk… um… yep… cool.”
He rolled his eyes and took another bite. He didn't need a damn mentor. He didn't need anyone. He wanted to be like this seagull here. Just flying around, eating fish, watching people, shitting on ones you don't like. And they were just left alone to do their own thing.
That'd be gre-
…
Just like that, the seagull took off with the rest of Leslie's sandwich, right out of his hands. All he could do was sit there and watch as it flapped away for parts unknown.
He started packing up his bag again. He wasn't really feeling that hungry anymore, anyway.
After that, he lied down and sank further and further into the boat. He was just gonna hang here for a bit. Maybe he'd come out if he felt like it..
((CK03: Leslie Lowell continues in cheesed to meet you))