((Nanna-Fiora Kroos continued from You Found It!))
“I think that’s Cassiopeia right overhead.”
It was a slow walk out of the scrapyard. Although her legs were working again, her sword wound was just as bad as ever. Anything faster than a steady shuffle was torture, and even at that pace, the pain would suddenly flare up, and she’d stumble or wince and gasp at how badly it hurt. But whenever that happened, she’d squeeze Derrick’s hand and give him a small smile. Then she’d press onwards, with him by her side.
“Yeah, see, that’s Alpha Cassiopeiae up there, also known as Schedar. It’s the brightest star within Cassiopeia.”
Nanna-Fiora pointed upwards, stopping in her tracks as she did so, making sure that Derrick knew which one she was talking about. It helped a ton, these little stops, pointing out stars in the sky, making sure Derrick was doing alright, asking him little questions that caused him to stop and ponder the answers. Every time they stopped, the pressure in Nanna-Fiora’s side let up, just a bit but a bit was all she needed for her to recover and keep moving.
That wasn’t the only benefit of these little pauses. The further away from the scrapyard they walked, the more the threats surrounding them from every angle started creeping out of the darkness. They began to hear noises, rustling and thudding and clicking, sounds that could have been footsteps or breathing.
Gunshots in the far distance, carried on the night wind.
They’d duck out of sight whenever they heard these noises, and wait in the shadows with baited breath, Nanna-Fiora biting her lip so hard it bled as she tried to ignore her side screaming at her from the sudden movement. She knew that if she got caught or jumped, she was dead. She couldn’t fight back, not with a hole in her side and her shotgun lying abandoned in a nest of rusting metal car parts. It was hard not to let that knowledge consume her thoughts, and overwhelm her with the fear and anger and pessimism that had dictated her actions when she’d first woken up.
But then they stepped back out onto the trail, and she’d notice something in the night sky she wanted to point out to Derrick, or remember something from back home that always made her smile and retell it to him, and that feeling of warmth from the scrapyard would wash over her again, and she’d smile, and continue walking.
“And there, just above it, that’s Gamma Cassiopeiae. Doesn’t have an official alternate name, but it’s frequently called Navi, after-“
Nanna-Fiora stopped suddenly. There was another sound, different to any of the others she’d heard so far, growing quickly louder and louder. A whirring, thudding noise, coming from the air, almost right above them both.
Seconds later, the helicopter flew overheard, blotting out Cassiopeia, causing Nanna-Fiora to take a step back to steady herself, hair and jacket fluttering like crazy. She shot a wordless glance at Derrick, confusion and uncertainty etched across her face.
Her first thought was that it was the government, sending troops out here for… god only knew what reason. Nothing good, that was to be certain. But then, she realised, that didn’t make any sense. There were already soldiers stationed around the entirety of the town. If they were going to massacre everyone here, end the program early, they had more than enough means to do so already.
So it was almost certainly someone else, an outside force, invading and interrupting the bloodsport for their own means. She had no idea who it could be, and no idea what they were here for, and there was every chance that they’d be bringing her lead death just as easily as one of the snipers stationed around the perimeter. But even if she’d been able to run, even if there had been any time to do so now that the helicopter had landed, Nanna-Fiora didn’t want to. She squeezed Derrick’s hand tightly, standing her ground. Odds were, these people were here to help them.
But if it was the US Army, here to eliminate them, then she would stand and face them as they lined up the firing squad, all with a smile on her face.
It didn’t take long for them to find her. Thank god. She realised she was beginning to feel faint and wobbly again, standing there with nothing pleasant to distract her but Derrick’s hand in her own. She blinked, and white spots appeared in front of her eyes, then she blinked again, and they were gone. She blinked a third time, and a group of soldiers was standing in front of her. Each held a rifle, and each had a pair of goggles on that she could only guess was granting them night vision. The two little groups stood and faced each other momentarily.
“Well, you two are looking pretty bloody casual, ain’t you?”
The figure at the front spoke up, and Nanna-Fiora felt her eyes widen at the man’s accent, a heavy British accent. She couldn’t for love nor money have told you what area of Britain he was from, but what he definitely was not was an American citizen. Not the US government, not the US army. Someone who Nanna-Fiora had been told her entire life was her mortal enemy. Holding a gun, but keeping it aimed away from her and Derrick.
“Figured we’d have to be searching all over the bloody shop, didn’t expect to just run into two kids in the middle of the road, like-“
The man trailed off, and his gaze shifted downwards slightly, and Nanna-Fiora gave a weak smile, as she imagined he’d just seen the dark patch that had now stained even her leather jacket. She pulled the hem of her turtleneck up slightly, just so he could see how bad it really was. There was a moment’s silence, before the man put his hand to his collar, speaking into an unseen microphone hidden there.
“Clyne, this is Milner. We found two more of ‘em, gonna need urgent medical support on standby in the whirlybird, over.”
Milner moved his hand back down to his rifle, jostling it slightly, before nodding at Nanna-Fiora and Derrick.
“Right, let’s get going.”
She blinked.
“Going?”
“Yeah, you ‘eard me. Going. Going to the choppers, getting’ out of this hellhole, getting you kids somewhere those psychos can’t drug you and pit you against each other like some kinda cockfight for their own amusement. Now, you coming with us or not?”
Nanna-Fiora looked up at Milner, as the night wind blew and the stars lit her up like spotlights.
There would be a time, later, for fear and regrets. A time to think about how many people she knew that she was leaving behind in the town, dead or soon to be dead. How many people she was sharing a helicopter with that had already killed, and would have killed again if they hadn’t been picked up. Whether Yvonne, her best friend Yvonne, the friend who had vanished from Nanna-Fiora’s thoughts since she’d been attacked in the scrapyard, had made it or not. What would happen to her parents, the parents she’d almost certainly never see again. Whether they were safe. What could have possibly been running through their heads over the past three days.
But right now, there was a miracle staring Nanna-Fiora in the face, after two days of hell, and the only thing she could feel was utter, ecstatic relief.
“Yeah.”
She turned to look at Derrick, squeezing his hand again and tracing her thumb against the back of it, smiling up at him with tears sparkling in her eyes.
“We’re gonna live.”
F18: NANNA-FIORA KROOS - ESCAPED
...And An Ending
[Bishop Smith continued from I'm sad because I just killed a kid neigh neigh neigh I'm sad]
Bishop didn't remember when he fell asleep. An hour ago, maybe two? He couldn't remember. However, the banging on the van door was more than enough to wake him up.
"Oi, kid, wake-"
Bishop let out a shriek of terror, jumping up in an instant before grabbing his gun. However, his terror was only met with laughter by the man standing by the window.
"See, what I tell ya?" The laughing man said. "I knew the Yank would freak out!"
"W-who are you?" Bishop asked in confusion. The man's strange accent especially coming off as strange. Why was here wearing a military uniform? What the hell was happening?
Another voice, presumably the man's partner, spoke up.
"We're with the British Government. We're bustin' you lot out of here."
Bishop sat there, stunned for a moment, before speaking up.
"W-wait, what?"
"Yeah kid, now hurry up. The chopper's waitin'."
There was no way this could be legit. This couldn't be real. The Program had been run like 44 times by now, and never once had anyone from the outside interfered. So why now? Why now of all times?
But, the man's strange accent did make sense if it was true, and it would explain why they were in military gear. Besides they could clearly see him through the car window anyway. If they wanted to kill him they could have shot him then and there. They were clearly carrying guns, or the one he could clearly see was anyway. But still, all of this felt a little too good to be-
"Hey, kid, you coming or not?" Another voice called out, cutting off Bishop's train of thought. "We don't have all day, and we got a bunch more kids we need to find."
"Y-yeah." Bishop responded. "J-just give me a m-minute."
Screw it, if these guys were being truthful this might be Bishop’s only shot at survival. He had no real reason to assume they weren't anyway, even if it felt kind of too insane to be real. Maybe he was still dreaming, who knew. Either way though, might as well at least try it.
After he grabbed his bag, he moved to the back of the van, and opened the door.
Once outside, the three soldiers looked over Bishop, now having a clearer view of the kid, and were obviously shocked at the condition he was in. The blood all over his clothing, the bruise marks on his throat, the dirt and grime that covered his face. All things nether men expected to see after hearing the meek voice behind the van doors.
"Fuck mate, are you okay?" One of them asked.
Bishop looked down for a second, before wordlessly shaking his head no.
"Well... Can you walk at least?" The other asked, not really sure how else to respond.
Once again, Bishop shook his head without a word. This time replying with a yes.
"Well then, lets get you out of here mate. I'll have a medic look at you when we get to the helicopter."
It didn't take long for the soldiers to get Bishop back to the rest of their unit and load Bishop onto a helicopter. They also took away his shotgun. Not that he minded, he hated the damn thing. All it did was kill somebody who only wanted to help him, and Bishop couldn't even fire the damn thing properly. Overall, he kind of glad to be rid of it.
The medic that looked at him quickly determined that aside from some scratches and bruising that he was perfectly fine. Far better than some of the other kids they had looked at today. Some would even call him lucky, all things considered. Though, Bishop didn't really feel all that lucky.
Even if he was surviving, he was never going to see his family again. Once more, he was sure that at least a few of his friends had been dead by now. Well, the few he had anyway. He couldn't be quite sure who had made it though. So many names on the announcements, so many people who had died. It was honestly kind of hard to even remember everyone who had died by this point, and who was even still left to pick up the pieces.
Further more, he didn't even know where to go from here. He was going to a totally new country, one that had been an enemy of his for years now. Sure, he wasn't exactly fond of America, but would he fair better in Britain? Would the people there despise him and everything his old home stood for? And what about the other escapees? Sure, he had only killed in self defense, but he had still killed somebody none the less. Further more he had indirectly caused James's death as well. Would they even give him a chance either?
What's more, was he really going to be safe long term? What if America really did win the war against the Brits and found Bishop and his fellow escapees? Would they kill them on the spot, or would they put them back in this awful blood soaked town for some kind of ironic justice? They certainly wouldn't allow them to just walk away with their lives, not after this. The god damn general would never allow this kind of insult to fly without some kind of vengeance. This was an attack on American soil in a way, there was no way America wouldn't retaliate back ten fold.
Bishop didn't have the answers to those questions, and he wouldn't get them for now. Not until they were safe and sound out of this hell hole. Though, all things considered, he would still take this over still being stuck in that small fishing village that America gutted for the sake of this stupid game. Because, even if their future was still uncertain, he and many of the others were actually going to live.
And that was kind of alright with him.
M44: Bishop Smith: Escaped
Bishop didn't remember when he fell asleep. An hour ago, maybe two? He couldn't remember. However, the banging on the van door was more than enough to wake him up.
"Oi, kid, wake-"
Bishop let out a shriek of terror, jumping up in an instant before grabbing his gun. However, his terror was only met with laughter by the man standing by the window.
"See, what I tell ya?" The laughing man said. "I knew the Yank would freak out!"
"W-who are you?" Bishop asked in confusion. The man's strange accent especially coming off as strange. Why was here wearing a military uniform? What the hell was happening?
Another voice, presumably the man's partner, spoke up.
"We're with the British Government. We're bustin' you lot out of here."
Bishop sat there, stunned for a moment, before speaking up.
"W-wait, what?"
"Yeah kid, now hurry up. The chopper's waitin'."
There was no way this could be legit. This couldn't be real. The Program had been run like 44 times by now, and never once had anyone from the outside interfered. So why now? Why now of all times?
But, the man's strange accent did make sense if it was true, and it would explain why they were in military gear. Besides they could clearly see him through the car window anyway. If they wanted to kill him they could have shot him then and there. They were clearly carrying guns, or the one he could clearly see was anyway. But still, all of this felt a little too good to be-
"Hey, kid, you coming or not?" Another voice called out, cutting off Bishop's train of thought. "We don't have all day, and we got a bunch more kids we need to find."
"Y-yeah." Bishop responded. "J-just give me a m-minute."
Screw it, if these guys were being truthful this might be Bishop’s only shot at survival. He had no real reason to assume they weren't anyway, even if it felt kind of too insane to be real. Maybe he was still dreaming, who knew. Either way though, might as well at least try it.
After he grabbed his bag, he moved to the back of the van, and opened the door.
Once outside, the three soldiers looked over Bishop, now having a clearer view of the kid, and were obviously shocked at the condition he was in. The blood all over his clothing, the bruise marks on his throat, the dirt and grime that covered his face. All things nether men expected to see after hearing the meek voice behind the van doors.
"Fuck mate, are you okay?" One of them asked.
Bishop looked down for a second, before wordlessly shaking his head no.
"Well... Can you walk at least?" The other asked, not really sure how else to respond.
Once again, Bishop shook his head without a word. This time replying with a yes.
"Well then, lets get you out of here mate. I'll have a medic look at you when we get to the helicopter."
It didn't take long for the soldiers to get Bishop back to the rest of their unit and load Bishop onto a helicopter. They also took away his shotgun. Not that he minded, he hated the damn thing. All it did was kill somebody who only wanted to help him, and Bishop couldn't even fire the damn thing properly. Overall, he kind of glad to be rid of it.
The medic that looked at him quickly determined that aside from some scratches and bruising that he was perfectly fine. Far better than some of the other kids they had looked at today. Some would even call him lucky, all things considered. Though, Bishop didn't really feel all that lucky.
Even if he was surviving, he was never going to see his family again. Once more, he was sure that at least a few of his friends had been dead by now. Well, the few he had anyway. He couldn't be quite sure who had made it though. So many names on the announcements, so many people who had died. It was honestly kind of hard to even remember everyone who had died by this point, and who was even still left to pick up the pieces.
Further more, he didn't even know where to go from here. He was going to a totally new country, one that had been an enemy of his for years now. Sure, he wasn't exactly fond of America, but would he fair better in Britain? Would the people there despise him and everything his old home stood for? And what about the other escapees? Sure, he had only killed in self defense, but he had still killed somebody none the less. Further more he had indirectly caused James's death as well. Would they even give him a chance either?
What's more, was he really going to be safe long term? What if America really did win the war against the Brits and found Bishop and his fellow escapees? Would they kill them on the spot, or would they put them back in this awful blood soaked town for some kind of ironic justice? They certainly wouldn't allow them to just walk away with their lives, not after this. The god damn general would never allow this kind of insult to fly without some kind of vengeance. This was an attack on American soil in a way, there was no way America wouldn't retaliate back ten fold.
Bishop didn't have the answers to those questions, and he wouldn't get them for now. Not until they were safe and sound out of this hell hole. Though, all things considered, he would still take this over still being stuck in that small fishing village that America gutted for the sake of this stupid game. Because, even if their future was still uncertain, he and many of the others were actually going to live.
And that was kind of alright with him.
M44: Bishop Smith: Escaped
((Danielle Baumgartner continued from Dogtown))
Danielle hadn’t spoken a word to anyone sincee she’d charged into the bar. The second she lost her gun, she was convinced she was a goner. It was an idiotic, hubristic mistake that she’d pay for with her life. Danielle Baumgartner was going to die an undignified death, disappointing her step-father, her country, and most of all, herself. In that moment, with a crossbow in her face, her fighting spirit disappeared into the hot, tense air.
Everything afterwards felt like a dream. Soldiers she’d only seen on the news or in movies burst onto the scene, claiming to be saviors. Before Danielle could even react, they’d bounded her in fishing net and herded her outside.
She shuffled along wordlessly, eyes boring a hole into their shoes. Nothing felt real. Maybe the stuttering boy actually had shot her, and this was some sort of fantastic vision her brain dreamed up in the split second before her brain functions ceased. It was the only way Danielle could rationalize the situation. She’d only seen British people played by American actors in movies, after all. There was no way they actually sounded like this.
Each step she took didn’t feel like her own, and the conversation around he was a meaningless murmur. As much as she wanted to write this off as a dream, Danielle couldn’t ignore the whirring of the helicopter blades. The roaring in her ears grew louder and louder, bringing her back into reality. This was real. She was going to be saved. Danielle Baumgartner was going to live.
And she was terrified of that prospect.
Once they’d gotten onto the helicopter, one of the soldiers pulled her aside and unwrapped her from the fishing net. Danielle wanted the Brit’s hands off of her, she wanted to bolt back into the street, and die a loyal patriot rather than live as a traitor to her country. But she was still afraid, petrified in the presence of an enemy she’d been raised to loathe. So once she was freed, Danielle stood still, wringing her hands. The soldier guided her to a seat by the window, shoved between some kids she barely acknowledged.
As the helicopter took off, Danielle turned and rested her forehead on the glass. She gazed at the village below, idyllic as a postcard. Her eyes rose to the horizon, and her heart clenched at the sight of the quaint little neighborhood she’d woken up in two days ago. A horrible, horrible realization punched her in the gut.
Jacqueline had died for nothing.
Danielle squeezed her eyes shut and wept.
Danielle hadn’t spoken a word to anyone sincee she’d charged into the bar. The second she lost her gun, she was convinced she was a goner. It was an idiotic, hubristic mistake that she’d pay for with her life. Danielle Baumgartner was going to die an undignified death, disappointing her step-father, her country, and most of all, herself. In that moment, with a crossbow in her face, her fighting spirit disappeared into the hot, tense air.
Everything afterwards felt like a dream. Soldiers she’d only seen on the news or in movies burst onto the scene, claiming to be saviors. Before Danielle could even react, they’d bounded her in fishing net and herded her outside.
She shuffled along wordlessly, eyes boring a hole into their shoes. Nothing felt real. Maybe the stuttering boy actually had shot her, and this was some sort of fantastic vision her brain dreamed up in the split second before her brain functions ceased. It was the only way Danielle could rationalize the situation. She’d only seen British people played by American actors in movies, after all. There was no way they actually sounded like this.
Each step she took didn’t feel like her own, and the conversation around he was a meaningless murmur. As much as she wanted to write this off as a dream, Danielle couldn’t ignore the whirring of the helicopter blades. The roaring in her ears grew louder and louder, bringing her back into reality. This was real. She was going to be saved. Danielle Baumgartner was going to live.
And she was terrified of that prospect.
Once they’d gotten onto the helicopter, one of the soldiers pulled her aside and unwrapped her from the fishing net. Danielle wanted the Brit’s hands off of her, she wanted to bolt back into the street, and die a loyal patriot rather than live as a traitor to her country. But she was still afraid, petrified in the presence of an enemy she’d been raised to loathe. So once she was freed, Danielle stood still, wringing her hands. The soldier guided her to a seat by the window, shoved between some kids she barely acknowledged.
As the helicopter took off, Danielle turned and rested her forehead on the glass. She gazed at the village below, idyllic as a postcard. Her eyes rose to the horizon, and her heart clenched at the sight of the quaint little neighborhood she’d woken up in two days ago. A horrible, horrible realization punched her in the gut.
Jacqueline had died for nothing.
Danielle squeezed her eyes shut and wept.
F03, DANIELLE BAUMGARTNER: ESCAPED
-
Primrosette
- Posts: 896
- Joined: Wed Aug 08, 2018 1:59 pm
- Location: In Her Dark Abyss
((Damien Crossly continued from Semper Fidelis))
Damien truly was a big coward.
When the British soldiers had found him in the middle of nowhere; he had been in a terrified state and his wound had gotten a lot worse as he never knew how to take care of it himself. He had thought that the three people would have shot him there and then. But they did not do that. No, they said that it was over and that they were going to get him out of there. He had wondered if they were lying to him at the time but they looked like they were being genuine and not liars. If they had wanted to kill him, they would have done it on sight.
So he let them take him with a just a nod of his head and without a word.
He had walked with them until he saw the helicopters and then he realized that they were really telling the truth. He had never been so happy to see that there was really a hope spot in this fucked-up world. One of the soldiers treated his injury with utmost care and Damien had almost broke down into tears right there. But he held them back with difficulty.
Then he was taken to a helicopter and he recognized other students from school as he sat down in a trembling manner. He couldn't see Bridie there. Would she had wanted to be rescued? He didn't think so. Bridie was more into serving her duty and he finally realised that she would not go down without a fight. But a small part of him wanted to see her again. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for being so worthless and a cowardly human being. But now he had to wait and see.
He knew one thing that he had to live with. He had to live with that fact that Bianca's life was taken for no reason at all. He could have avoided having blood on his hands, but now he would have to live with that memory for a long time.
Damien felt a sad smile form on his face and he started to let out a quiet laugh that turned into a babbling sob.
He really was a goddamned coward.
M36: Damien Crossly - Escaped
Damien truly was a big coward.
When the British soldiers had found him in the middle of nowhere; he had been in a terrified state and his wound had gotten a lot worse as he never knew how to take care of it himself. He had thought that the three people would have shot him there and then. But they did not do that. No, they said that it was over and that they were going to get him out of there. He had wondered if they were lying to him at the time but they looked like they were being genuine and not liars. If they had wanted to kill him, they would have done it on sight.
So he let them take him with a just a nod of his head and without a word.
He had walked with them until he saw the helicopters and then he realized that they were really telling the truth. He had never been so happy to see that there was really a hope spot in this fucked-up world. One of the soldiers treated his injury with utmost care and Damien had almost broke down into tears right there. But he held them back with difficulty.
Then he was taken to a helicopter and he recognized other students from school as he sat down in a trembling manner. He couldn't see Bridie there. Would she had wanted to be rescued? He didn't think so. Bridie was more into serving her duty and he finally realised that she would not go down without a fight. But a small part of him wanted to see her again. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for being so worthless and a cowardly human being. But now he had to wait and see.
He knew one thing that he had to live with. He had to live with that fact that Bianca's life was taken for no reason at all. He could have avoided having blood on his hands, but now he would have to live with that memory for a long time.
Damien felt a sad smile form on his face and he started to let out a quiet laugh that turned into a babbling sob.
He really was a goddamned coward.
M36: Damien Crossly - Escaped
Marion followed the troops out to the helicopter, hoping desperately that they'd manage to save Kassandra. She saw many of her classmates around, but couldn't bring herself to pay attention to them when she was so worried about Kass. Marion held Kass's hand as the medics too care of her, and couldn't help but smile back when she saw Kass smiling at her. It seemed like things were going to be okay.
F14: Marion Williams: Escaped
F14: Marion Williams: Escaped
((Derrick Thomson continued from You Found It!))
They had walked for a long while together. Talking together hand in hand whilst ignoring what was happening around them for the most part. There were occasions of hiding. Of nearby noises spooking or shocking them out of the mindset they had been in before settling in again.
Neither were good in a fight. Her gun was gone and all Derrick had was a sword that he was useless with and useless against the guns and explosives the rest were carrying judging by the distant sounds and screams.
And even if he could fight, would he be able to protect her?
The entire time he had his worries about her. She seemed fine. In control. But there were moments of faltering, of stumbles before regaining her balance. He felt it in his hand, but she'd give him a smile and for a second those worries vanished and they would continue. Till it happened again.
All the while Fiora spoke of the stars and their names. Pointing them out to him as they stopped and asking questions. about home, family, anything really. Questions whoose answer he'd have to think out for a bit.
But on the trail as she spoke of more stars, came a chopper. For a second Derrick had figured the goverment was pissed at them for their peaceful protest of all this bullshit that they were going to shoot them down where they stood and carry on like it was nothing.
It wouldn't be the first time, he assumed.
Instead, out of the dark came people with accents. Distinct enough and most importantly, non-american.
Still had guns pointed at them though. He didn't like that at all. He felt his hand harden in Fiora's in fear. He hadn't had a gun pointed at him since Fiora's and he could trust her. He wasn't sure about the british.
One of them talked of getting out of there and medics nearby. Derrick's heart beat increased till it sounded like a bass drum in his head. The thought of escape echoed through his mind like a warning sign. Where would they go? What about their families? Who would take care of them? Would they take their anger out on them?
He'd already made himself an enemy of the state just saving someone of color, what'd they do to his mother and siblings once they find out he ran off with her to another country? One that had killed their precious program.
Could he do this to them? What was even the alternative? Staying and dying to the US troops? No matter what he'd choose he wouldn't get to see them again. Ever.
The thought alone was enough to make him cry.
He felt a squeeze in his hand.
He looked over at her. Fiora smiled at him with tears of her own.
"We're gonna live." Her thumb gently tracing on his hand.
"Yeah." He said as he looked over at the men and back at her. "Let's be happy right." and with tears in his eyes, he smiled at her.
M24: Derrick Thomson - Escaped
They had walked for a long while together. Talking together hand in hand whilst ignoring what was happening around them for the most part. There were occasions of hiding. Of nearby noises spooking or shocking them out of the mindset they had been in before settling in again.
Neither were good in a fight. Her gun was gone and all Derrick had was a sword that he was useless with and useless against the guns and explosives the rest were carrying judging by the distant sounds and screams.
And even if he could fight, would he be able to protect her?
The entire time he had his worries about her. She seemed fine. In control. But there were moments of faltering, of stumbles before regaining her balance. He felt it in his hand, but she'd give him a smile and for a second those worries vanished and they would continue. Till it happened again.
All the while Fiora spoke of the stars and their names. Pointing them out to him as they stopped and asking questions. about home, family, anything really. Questions whoose answer he'd have to think out for a bit.
But on the trail as she spoke of more stars, came a chopper. For a second Derrick had figured the goverment was pissed at them for their peaceful protest of all this bullshit that they were going to shoot them down where they stood and carry on like it was nothing.
It wouldn't be the first time, he assumed.
Instead, out of the dark came people with accents. Distinct enough and most importantly, non-american.
Still had guns pointed at them though. He didn't like that at all. He felt his hand harden in Fiora's in fear. He hadn't had a gun pointed at him since Fiora's and he could trust her. He wasn't sure about the british.
One of them talked of getting out of there and medics nearby. Derrick's heart beat increased till it sounded like a bass drum in his head. The thought of escape echoed through his mind like a warning sign. Where would they go? What about their families? Who would take care of them? Would they take their anger out on them?
He'd already made himself an enemy of the state just saving someone of color, what'd they do to his mother and siblings once they find out he ran off with her to another country? One that had killed their precious program.
Could he do this to them? What was even the alternative? Staying and dying to the US troops? No matter what he'd choose he wouldn't get to see them again. Ever.
The thought alone was enough to make him cry.
He felt a squeeze in his hand.
He looked over at her. Fiora smiled at him with tears of her own.
"We're gonna live." Her thumb gently tracing on his hand.
"Yeah." He said as he looked over at the men and back at her. "Let's be happy right." and with tears in his eyes, he smiled at her.
M24: Derrick Thomson - Escaped
((MacKenzie "Kenzie" Rivers continue from What We've Been Searching For))
Kenzie limped slowly into a nearby building. She could felt blood oozing slowly from her wound, drenching her shirt with blood stains. It was a huge cut, but luckily it wasn't enough to hurt her vital organs.
Maybe she shouldn't have attacked Kass earlier...
or abandoning Brittany...
All out of sudden, she felt an immense pain on her chest. She covered her wound with both her hands, hoping to ease the pain.
Shit.
She slowly rested herself on the sofa, scanning across the room for medical supplies. It seems like an ordinary living room, and sadly, there wasn't anything that she's looking for.
Hmm...Maybe the kitchen has some....
Before she walked towards the kitchen, she heard helicopter noises all across the area. She looked out, only to noticed there were heavily-armed people coming down from the aircraft.
Wait...
Is this...
No fucking way...
In excitement, she rushed out from the house towards the direction of the nearest helicopter. But the agony on her chest got the best of her, so she decided to slow down for a while.
It was then where she was greeted with two British armies, each holding a rifle.
Funny enough, out of all the things she could said or at least ask for help, the first thing she did after seeing the soldiers were armed was lifting up both of her arms, asking in a timid tone
"Y'all weren't here to kill me, right?"
It was until one of the soldiers explained that they were here to bring her out from this war zone, making their first encounter an awkward one.
Long story short, she followed the army into the helicopter, and the large wound on her chest was treated by medics with proper treatment, following by bandages surrounding her chest.
Just before she left, she looked down at the battlefield again. The place where she was forced to see people she knew killing one another. She had mixed feelings she couldn't explain, not sure if it's the joy of leaving this hellhole, relief from being free again or guilt, to see so many people dying.
Speaking of which, was Brittany saved?
Or the girls she met during the fight?
She stared blankly at the once abandoned town, wondering the fates of the people she once knew, until the island was no longer to be seen.
F37: Mackenzie "Kenzie" Rivers: Escaped
Kenzie limped slowly into a nearby building. She could felt blood oozing slowly from her wound, drenching her shirt with blood stains. It was a huge cut, but luckily it wasn't enough to hurt her vital organs.
Maybe she shouldn't have attacked Kass earlier...
or abandoning Brittany...
All out of sudden, she felt an immense pain on her chest. She covered her wound with both her hands, hoping to ease the pain.
Shit.
She slowly rested herself on the sofa, scanning across the room for medical supplies. It seems like an ordinary living room, and sadly, there wasn't anything that she's looking for.
Hmm...Maybe the kitchen has some....
Before she walked towards the kitchen, she heard helicopter noises all across the area. She looked out, only to noticed there were heavily-armed people coming down from the aircraft.
Wait...
Is this...
No fucking way...
In excitement, she rushed out from the house towards the direction of the nearest helicopter. But the agony on her chest got the best of her, so she decided to slow down for a while.
It was then where she was greeted with two British armies, each holding a rifle.
Funny enough, out of all the things she could said or at least ask for help, the first thing she did after seeing the soldiers were armed was lifting up both of her arms, asking in a timid tone
"Y'all weren't here to kill me, right?"
It was until one of the soldiers explained that they were here to bring her out from this war zone, making their first encounter an awkward one.
Long story short, she followed the army into the helicopter, and the large wound on her chest was treated by medics with proper treatment, following by bandages surrounding her chest.
Just before she left, she looked down at the battlefield again. The place where she was forced to see people she knew killing one another. She had mixed feelings she couldn't explain, not sure if it's the joy of leaving this hellhole, relief from being free again or guilt, to see so many people dying.
Speaking of which, was Brittany saved?
Or the girls she met during the fight?
She stared blankly at the once abandoned town, wondering the fates of the people she once knew, until the island was no longer to be seen.
F37: Mackenzie "Kenzie" Rivers: Escaped
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3432
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
((Mina Mashall continued from No Longer A Dreamer))
"So you're going to help everyone, right?" Mina asked, again.
"We'll do our bloody best," said the man she was following. His accent messed with her ability to tell whether he was trying to be encouraging or merely failing to suppress his irritation. This was the fourth or fifth time she'd given a query to this effect in the ten or so minutes they'd been walking together, and his tone had started morphing after the second. The other two soldiers, an older man and a younger woman, were more or less silent towards Mina, though they spoke to each other and their radios in hushed tones.
They were winding through streets that Mina had not passed before, back towards the Northern part of the town. The buildings here were cleaner, painted pastel like Easter eggs, and they'd seen only a single corpse. The body belonged to a boy, fallen from the roof above by all appearances, shot according to the woman of the group, who briefly checked him. She also opined that he'd been dead for some time, so Mina didn't feel the need to confirm his identity. She had already heard, and besides, everyone she was really worried about right now was female.
She'd met the soldiers on her way towards where the helicopters had descended. The trio had been making its way up the street, weapons in hand but movements tentative, no aggression to be detected. Mina had known immediately that they were not Americans; she could recognize most American uniforms still and knew a thing or two about the equipment in common use. She'd raised her hands above her head, even as her heart started to hammer in fear and excitement.
The Program under attack? It was almost unbelievable, too good to be true, and while Mina hadn't held the slightest idea whether these interlopers meant to help her and her classmates or kill them, she'd stood there in plain sight nonetheless, telling herself that if this was to be her death it would be for a good cause, a death she believed in, even as she knew that the second rifles were raised in her direction she'd scramble for cover, try desperately to live just a moment longer.
The soldiers hadn't raised their weapons. They had told her they were British, and that they were mounting a rescue, shutting down The Program and spiriting anyone who wanted off to England. They'd told Mina she could come with them, that they'd gather up any of her classmates who wanted to be saved. It had been so much, too much, the sudden promise of survival and a future, and Mina had started to cry even as she came to a realization.
What passed through Mina's mind first upon learning that the pain and suffering and death was to end was a reflection on the events of the day before. She thought of Victoria, of the girl's brazen, dehumanizing words, and all she could find in herself was to wish that Victoria had lived a little longer, had made it just up until the British arrived, had seen that there was hope and a life beyond only to have it ripped away from her. The light fading from her eyes, consciousness replaced by the haze of blood loss, she would've known that Mina was going to make it and she wasn't. That would've been nice.
The second thought, not as hot on the heels of the first as it should've been: oh shit, Charlie.
They had a chance. They could live, all of them. What had been impossible was now an option. There was a hospital in the future for them, surgery and medicine and experts who could maybe fix the damage done by a fumbling field cauterization. The things Mina had dreaded, having to watch the girl she'd somehow found herself traveling with die, those weren't forgone conclusions anymore.
The only problem was, she'd ditched Charlie in her sleep, and maybe by now the girl was dead, murdered by an opportunist before she even had the chance to wake. Worse, maybe her slumber had lapsed into an unconsciousness too deep to be roused from. Maybe she would be left behind, thought a corpse, or maybe she wouldn't believe what was happening. Maybe old habits died too hard and she'd try to fight the men and women come to save her, or hide from them, or, or, or a thousand other things all ending in her dead and it all being Mina's fault.
Because whatever happened, if it was bad, it was on Mina. Mina had volunteered to stand guard, and instead she'd run away yet again. She'd hated herself for it standing on the docks, but that was nothing to how she felt now. A betrayal in the face of nihilistic obliteration was relatively meaningless. Her reasoning had been sound. But to damn someone who otherwise might have lived?
This was when she'd started her questioning, which she hadn't let up since.
"So," Mina said, "even if somebody, if they killed someone, or if they get scared of you, you'll help them?"
The man sighed. Okay, so he was definitely getting pissed or at least exasperated.
"I told—" he said, but paused when the woman held up a finger.
"We'll do what we can," she said, "but some of it's on you lot. We aren't forcing anyone to come, and some of you," and she emphasized that word, "you," injected it with a venom that took Mina aback, "have apparently decided to bite the feeding hand."
"What?" Mina said. She stopped walking. It wasn't hard; her legs were tired and it was easier to just stand still. It would, she thought vaguely, be even easier to collapse.
The man sighed.
"A couple of your classmates laid an ambush," he said.
"What happened?" Mina asked. Her throat was tightening.
"They didn't make it." The man sounded genuinely apologetic, but like he might've if he'd broken a favorite decoration, and Mina thought of the stupid red clay mug she'd made her dad that had been on his desk even that last day when she said goodbye and moved to Denver and she wanted to scream and throw herself at these people who said they were here to save her, to beat at them with her fists because those were her classmates they'd killed, and that wasn't right, even if it'd been Victoria it wouldn't have been right, Mina could wish the girl painful death moments from salvation but she had that privilege because of what they'd shared, and these intruders didn't have that.
"Did," Mina said instead, and then had to swallow, twice, "did they, were they boys or girls? Did they have a knife?"
The older man frowned, shook his head, and started walking again. The younger one held his hand out and beckoned, and without even really thinking Mina followed along once more.
"A boy and a girl," he said. "The girl had a sickle, but no knife."
"Okay," Mina said, "okay."
Not Charlie, then. That was fine. That was all Mina really had to know. Well, almost.
"Were your friends okay?" she asked.
The man seemed surprised by that.
"Yes," he said simply.
It was only a few seconds later that Mina realized the woman had lagged behind them, in better position, presumably, to neutralize Mina if need be. Fair enough. Mina put her hand into her pocket, very casually, and flicked her recorder on.
"What are you doing?" the woman asked.
"I'm itchy," Mina said, pulling her hand back out. "I lost my tank top."
The woman frowned, but she didn't push the subject, and Mina made sure to keep her hands where they could see and to scratch at herself every so often over the rest of their journey.
There were a number of students already assembled around the helicopters, but as Mina scanned the familiar faces she didn't see the one she was looking for above all else. It didn't necessarily mean anything, but the tension coiled inside Mina tightened.
"There are still people out searching, right?" she said.
"Yes." The man was through even trying to expand on his answers, but Mina wasn't about to let up.
"Is this everyone?" she said.
"No. There are a couple other sites and some of your classmates are in triage with the medics."
"Oh," Mina said. That made sense. They'd been hurt, a lot of them. Charlie had been hurt, and she'd need medical assistance.
"I think I should go with the medics," Mina said.
Now all three members of her escort looked at her.
"What for?" asked the woman.
"I," Mina said, "uh, I, um, I hit my head. I got hit on the head and I feel woozy. I can't remember what we've been talking about. You're going to help everyone, right?"
The woman squinted at Mina, her mouth transforming into a scowl, and the man who'd been conversing with her looked more exasperated than he'd been yet, but finally the older man broke his silence towards her.
"Alright," he said. "Let's go."
And so Mina was marched away from the other two soldiers and off to one of the helicopters. The adults here were not soldiers but medics, rushing back and forth, and when Mina saw the sorts of situations they were tending to she almost admitted to her lie. She wanted to know, though. She had to know, even as her stomach turned as her gaze passed over a boy she'd surely seen most days at school who she couldn't even begin to recognize through the caking of blood and grime coating his entire shirtless body.
"I think," the older man escorting her said, "you'll be okay for the next hour or so while the medics attend to the most severe injuries, won't you?"
"Uh," Mina said, "yes."
"Brilliant. Then why don't you have a seat over here."
And so Mina was guided off to a corner, sat down on a bench, nothing to do but gaze across the bay at the patient lying there.
Mina had never liked Grant Gault. He was handsome and popular and seemed to make everything easy, but where he could've used that to do something good he was instead content to coast in his privilege, and of course then he'd blown up some people with a bomb and Mina was also not cool with that but lacked the emotional energy to look inside herself and try to parse the difference between it and stabbing Victoria in the throat. For all she'd disliked Grant, though, he wasn't someone she felt like she had about Victoria or Whitman towards, and it made her shiver seeing the boy surrounded by medics. She'd caught a glimpse of the bloodstain spreading across his chest, of his pallid face, but from her current position she couldn't see much aside from his blue shoes and the people bent over him, serious expressions on their faces, blood on their gloves. It was a disturbing distraction, one almost but not quite strong enough to chase the horrible worry from her mind.
Mina sat and stared and waited. This would be okay. They were looking for everyone. They'd promised her. If there was any chance, they'd do what they could. They had to.
She wasn't sure how she was going to live with herself otherwise.
"So you're going to help everyone, right?" Mina asked, again.
"We'll do our bloody best," said the man she was following. His accent messed with her ability to tell whether he was trying to be encouraging or merely failing to suppress his irritation. This was the fourth or fifth time she'd given a query to this effect in the ten or so minutes they'd been walking together, and his tone had started morphing after the second. The other two soldiers, an older man and a younger woman, were more or less silent towards Mina, though they spoke to each other and their radios in hushed tones.
They were winding through streets that Mina had not passed before, back towards the Northern part of the town. The buildings here were cleaner, painted pastel like Easter eggs, and they'd seen only a single corpse. The body belonged to a boy, fallen from the roof above by all appearances, shot according to the woman of the group, who briefly checked him. She also opined that he'd been dead for some time, so Mina didn't feel the need to confirm his identity. She had already heard, and besides, everyone she was really worried about right now was female.
She'd met the soldiers on her way towards where the helicopters had descended. The trio had been making its way up the street, weapons in hand but movements tentative, no aggression to be detected. Mina had known immediately that they were not Americans; she could recognize most American uniforms still and knew a thing or two about the equipment in common use. She'd raised her hands above her head, even as her heart started to hammer in fear and excitement.
The Program under attack? It was almost unbelievable, too good to be true, and while Mina hadn't held the slightest idea whether these interlopers meant to help her and her classmates or kill them, she'd stood there in plain sight nonetheless, telling herself that if this was to be her death it would be for a good cause, a death she believed in, even as she knew that the second rifles were raised in her direction she'd scramble for cover, try desperately to live just a moment longer.
The soldiers hadn't raised their weapons. They had told her they were British, and that they were mounting a rescue, shutting down The Program and spiriting anyone who wanted off to England. They'd told Mina she could come with them, that they'd gather up any of her classmates who wanted to be saved. It had been so much, too much, the sudden promise of survival and a future, and Mina had started to cry even as she came to a realization.
What passed through Mina's mind first upon learning that the pain and suffering and death was to end was a reflection on the events of the day before. She thought of Victoria, of the girl's brazen, dehumanizing words, and all she could find in herself was to wish that Victoria had lived a little longer, had made it just up until the British arrived, had seen that there was hope and a life beyond only to have it ripped away from her. The light fading from her eyes, consciousness replaced by the haze of blood loss, she would've known that Mina was going to make it and she wasn't. That would've been nice.
The second thought, not as hot on the heels of the first as it should've been: oh shit, Charlie.
They had a chance. They could live, all of them. What had been impossible was now an option. There was a hospital in the future for them, surgery and medicine and experts who could maybe fix the damage done by a fumbling field cauterization. The things Mina had dreaded, having to watch the girl she'd somehow found herself traveling with die, those weren't forgone conclusions anymore.
The only problem was, she'd ditched Charlie in her sleep, and maybe by now the girl was dead, murdered by an opportunist before she even had the chance to wake. Worse, maybe her slumber had lapsed into an unconsciousness too deep to be roused from. Maybe she would be left behind, thought a corpse, or maybe she wouldn't believe what was happening. Maybe old habits died too hard and she'd try to fight the men and women come to save her, or hide from them, or, or, or a thousand other things all ending in her dead and it all being Mina's fault.
Because whatever happened, if it was bad, it was on Mina. Mina had volunteered to stand guard, and instead she'd run away yet again. She'd hated herself for it standing on the docks, but that was nothing to how she felt now. A betrayal in the face of nihilistic obliteration was relatively meaningless. Her reasoning had been sound. But to damn someone who otherwise might have lived?
This was when she'd started her questioning, which she hadn't let up since.
"So," Mina said, "even if somebody, if they killed someone, or if they get scared of you, you'll help them?"
The man sighed. Okay, so he was definitely getting pissed or at least exasperated.
"I told—" he said, but paused when the woman held up a finger.
"We'll do what we can," she said, "but some of it's on you lot. We aren't forcing anyone to come, and some of you," and she emphasized that word, "you," injected it with a venom that took Mina aback, "have apparently decided to bite the feeding hand."
"What?" Mina said. She stopped walking. It wasn't hard; her legs were tired and it was easier to just stand still. It would, she thought vaguely, be even easier to collapse.
The man sighed.
"A couple of your classmates laid an ambush," he said.
"What happened?" Mina asked. Her throat was tightening.
"They didn't make it." The man sounded genuinely apologetic, but like he might've if he'd broken a favorite decoration, and Mina thought of the stupid red clay mug she'd made her dad that had been on his desk even that last day when she said goodbye and moved to Denver and she wanted to scream and throw herself at these people who said they were here to save her, to beat at them with her fists because those were her classmates they'd killed, and that wasn't right, even if it'd been Victoria it wouldn't have been right, Mina could wish the girl painful death moments from salvation but she had that privilege because of what they'd shared, and these intruders didn't have that.
"Did," Mina said instead, and then had to swallow, twice, "did they, were they boys or girls? Did they have a knife?"
The older man frowned, shook his head, and started walking again. The younger one held his hand out and beckoned, and without even really thinking Mina followed along once more.
"A boy and a girl," he said. "The girl had a sickle, but no knife."
"Okay," Mina said, "okay."
Not Charlie, then. That was fine. That was all Mina really had to know. Well, almost.
"Were your friends okay?" she asked.
The man seemed surprised by that.
"Yes," he said simply.
It was only a few seconds later that Mina realized the woman had lagged behind them, in better position, presumably, to neutralize Mina if need be. Fair enough. Mina put her hand into her pocket, very casually, and flicked her recorder on.
"What are you doing?" the woman asked.
"I'm itchy," Mina said, pulling her hand back out. "I lost my tank top."
The woman frowned, but she didn't push the subject, and Mina made sure to keep her hands where they could see and to scratch at herself every so often over the rest of their journey.
There were a number of students already assembled around the helicopters, but as Mina scanned the familiar faces she didn't see the one she was looking for above all else. It didn't necessarily mean anything, but the tension coiled inside Mina tightened.
"There are still people out searching, right?" she said.
"Yes." The man was through even trying to expand on his answers, but Mina wasn't about to let up.
"Is this everyone?" she said.
"No. There are a couple other sites and some of your classmates are in triage with the medics."
"Oh," Mina said. That made sense. They'd been hurt, a lot of them. Charlie had been hurt, and she'd need medical assistance.
"I think I should go with the medics," Mina said.
Now all three members of her escort looked at her.
"What for?" asked the woman.
"I," Mina said, "uh, I, um, I hit my head. I got hit on the head and I feel woozy. I can't remember what we've been talking about. You're going to help everyone, right?"
The woman squinted at Mina, her mouth transforming into a scowl, and the man who'd been conversing with her looked more exasperated than he'd been yet, but finally the older man broke his silence towards her.
"Alright," he said. "Let's go."
And so Mina was marched away from the other two soldiers and off to one of the helicopters. The adults here were not soldiers but medics, rushing back and forth, and when Mina saw the sorts of situations they were tending to she almost admitted to her lie. She wanted to know, though. She had to know, even as her stomach turned as her gaze passed over a boy she'd surely seen most days at school who she couldn't even begin to recognize through the caking of blood and grime coating his entire shirtless body.
"I think," the older man escorting her said, "you'll be okay for the next hour or so while the medics attend to the most severe injuries, won't you?"
"Uh," Mina said, "yes."
"Brilliant. Then why don't you have a seat over here."
And so Mina was guided off to a corner, sat down on a bench, nothing to do but gaze across the bay at the patient lying there.
Mina had never liked Grant Gault. He was handsome and popular and seemed to make everything easy, but where he could've used that to do something good he was instead content to coast in his privilege, and of course then he'd blown up some people with a bomb and Mina was also not cool with that but lacked the emotional energy to look inside herself and try to parse the difference between it and stabbing Victoria in the throat. For all she'd disliked Grant, though, he wasn't someone she felt like she had about Victoria or Whitman towards, and it made her shiver seeing the boy surrounded by medics. She'd caught a glimpse of the bloodstain spreading across his chest, of his pallid face, but from her current position she couldn't see much aside from his blue shoes and the people bent over him, serious expressions on their faces, blood on their gloves. It was a disturbing distraction, one almost but not quite strong enough to chase the horrible worry from her mind.
Mina sat and stared and waited. This would be okay. They were looking for everyone. They'd promised her. If there was any chance, they'd do what they could. They had to.
She wasn't sure how she was going to live with herself otherwise.
F01 - Mina Mashall: Rescued
Everything had gone wrong.
Dakota could feel the blood flowing down her face. Every movement threatened to make her black out. She didn't know how much blood she had lost, but her brain was trying to tell her that it was a lot. Fortunately, those panicked thoughts were being suppressed by the fact that her brain was putting all its effort into forcing her body to stay conscious. A lot had gone wrong to get her to the point she was at. So much that she didn't really know where to start.
-----
Losing Morgan had been the start of the problems. He had guided them on a long, looping trek around the villages cramped streets until they had lost him around one of the many blind corners and that had been him gone. Dakota had never seen him again. That had just left her with KeKe, and Dakota as much she felt bad for what she did had known it was never going to work. KeKe didn't like her, that was easy to see.
She had snuck away during the night. Dakota thought it was better than staying. KeKe still had a weapon, Dakota had left her with that. She hadn't seen KeKe since then either.
She had no idea what had happened to either of them. Maybe she never would.
-----
There was no way to fix any of what had happened. She had been doomed from the start she had known that but somehow being stuck in a purgatory was worse. She had no weapon and therefore no real way to defend herself but she had gone hours without seeing someone else. Somehow she managed to travel around the arena that had been dumped in without seeing anyone else.
That wasn't strictly true, she had heard people often enough and seen glimpses of figures moving in windows or in the distance but they vanished as soon as she tried to get a good look at them. She hid from any voices as well. She was a ghost within the town or surrounded by the ghosts of the town, she didn't know which. It was starting to weigh on her.
Her actions within the game could barely be measured, it was like she had ceased to exist as soon as she had left the hall. Her parents would never see her again. Their last memory of her would be when she left for school that morning and they reassured her that everything was going to be fine.
-----
She had woken up that morning from a nightmare. Someone had been watching her sleep. The dream bled away from the walls and revealed her bedroom. She had been safe the whole time. It was hard to reconcile because everything had felt so real at the time. Her parents had reassured her over breakfast—as they did every year. But her mood had been dark when she left and she spoke even less than usual.
As she had been getting dressed she had thrown on her Last of a Dying Breed t-shirt on a whim. She had never worn it outside of the safety of her house or the reservation before. She had always been scared of attracting attention when wearing it but for some reason, she had decided to wear it. No one was going to see it. She had a hoodie on over it, but it felt like a private rebellion, a small personal victory.
-----
It would be stained with blood know she thought through the haze of pain that was overtaking her. Everything hurt and she could see the blood dripping from her face onto the floor.
Her own private rebellion had ended up meaning nothing in the end.
Not in comparison to everything else.
-----
She had been in her house, curled up asleep in her bed when she had awoken to the feeling of someone watching her sleep. The dream bled away from the walls and revealed the house she had been hiding in. There was a person watching her. He had been stood a few steps away from her, the first person she had seen since she had lost track of everything. There was something large, round and metal in his hand.
There was a heavy pause as neither of them moved.
She reached out for her bag, which had been serving as her pillow but he had been too quick, lunging forward and holding her down while tearing her pack out of her grasp.
-----
Justin was someone she had known from school. He was on the school football team while she was a cheerleader. Aside from his love of the military he had always been a friendly and cool guy. He had always been respectful in discussions she remembered and was popular. He had always tried to make her feel welcome, or as welcome as someone like her could have been in the popular circle.
She always remembered that he always looked surprised due to his large eyes and high eyebrows. It had always been something of a joke between everyone in the popular group. He had always chuckled and accepted it.
-----
One of her eyes was dark, pitch black. The other slowly dimmed and reopened as her consciousness drifted.
A jolt in her movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her body and focussed its vision.
The other eye stayed dark.
-----
Now those eyes were angry and focused on her.
She had lashed out and hit him below the belt, loosening his grip enough for her to run.
He was left holding her pack.
-----
She had always loved running.
Even after her true passion for it was gone she had run as an escape.
Joining the track team had been a mistake, an awful experience had taken her passion from her and smothered it. It had taken a lot for her to resuscitate it.
After that, she ran because it allowed her to truly be herself for however long she decided to run for.
She ran.
It was what she did.
It was what she loved doing.
She kept running and she didn't stop.
-----
Her pack hit her in the back, one of the straps tangling her leg up and tripping her.
She crashed to the cold, hard stone floor of the village and she realized the amount of noise that surrounded them.
Justin was on her in an instant.
He pushed all his weight on top of her, his legs on either side and batted her hands away with his free one.
She bit him.
In response, he brought the shot put down onto her face.
Lights exploded and danced in her vision and before she had time to register what had happened the shot put landed again.
She stopped fighting with her arms and used them to cover her face but he didn't stop.
The blows kept landing.
She hadn't even been aware that people were yelling until Justin stopped hitting her.
There had been two loud bursts of noise and he was thrown off of her.
-----
They'd always been told that the American military were heroes.
She had never truly believed that.
"Oh fuckin' hell." One of her saviors had said as they looked down at her. He glanced up at one of the others. "She's still breathing mate."
"Ox get over here now!" The other had shouted to someone she couldn't see.
She couldn't place their accents.
They both crouched down next to her and one spoke into a microphone she couldn't see.
"This is Henderson, we have one here with serious injuries. Ox and Sturridge are here with me and we're going to evac, over."
There was a pause as they received a reply.
"One of their classmates we reckon."
Another pause.
"Yeah, I know mate. It's right fucked."
-----
Dakota could feel the blood flowing down her face. Every movement threatened to make her black out. She didn't know how much blood she had lost, but her brain was trying to tell her that it was a lot.
Fortunately, she was being carried by one of the British soldiers that had rescued her and the helicopter was in sight.
Last of a Dying Breed
The irony of everything.
-----
As they were loading her onto the helicopter one of the soldiers asked her a question.
"What's your name?"
"D-Dakota..."
There was a long pause.
"Fuck they even named you after their shite country."
Dakota could feel the blood flowing down her face. Every movement threatened to make her black out. She didn't know how much blood she had lost, but her brain was trying to tell her that it was a lot. Fortunately, those panicked thoughts were being suppressed by the fact that her brain was putting all its effort into forcing her body to stay conscious. A lot had gone wrong to get her to the point she was at. So much that she didn't really know where to start.
-----
Losing Morgan had been the start of the problems. He had guided them on a long, looping trek around the villages cramped streets until they had lost him around one of the many blind corners and that had been him gone. Dakota had never seen him again. That had just left her with KeKe, and Dakota as much she felt bad for what she did had known it was never going to work. KeKe didn't like her, that was easy to see.
She had snuck away during the night. Dakota thought it was better than staying. KeKe still had a weapon, Dakota had left her with that. She hadn't seen KeKe since then either.
She had no idea what had happened to either of them. Maybe she never would.
-----
There was no way to fix any of what had happened. She had been doomed from the start she had known that but somehow being stuck in a purgatory was worse. She had no weapon and therefore no real way to defend herself but she had gone hours without seeing someone else. Somehow she managed to travel around the arena that had been dumped in without seeing anyone else.
That wasn't strictly true, she had heard people often enough and seen glimpses of figures moving in windows or in the distance but they vanished as soon as she tried to get a good look at them. She hid from any voices as well. She was a ghost within the town or surrounded by the ghosts of the town, she didn't know which. It was starting to weigh on her.
Her actions within the game could barely be measured, it was like she had ceased to exist as soon as she had left the hall. Her parents would never see her again. Their last memory of her would be when she left for school that morning and they reassured her that everything was going to be fine.
-----
She had woken up that morning from a nightmare. Someone had been watching her sleep. The dream bled away from the walls and revealed her bedroom. She had been safe the whole time. It was hard to reconcile because everything had felt so real at the time. Her parents had reassured her over breakfast—as they did every year. But her mood had been dark when she left and she spoke even less than usual.
As she had been getting dressed she had thrown on her Last of a Dying Breed t-shirt on a whim. She had never worn it outside of the safety of her house or the reservation before. She had always been scared of attracting attention when wearing it but for some reason, she had decided to wear it. No one was going to see it. She had a hoodie on over it, but it felt like a private rebellion, a small personal victory.
-----
It would be stained with blood know she thought through the haze of pain that was overtaking her. Everything hurt and she could see the blood dripping from her face onto the floor.
Her own private rebellion had ended up meaning nothing in the end.
Not in comparison to everything else.
-----
She had been in her house, curled up asleep in her bed when she had awoken to the feeling of someone watching her sleep. The dream bled away from the walls and revealed the house she had been hiding in. There was a person watching her. He had been stood a few steps away from her, the first person she had seen since she had lost track of everything. There was something large, round and metal in his hand.
There was a heavy pause as neither of them moved.
She reached out for her bag, which had been serving as her pillow but he had been too quick, lunging forward and holding her down while tearing her pack out of her grasp.
-----
Justin was someone she had known from school. He was on the school football team while she was a cheerleader. Aside from his love of the military he had always been a friendly and cool guy. He had always been respectful in discussions she remembered and was popular. He had always tried to make her feel welcome, or as welcome as someone like her could have been in the popular circle.
She always remembered that he always looked surprised due to his large eyes and high eyebrows. It had always been something of a joke between everyone in the popular group. He had always chuckled and accepted it.
-----
One of her eyes was dark, pitch black. The other slowly dimmed and reopened as her consciousness drifted.
A jolt in her movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her body and focussed its vision.
The other eye stayed dark.
-----
Now those eyes were angry and focused on her.
She had lashed out and hit him below the belt, loosening his grip enough for her to run.
He was left holding her pack.
-----
She had always loved running.
Even after her true passion for it was gone she had run as an escape.
Joining the track team had been a mistake, an awful experience had taken her passion from her and smothered it. It had taken a lot for her to resuscitate it.
After that, she ran because it allowed her to truly be herself for however long she decided to run for.
She ran.
It was what she did.
It was what she loved doing.
She kept running and she didn't stop.
-----
Her pack hit her in the back, one of the straps tangling her leg up and tripping her.
She crashed to the cold, hard stone floor of the village and she realized the amount of noise that surrounded them.
Justin was on her in an instant.
He pushed all his weight on top of her, his legs on either side and batted her hands away with his free one.
She bit him.
In response, he brought the shot put down onto her face.
Lights exploded and danced in her vision and before she had time to register what had happened the shot put landed again.
She stopped fighting with her arms and used them to cover her face but he didn't stop.
The blows kept landing.
She hadn't even been aware that people were yelling until Justin stopped hitting her.
There had been two loud bursts of noise and he was thrown off of her.
-----
They'd always been told that the American military were heroes.
She had never truly believed that.
"Oh fuckin' hell." One of her saviors had said as they looked down at her. He glanced up at one of the others. "She's still breathing mate."
"Ox get over here now!" The other had shouted to someone she couldn't see.
She couldn't place their accents.
They both crouched down next to her and one spoke into a microphone she couldn't see.
"This is Henderson, we have one here with serious injuries. Ox and Sturridge are here with me and we're going to evac, over."
There was a pause as they received a reply.
"One of their classmates we reckon."
Another pause.
"Yeah, I know mate. It's right fucked."
-----
Dakota could feel the blood flowing down her face. Every movement threatened to make her black out. She didn't know how much blood she had lost, but her brain was trying to tell her that it was a lot.
Fortunately, she was being carried by one of the British soldiers that had rescued her and the helicopter was in sight.
Last of a Dying Breed
The irony of everything.
-----
As they were loading her onto the helicopter one of the soldiers asked her a question.
"What's your name?"
"D-Dakota..."
There was a long pause.
"Fuck they even named you after their shite country."
F25: Dakota Hightower - Rescued
((M27 - Michael Baird continued from Tras el cristal))
It didn’t take long for Ambrose to die. Not surprising considering what Michael had just done to him.
It made for the second time in two days that Michael had seen someone take buckshot to the chest and it wasn’t any prettier now than it was then. If anything it was worse due to Ambrose being slightly farther away than under Michael’s boot; whereas Zach had died instantly as the pellets ripped through him Ambrose got to live for a few seconds more after being shot.
At least, it was probably only a few seconds; the sounds of Ambrose trying to breathe through a mouthful of blood seemed to last for a long time but it was probably only Michael imagination that made it seem so long. When it had finally stopped Michael waited around for a few moments longer, maybe a minute, to see if there were any last signs of life left in the guy before he made a move to leave.
When he eventually did move it was to pick up the knife lying next to Iago’s body and wipe the bloody blade off on the boy trousers, since most of his torso was too covered in blood to use. Maybe he’d use it, maybe he wouldn’t, at this point he didn’t really care; it seemed like something that might be useful so he took it. Turning away from the grisly scene Michael walked back across the yard and through the open door into the house, closing it behind him, and went straight upstairs to find the nearest bedroom.
Fuck this day. He was ready for it to be over. Fuck checking the rest of the house; if they hadn’t been scared off by the shit that just went down then good for them. Michael just wanted to sleep. He was suddenly feeling very drained. He’d been awake for over a day now as far as he could tell, starting from the fight with Zach to walking up and down the island only to end back right where he’d began and for this mess to happen. Had he rested somewhere in between? He couldn’t remember. Probably not, or not for long at least.
He pushed open a door and saw a bedroom on the other side and immediately moved towards the bed. It was a single, he probably wasn’t in the master bedroom, but it would do. Michael propped the shotgun up against the bedside table and place the knife on top before unceremoniously letting his bag drop to the ground with a thud. He sat down on the bed and felt the shitty mattress sink under his weight, but at this point he could have slept on cold concrete. Lying down on the bed Michael closed his eyes.
He should probably take his boots off, or his jacket. Justifications of leaving them on in case he needed to leave in a hurry flashed through his mind, but at this point it would take a war breaking out to make Michael get up and move again. The boots could stay.
It had been a long day. He’d become a mass murdered in the space of 36 hours. He’d seen and done things that nobody should ever have to all for the sake of his country and he’d done it willingly; not proudly, or gleefully, but willingly. It hadn’t mattered that they were his classmates, that he’d known them prior to this, or that they’d done nothing to deserve any of this. The only thing that mattered was doing what was expected of him.
… Mostly.
He’d done it for his country, because it was what was demanded of him as a participant of the Program. Mostly he’d done it because he had to, but a little part of him shot Ambrose because he wanted to.
----
Multiple helicopters descended on the northern dwellings, each landing at different point on the outskirts of the area, each dispersing a small cadre of soldiers who each split up into squads of three or four before spreading out. The small teams began combing through the area, moving street by street, building by building as they searched for survivors; they moved swiftly, professionally, securing whoever they found and sending them towards the helicopters before continuing.
The team that reached Michael’s building first were met with a gruesome scene. Sadly, it was nothing they hadn’t seen before, it wouldn’t even be the last time they saw something like that today; they checked each body for signs of life, even though it was obvious neither stood a chance, before approached the building.
Moving cautiously the lead soldier opened the door and the group entered the building like ghosts, barely making a sound as they cleared the bottom floor; not that any amount of noise was likely to wake Michael any time soon. Before long two of their group split off to search upstairs.
Michael was visible from the landing, having left the door open in his haste, and the two soldiers approached him with their rifles lowered but ready to be raised in an instant; rescue or not, kids or not, they were in enemy territory and the people they were here to rescue were potentially armed, scared and trigger happy. It was likely they would suffer at least one casualty today and neither of them wanted to be that statistic.
Seeing the weapons on the bedside table one soldier moved forward to claim them, sliding his rifle around to his back and replacing it with the shotgun before picking up the knife with the hand supporting the barrel. With Michael effectively disarmed the other soldier stepped out of the room, keeping an eye on the sleeping boy as he did so, and reached a hand to his ear to radio his superior.
“Sir. We’ve found another one.” He kept his voice low to avoid rousing the teen, which was also the entire reason he was using the comms instead of just calling down the stairs.
“Alive?”
He took one more look at the kid on the bed. At first glance it didn’t look like it. He was covered in blood, all over his stomach and hands mostly but there were a few splatters as far up as his chin as well; he didn’t look any better off than those two poor souls outside. And yet, a quick look down at Michael’s chest was all it to confirm the opposite, rising rhythmically as it was in time with his breathing. “Yes sir. Just sleeping.”
“Wake him. We’ll be right up.”
----
It was a dreamless sleep, probably the last one he would have for a while that wasn’t plagued by images of bloodied corpses and pleading faces. He was woken by the feeling of something patting his leg. He shook it off, his leg twitching to throw off whatever it was, only for the feeling to return with efforts redoubled.
Slowly, reluctantly his eyes cracked open and he began to take in the sights of an unfamiliar bedroom, his mind taking a while to come around to conclusion that this wasn’t just another normal morning he was waking up to. Groggily he came to his senses, first remembering where he was, then why he was there, before finally becoming aware of the two figures standing just inside the room.
“Shit.” Michael rolled towards the edge of the bed and threw out a hand to reach for the bedside table where he had left his weapons, both soldiers tensing up as he nearly knocked the table over in his haste and his landed hard on his knees. His weapons weren’t there, his shotgun and his knife missing, and a ball of cold dread landed in the pit of his stomach at the realisation.
He looked to the side and saw his own weapon being pointed towards him, the solider holding his shotgun having raised it in preparation to fire when he had suddenly jumped out of bed towards them. Michael stared down the barrel for several seconds before he was finally able to tear his eyes away long enough to look at who was holding it, only to frown in confusion when all he saw was a face completely obscured by a balaclava, goggles and a helmet.
These weren’t what he had expected. They weren’t student like himself, they were soldiers, professionals. They had to be with clothes and weapons like that.
What were they doing here? Where they here for him? He couldn’t have won, could he? It was possible the last other survivor had died while he was asleep but he’d never heard of a Program ending this quickly. Was the Program cancelled? And what exactly did that mean for him if it was? Questions flew through his mind far too quickly for him to process them all, thoughts and fears all rushing by while his still sleep-addled mind tried to keep up.
Footsteps out in the hallways behind them signalled the arrival of two more soldiers just as heavily armed as the first two. The soldier not holding his shotgun stepped aside to allow one of the soldiers through, probably the one in charge even though he wore no rank or insignias on his uniform; none of them did, and Michael knew enough about military action to know that couldn’t be a good thing.
Either they were here to collect him, or he was going to die in the very immediate future. In either case, there wasn’t much for Michael to do other than accept his fate. He pushed away from the bedside table slowly, all too aware of the shotgun that was still trained on him and the implied threat of the guns that could join it, until he was standing on his knees before the soldiers. He placed his hands together behind his lowered head, surrendering to whatever came next.
One stepped forward and Michael tensed up in response, expecting a bullet to arrive at any second, only for the soldier to wordlessly walk around behind him and grab his wrist. His arms were firmly, but not forcibly, moved into position behind his back and a zip tie fastened around them to lock them in place. Once this was done the soldier gave him a couple pats on the shoulder and stepped back.
It seemed they really were here just to collect him. Michael couldn’t help but let out a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding, a little surprised to hear just had ragged and raw it sounded; he really had thought he was going to die. The idea came a lot easier than he thought it would, the thought that his own Government might just decide to kill him, whether because the Program was cancelled or he really was the winner and he was no longer needed. He was relieved that wasn’t the case. “Is the Program over?”
The soldier standing behind him placed a hand under his armpit and began to help Michael to his feet. “Yeah mate. It’s over.”
Michael froze on one knee. He’d begun to rise when the soldier prompted him to but as soon as he’d heard that voice, that accent, he’d stopped. That… wasn’t an American voice, not one he’d ever heard anyway. “Who are you?”
He heard the soldier behind him sigh but the one in front, the one he’d pegged as the leader, was the one that answer. “We’re with the British army. We’re here to rescue you.”
Rescue? The British army has sent armed soldiers here, to the Program, to rescue them? Why? What did the lives of a few dozen American teenagers mean to the enemy?
Oh yeah, that was it. Rescue them and take them back to Britain most likely. Rescue them from the horrors of America and take them straight to an ‘undisclosed location’ for safe keeping. See how great and noble Britain was? Saving those kids from the Program? Never mind that they would probably all disappear after all the propaganda pictures had been taken. This wasn’t a rescue; it was a kidnapping, an abduction. It was an attack on American citizens.
Michael tensed up again, eyes flicking from side to side as he looked around the room, taking in the soldiers in front and behind him, looking for a way out. Could he try and fight? He felt the hand on his arm tighten, almost as if the guy holding him could read his mind. Dammit, he wouldn’t last five seconds if he tried to fight his way out of this; he shouldn’t have tried to run before they tied his hands, but back then he thought they had been American troops. He’d die if he tried to fight back now.
Should he try it anyway?
“You can choose not to leave.” Any further thought was interrupted as Michael raised his head to look at the team leader again. “We’re not going to force anyone to come with us. It’s your choice to make.”
And what would happen to him if he said he wanted to stay? What would they do if he told them he wouldn’t become their hostage? What would he have done? “I’ll go.”
The leader nodded and Michael was hauled roughly to his feet. The soldier maintained his grip on Michaels arm, making it clear that any thoughts about running were pointless. “You got any other weapons on you?” Michael kept his mouth shut. “We’ll find them anyway when you search you anyway. You might as well be honest with us.”
“… Jacket. Right pocket.” He felt a hand slip into his jacket and start moving around and grit his teeth in frustration until the hand came back holding a set of bloody brass knuckles. The soldier made a disgusted noise before discarding the item, tossing it back onto the bed, and nodding towards his superior.
The group began to file out of the room; the leader and the other soldier led the way, then Michael and his guard who gave him a firm push to get his moving, with the shotgun holder bringing up the rear. They descended the stair, passed through the living room, down the hallway and out the open door and onto the street. Michael can’t help but let his eyes be drawn to the dreadful scene lying on the ground only a few feet away, his eyes lingering on the bodies of Iago and Ambrose as they walked past them.
“Did you kill them?” The soldier guiding him by the arm must have noticed where his gaze was pointing. Michael ignores the question and the team leader calls the soldiers name with a warning tone in his voice. They continue to walk down the street in silence for a few moments longer, before Michael feels compelled to break it.
“… yeah”
“Why?”
The simplicity of the question hits Michael hard. This time there is no warning from the team leader, either because he doesn’t care, is curious himself or doesn’t think there’s any point. For a moment Michael considered not answering, he probably shouldn’t be talking to these soldiers anyway, to his captors. Honestly his answer wouldn’t be a very good one anyway, it essentially amounted to ‘I was just following orders’ which is something that they should understand, but it probably wasn’t the answer they were looking for.
“Did you kill anyone else?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“One more. Three total.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what were we supposed to do.”
The remainder of the walk to the helicopter was undertaken in silence.
M27 - Michael Baird rescued
It didn’t take long for Ambrose to die. Not surprising considering what Michael had just done to him.
It made for the second time in two days that Michael had seen someone take buckshot to the chest and it wasn’t any prettier now than it was then. If anything it was worse due to Ambrose being slightly farther away than under Michael’s boot; whereas Zach had died instantly as the pellets ripped through him Ambrose got to live for a few seconds more after being shot.
At least, it was probably only a few seconds; the sounds of Ambrose trying to breathe through a mouthful of blood seemed to last for a long time but it was probably only Michael imagination that made it seem so long. When it had finally stopped Michael waited around for a few moments longer, maybe a minute, to see if there were any last signs of life left in the guy before he made a move to leave.
When he eventually did move it was to pick up the knife lying next to Iago’s body and wipe the bloody blade off on the boy trousers, since most of his torso was too covered in blood to use. Maybe he’d use it, maybe he wouldn’t, at this point he didn’t really care; it seemed like something that might be useful so he took it. Turning away from the grisly scene Michael walked back across the yard and through the open door into the house, closing it behind him, and went straight upstairs to find the nearest bedroom.
Fuck this day. He was ready for it to be over. Fuck checking the rest of the house; if they hadn’t been scared off by the shit that just went down then good for them. Michael just wanted to sleep. He was suddenly feeling very drained. He’d been awake for over a day now as far as he could tell, starting from the fight with Zach to walking up and down the island only to end back right where he’d began and for this mess to happen. Had he rested somewhere in between? He couldn’t remember. Probably not, or not for long at least.
He pushed open a door and saw a bedroom on the other side and immediately moved towards the bed. It was a single, he probably wasn’t in the master bedroom, but it would do. Michael propped the shotgun up against the bedside table and place the knife on top before unceremoniously letting his bag drop to the ground with a thud. He sat down on the bed and felt the shitty mattress sink under his weight, but at this point he could have slept on cold concrete. Lying down on the bed Michael closed his eyes.
He should probably take his boots off, or his jacket. Justifications of leaving them on in case he needed to leave in a hurry flashed through his mind, but at this point it would take a war breaking out to make Michael get up and move again. The boots could stay.
It had been a long day. He’d become a mass murdered in the space of 36 hours. He’d seen and done things that nobody should ever have to all for the sake of his country and he’d done it willingly; not proudly, or gleefully, but willingly. It hadn’t mattered that they were his classmates, that he’d known them prior to this, or that they’d done nothing to deserve any of this. The only thing that mattered was doing what was expected of him.
… Mostly.
He’d done it for his country, because it was what was demanded of him as a participant of the Program. Mostly he’d done it because he had to, but a little part of him shot Ambrose because he wanted to.
----
Multiple helicopters descended on the northern dwellings, each landing at different point on the outskirts of the area, each dispersing a small cadre of soldiers who each split up into squads of three or four before spreading out. The small teams began combing through the area, moving street by street, building by building as they searched for survivors; they moved swiftly, professionally, securing whoever they found and sending them towards the helicopters before continuing.
The team that reached Michael’s building first were met with a gruesome scene. Sadly, it was nothing they hadn’t seen before, it wouldn’t even be the last time they saw something like that today; they checked each body for signs of life, even though it was obvious neither stood a chance, before approached the building.
Moving cautiously the lead soldier opened the door and the group entered the building like ghosts, barely making a sound as they cleared the bottom floor; not that any amount of noise was likely to wake Michael any time soon. Before long two of their group split off to search upstairs.
Michael was visible from the landing, having left the door open in his haste, and the two soldiers approached him with their rifles lowered but ready to be raised in an instant; rescue or not, kids or not, they were in enemy territory and the people they were here to rescue were potentially armed, scared and trigger happy. It was likely they would suffer at least one casualty today and neither of them wanted to be that statistic.
Seeing the weapons on the bedside table one soldier moved forward to claim them, sliding his rifle around to his back and replacing it with the shotgun before picking up the knife with the hand supporting the barrel. With Michael effectively disarmed the other soldier stepped out of the room, keeping an eye on the sleeping boy as he did so, and reached a hand to his ear to radio his superior.
“Sir. We’ve found another one.” He kept his voice low to avoid rousing the teen, which was also the entire reason he was using the comms instead of just calling down the stairs.
“Alive?”
He took one more look at the kid on the bed. At first glance it didn’t look like it. He was covered in blood, all over his stomach and hands mostly but there were a few splatters as far up as his chin as well; he didn’t look any better off than those two poor souls outside. And yet, a quick look down at Michael’s chest was all it to confirm the opposite, rising rhythmically as it was in time with his breathing. “Yes sir. Just sleeping.”
“Wake him. We’ll be right up.”
----
It was a dreamless sleep, probably the last one he would have for a while that wasn’t plagued by images of bloodied corpses and pleading faces. He was woken by the feeling of something patting his leg. He shook it off, his leg twitching to throw off whatever it was, only for the feeling to return with efforts redoubled.
Slowly, reluctantly his eyes cracked open and he began to take in the sights of an unfamiliar bedroom, his mind taking a while to come around to conclusion that this wasn’t just another normal morning he was waking up to. Groggily he came to his senses, first remembering where he was, then why he was there, before finally becoming aware of the two figures standing just inside the room.
“Shit.” Michael rolled towards the edge of the bed and threw out a hand to reach for the bedside table where he had left his weapons, both soldiers tensing up as he nearly knocked the table over in his haste and his landed hard on his knees. His weapons weren’t there, his shotgun and his knife missing, and a ball of cold dread landed in the pit of his stomach at the realisation.
He looked to the side and saw his own weapon being pointed towards him, the solider holding his shotgun having raised it in preparation to fire when he had suddenly jumped out of bed towards them. Michael stared down the barrel for several seconds before he was finally able to tear his eyes away long enough to look at who was holding it, only to frown in confusion when all he saw was a face completely obscured by a balaclava, goggles and a helmet.
These weren’t what he had expected. They weren’t student like himself, they were soldiers, professionals. They had to be with clothes and weapons like that.
What were they doing here? Where they here for him? He couldn’t have won, could he? It was possible the last other survivor had died while he was asleep but he’d never heard of a Program ending this quickly. Was the Program cancelled? And what exactly did that mean for him if it was? Questions flew through his mind far too quickly for him to process them all, thoughts and fears all rushing by while his still sleep-addled mind tried to keep up.
Footsteps out in the hallways behind them signalled the arrival of two more soldiers just as heavily armed as the first two. The soldier not holding his shotgun stepped aside to allow one of the soldiers through, probably the one in charge even though he wore no rank or insignias on his uniform; none of them did, and Michael knew enough about military action to know that couldn’t be a good thing.
Either they were here to collect him, or he was going to die in the very immediate future. In either case, there wasn’t much for Michael to do other than accept his fate. He pushed away from the bedside table slowly, all too aware of the shotgun that was still trained on him and the implied threat of the guns that could join it, until he was standing on his knees before the soldiers. He placed his hands together behind his lowered head, surrendering to whatever came next.
One stepped forward and Michael tensed up in response, expecting a bullet to arrive at any second, only for the soldier to wordlessly walk around behind him and grab his wrist. His arms were firmly, but not forcibly, moved into position behind his back and a zip tie fastened around them to lock them in place. Once this was done the soldier gave him a couple pats on the shoulder and stepped back.
It seemed they really were here just to collect him. Michael couldn’t help but let out a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding, a little surprised to hear just had ragged and raw it sounded; he really had thought he was going to die. The idea came a lot easier than he thought it would, the thought that his own Government might just decide to kill him, whether because the Program was cancelled or he really was the winner and he was no longer needed. He was relieved that wasn’t the case. “Is the Program over?”
The soldier standing behind him placed a hand under his armpit and began to help Michael to his feet. “Yeah mate. It’s over.”
Michael froze on one knee. He’d begun to rise when the soldier prompted him to but as soon as he’d heard that voice, that accent, he’d stopped. That… wasn’t an American voice, not one he’d ever heard anyway. “Who are you?”
He heard the soldier behind him sigh but the one in front, the one he’d pegged as the leader, was the one that answer. “We’re with the British army. We’re here to rescue you.”
Rescue? The British army has sent armed soldiers here, to the Program, to rescue them? Why? What did the lives of a few dozen American teenagers mean to the enemy?
Oh yeah, that was it. Rescue them and take them back to Britain most likely. Rescue them from the horrors of America and take them straight to an ‘undisclosed location’ for safe keeping. See how great and noble Britain was? Saving those kids from the Program? Never mind that they would probably all disappear after all the propaganda pictures had been taken. This wasn’t a rescue; it was a kidnapping, an abduction. It was an attack on American citizens.
Michael tensed up again, eyes flicking from side to side as he looked around the room, taking in the soldiers in front and behind him, looking for a way out. Could he try and fight? He felt the hand on his arm tighten, almost as if the guy holding him could read his mind. Dammit, he wouldn’t last five seconds if he tried to fight his way out of this; he shouldn’t have tried to run before they tied his hands, but back then he thought they had been American troops. He’d die if he tried to fight back now.
Should he try it anyway?
“You can choose not to leave.” Any further thought was interrupted as Michael raised his head to look at the team leader again. “We’re not going to force anyone to come with us. It’s your choice to make.”
And what would happen to him if he said he wanted to stay? What would they do if he told them he wouldn’t become their hostage? What would he have done? “I’ll go.”
The leader nodded and Michael was hauled roughly to his feet. The soldier maintained his grip on Michaels arm, making it clear that any thoughts about running were pointless. “You got any other weapons on you?” Michael kept his mouth shut. “We’ll find them anyway when you search you anyway. You might as well be honest with us.”
“… Jacket. Right pocket.” He felt a hand slip into his jacket and start moving around and grit his teeth in frustration until the hand came back holding a set of bloody brass knuckles. The soldier made a disgusted noise before discarding the item, tossing it back onto the bed, and nodding towards his superior.
The group began to file out of the room; the leader and the other soldier led the way, then Michael and his guard who gave him a firm push to get his moving, with the shotgun holder bringing up the rear. They descended the stair, passed through the living room, down the hallway and out the open door and onto the street. Michael can’t help but let his eyes be drawn to the dreadful scene lying on the ground only a few feet away, his eyes lingering on the bodies of Iago and Ambrose as they walked past them.
“Did you kill them?” The soldier guiding him by the arm must have noticed where his gaze was pointing. Michael ignores the question and the team leader calls the soldiers name with a warning tone in his voice. They continue to walk down the street in silence for a few moments longer, before Michael feels compelled to break it.
“… yeah”
“Why?”
The simplicity of the question hits Michael hard. This time there is no warning from the team leader, either because he doesn’t care, is curious himself or doesn’t think there’s any point. For a moment Michael considered not answering, he probably shouldn’t be talking to these soldiers anyway, to his captors. Honestly his answer wouldn’t be a very good one anyway, it essentially amounted to ‘I was just following orders’ which is something that they should understand, but it probably wasn’t the answer they were looking for.
“Did you kill anyone else?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“One more. Three total.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what were we supposed to do.”
The remainder of the walk to the helicopter was undertaken in silence.
M27 - Michael Baird rescued
"Potter, where the hell are you?"
Potter made a grumbling noise. He didn’t need distractions right now, especially not in the form of a reminder that they were reaching the very end of their window to be gone.
Would serve him right for being a total bleeding heart, go out for one more run into the town and wind up trying to give desperate medical care to a kid who was probably going to die anyway and had probably murdered a couple of other kids along the way.
But they were still kids. Fucked as this all was, what any of them may have done, they were kids. Kids in an impossible situation.
”Nearly there,” Potter said into his radio.
”Hurry your arses up.”
Yes sir, hurrying sir, sorry that he was desperately trying to avoid jostling this schoolgirl whose stomach was held together with a field dressing and prayers.
Hedley had stopped speaking when they found their first dead kid. He hadn’t said a word since.
Took a lot, to get Hedley to shut up, but a warzone of child soldiers, that’d do it.
Fuck this country.
The choppers appeared up ahead of them. Potter managed to bite off a thank christ to speak into his radio again.
”Another for the medics, here.”
”Bloody hell. We got here an hour later and there wouldn’t have been fuck all to save.”
Potter agreed, even as his colleague was shouted down for the poor radio discipline. Tensions, understandably, were high as hell. They had a limited extraction window and that was still operating off of best-guess intelligence. If any of their information was faulty, they’d take to the air and be blown to pieces by missiles, jets.
He was… trying not to think about that.
Hedley and the third member of the group peeled off to get into another chopper and get ready to go. Potter carried the girl over to the helicopter which was doubling as the world’s grimmest field hospital.
One of the medics, a short black man with a military crop, straightened from a makeshift cot and swore.
“We lost him. Fuck!” He kicked the side of the cot.
“That’s enough,” said O’Sullivan, the officer in charge. “Drop him, then on to the next one.”
The first medic closed his eyes and knuckled his head, let out a sigh. “Yessir.”
“Potter, bring her over here and buckle up. No time for any others.”
Potter stood by as the medic removed the body—a blonde boy, long hair—from the cot and then the chopper, lay down an unbloodied blanket, and then gestured.
As gently as he could, Potter put the girl down.
Then, he walked across to the opposite side and sat down heavily.
He was going to sleep for a year.
M30 - Grant Gault: Bled Out
F05 - Charlie Cade: Didn't
Potter made a grumbling noise. He didn’t need distractions right now, especially not in the form of a reminder that they were reaching the very end of their window to be gone.
Would serve him right for being a total bleeding heart, go out for one more run into the town and wind up trying to give desperate medical care to a kid who was probably going to die anyway and had probably murdered a couple of other kids along the way.
But they were still kids. Fucked as this all was, what any of them may have done, they were kids. Kids in an impossible situation.
”Nearly there,” Potter said into his radio.
”Hurry your arses up.”
Yes sir, hurrying sir, sorry that he was desperately trying to avoid jostling this schoolgirl whose stomach was held together with a field dressing and prayers.
Hedley had stopped speaking when they found their first dead kid. He hadn’t said a word since.
Took a lot, to get Hedley to shut up, but a warzone of child soldiers, that’d do it.
Fuck this country.
The choppers appeared up ahead of them. Potter managed to bite off a thank christ to speak into his radio again.
”Another for the medics, here.”
”Bloody hell. We got here an hour later and there wouldn’t have been fuck all to save.”
Potter agreed, even as his colleague was shouted down for the poor radio discipline. Tensions, understandably, were high as hell. They had a limited extraction window and that was still operating off of best-guess intelligence. If any of their information was faulty, they’d take to the air and be blown to pieces by missiles, jets.
He was… trying not to think about that.
Hedley and the third member of the group peeled off to get into another chopper and get ready to go. Potter carried the girl over to the helicopter which was doubling as the world’s grimmest field hospital.
One of the medics, a short black man with a military crop, straightened from a makeshift cot and swore.
“We lost him. Fuck!” He kicked the side of the cot.
“That’s enough,” said O’Sullivan, the officer in charge. “Drop him, then on to the next one.”
The first medic closed his eyes and knuckled his head, let out a sigh. “Yessir.”
“Potter, bring her over here and buckle up. No time for any others.”
Potter stood by as the medic removed the body—a blonde boy, long hair—from the cot and then the chopper, lay down an unbloodied blanket, and then gestured.
As gently as he could, Potter put the girl down.
Then, he walked across to the opposite side and sat down heavily.
He was going to sleep for a year.
M30 - Grant Gault: Bled Out
F05 - Charlie Cade: Didn't
-
randomness
- Posts: 12
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 7:29 am
((Diane Morales continued from Life in the Universe))
Everything seemed to end at once.
Her first instinct had been to run, her second was to hide. Somehow, winning had never felt so distant as after she had killed Otis.
She could still feel the scrapes, the bruises from the day before.
But worse than that the thought that everyone else had always been right.
There seemed to be soldiers everywhere, and it wasn't too hard to notice that they weren't Americans.
She could still fight, of course, go out in some blaze of glory. But, no. She simply followed their instructions, as if mute, walking towards their choppers.
Why had she given up so fast? That was a question she would ask herself again and again as the island dwindled into the distance.
Diane Morales - Rescued
Everything seemed to end at once.
Her first instinct had been to run, her second was to hide. Somehow, winning had never felt so distant as after she had killed Otis.
She could still feel the scrapes, the bruises from the day before.
But worse than that the thought that everyone else had always been right.
There seemed to be soldiers everywhere, and it wasn't too hard to notice that they weren't Americans.
She could still fight, of course, go out in some blaze of glory. But, no. She simply followed their instructions, as if mute, walking towards their choppers.
Why had she given up so fast? That was a question she would ask herself again and again as the island dwindled into the distance.
Diane Morales - Rescued
((Mick Sexsmith & Zeke Brant continued from He Was a Sk8er Boi, She Said See You L8er Boi))
Mick clutched at his wound as he walked. Wilkes – the leader of the squad – was right next to him, holding him steady. Mick had said that he didn't need the help, but Wilkes didn't listen. Mick didn't want to complain after that, the soldiers were already mad enough.
“You're goddamned lucky to be alive, kid. Jesus Christ...” Wilkes said, probably for the fourth or fifth time. Mick wasn't really listening.
The other two soldiers – Mick still didn't know their names - were behind them. One of them was carrying Zeke. The other one had his rifle out, and he was watching Mick like a hawk. In case he tried to do something stupid again.
Mick knew that it was stupid when he was doing it, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. Zeke was being so stubborn. He was going to give up his life just to prove he was a real patriot. It was so stupid, so pointless. Mick couldn't let him do it. But Zeke wouldn't listen. When words didn't work and the soldiers wouldn't help, Mick used the only other idea he had. He thought he could rush Zeke while is back was turned, disarm him, and restrain him somehow. Get him back to the helicopter. Zeke would be angry, but he would be alive.
It was stupid. But what else could he have done? He couldn't let Zeke die.
It all happened so fast. Zeke shot him, the bullet grazing his side. They both fell, and Zeke hit his head on the concrete. The soldiers yelled, told Mick he was lucky that they hadn't filled them both with bullets. Wilkes quickly patched Mick up, told him he'd get more treatment on the helicopter. Zeke was bleeding. He was still barely conscious, mumbling something. Insults, maybe, it was hard to tell. Wilkes said they needed to get him to the copter right away.
By the time they made it to the helicopter, Zeke had been silent for a while. More soldiers came out to meet them. A few of them took Mick away, told him that they had to take a look at his injury. He could see another group go up to Zeke. He could see them laying Zeke out on the ground and examining him. One of them was talking with Wilkes, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. Mick wanted to go back, see what exactly was happening, but the soldiers around him wouldn't let him. His friend would be taken care of, they said. They led him into the chopper.
The medics told him he would be okay. They bandaged him up and left him to wait in the helicopter. He sat there, silent. There were others with him, people he knew from school. He didn't pay any attention to them. He just waited, and waited, and waited.
Eventually, Mick heard someone walking up to him. He raised his head. It was Wilkes. Mick knew what he was going to say. He nodded, then lowered his head again.
Not long afterwards, the rest of the soldiers shuffled in and the helicopter lifted into the sky, taking them away from the Program. Taking them away from the death, from the misery.
Mick expected it to crash.
M12: Mickey Lee Sexsmith - ESCAPED
Mick clutched at his wound as he walked. Wilkes – the leader of the squad – was right next to him, holding him steady. Mick had said that he didn't need the help, but Wilkes didn't listen. Mick didn't want to complain after that, the soldiers were already mad enough.
“You're goddamned lucky to be alive, kid. Jesus Christ...” Wilkes said, probably for the fourth or fifth time. Mick wasn't really listening.
The other two soldiers – Mick still didn't know their names - were behind them. One of them was carrying Zeke. The other one had his rifle out, and he was watching Mick like a hawk. In case he tried to do something stupid again.
Mick knew that it was stupid when he was doing it, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. Zeke was being so stubborn. He was going to give up his life just to prove he was a real patriot. It was so stupid, so pointless. Mick couldn't let him do it. But Zeke wouldn't listen. When words didn't work and the soldiers wouldn't help, Mick used the only other idea he had. He thought he could rush Zeke while is back was turned, disarm him, and restrain him somehow. Get him back to the helicopter. Zeke would be angry, but he would be alive.
It was stupid. But what else could he have done? He couldn't let Zeke die.
It all happened so fast. Zeke shot him, the bullet grazing his side. They both fell, and Zeke hit his head on the concrete. The soldiers yelled, told Mick he was lucky that they hadn't filled them both with bullets. Wilkes quickly patched Mick up, told him he'd get more treatment on the helicopter. Zeke was bleeding. He was still barely conscious, mumbling something. Insults, maybe, it was hard to tell. Wilkes said they needed to get him to the copter right away.
By the time they made it to the helicopter, Zeke had been silent for a while. More soldiers came out to meet them. A few of them took Mick away, told him that they had to take a look at his injury. He could see another group go up to Zeke. He could see them laying Zeke out on the ground and examining him. One of them was talking with Wilkes, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. Mick wanted to go back, see what exactly was happening, but the soldiers around him wouldn't let him. His friend would be taken care of, they said. They led him into the chopper.
The medics told him he would be okay. They bandaged him up and left him to wait in the helicopter. He sat there, silent. There were others with him, people he knew from school. He didn't pay any attention to them. He just waited, and waited, and waited.
Eventually, Mick heard someone walking up to him. He raised his head. It was Wilkes. Mick knew what he was going to say. He nodded, then lowered his head again.
Not long afterwards, the rest of the soldiers shuffled in and the helicopter lifted into the sky, taking them away from the Program. Taking them away from the death, from the misery.
Mick expected it to crash.
M12: Mickey Lee Sexsmith - ESCAPED
-
Somersault
- Posts: 236
- Joined: Wed Aug 08, 2018 9:21 am
She clutched her cross and the rotors of the helicopter slowed, debris flying all around.
The hockey stick was in her bag again. She hadn't had any need to use it, not for a while.
She walked towards the choppers, ponytail still miraculously in place, and uttered a prayer.
Blessed be his name.
She didn't deserve this. But she got her miracle, right then and there.
Yvonne Barnett - Rescued
The hockey stick was in her bag again. She hadn't had any need to use it, not for a while.
She walked towards the choppers, ponytail still miraculously in place, and uttered a prayer.
Blessed be his name.
She didn't deserve this. But she got her miracle, right then and there.
Yvonne Barnett - Rescued
-
Cactus
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2018 6:25 pm
- Location: Toronto, Canada
- Team Affiliation: Malcolm's Mariners
((Continued from here))
So much had happened in such a short time, that it was only natural for some of the stories to go unfinished. Some stories would end more abruptly than the others, and some would tail off, barely worth a mention at all. For two students who had found themselves the unlikeliest of allies, the stories were very similar. They had seen the same people, travelled the same path. But there was one crucial divergence point for both Kate Sanderson and William Apgar, a divergence point that was punctuated with lead.
Neither Kate nor William had expected the gunfire, and when it was all said and done, neither of them had known who was doing the shooting, but that it was going down all the same. It had been in a thick stretch of forest, and they had both scattered in opposite directions.
It hadn't mattered.
The gunfire had taken both of them down.
As the student lay, bleeding, crawling forward and endeavouring to try and escape the thick brush that surrounded them, the sounds of voices were both unfamiliar and hopeful. Maybe someone would be willing to help, someone would be willing to come to their aid.
William Apgar clawed his way through the brush, using vines, bushes, and any tree that he could to allow himself to force his way towards the voices. Dragging himself towards someone else - anyone else could be tantamount to suicide, but the newfound hole in his gut had placed pretty much anything else lower on the priority list.
Emerging from the brush, Willy gasped in surprise as he realized that the voices belonged to soldiers, but ones not clad in the usual black of the United States military. These ones were different, weren't masked, and looked... pleased to see him? Grimacing, he tried to pull himself to his feet and only managed to rise to his knees, using a tree for support.
"H-hey. Over here."
The soldiers noticed him, and pointed in his direction. Willy tensed up, expecting another hail of bullets. Soldiers being here could only mean one thing, and that thing probably meant the end of his life.
But the bullets never came.
Instead, two of the soldiers came over to him, and he felt himself being lifted up by his arms. He groaned in pain, his gunshot wound proving to be more painful than it had been while he was prone. This was probably what Kate had felt when he'd found her on the beach. Nothing but pain.
The soldiers said something - the tone was reassuring, but Willy barely heard the words. They sounded... British? He focused a bit on the words, trying to block out the pain.
"Just hang in there chum, we'll get you right fixed in no time."
Shit. He was being rescued.
And where was Kate?
As the two men carried William through the forest and towards what sounded like a chopper, all that he felt was a burning in the pit of his stomach - gunshot would aside. Kate should have been here - she deserved to be here.
But she wasn't, and Willy couldn't help but feel totally responsible for that.
He tried to say something - to let the men know that Kate was still out there, but the pain got to be too much, and his brain finally started to slip into unconsciousness.
He'd screwed up; he hadn't been paying attention, and she'd paid the price; so close to rescue.
Willy knew that he'd never forget her.
For better, or for worse.
Fuck.
APGAR, WILLIAM -- RESCUED
So much had happened in such a short time, that it was only natural for some of the stories to go unfinished. Some stories would end more abruptly than the others, and some would tail off, barely worth a mention at all. For two students who had found themselves the unlikeliest of allies, the stories were very similar. They had seen the same people, travelled the same path. But there was one crucial divergence point for both Kate Sanderson and William Apgar, a divergence point that was punctuated with lead.
Neither Kate nor William had expected the gunfire, and when it was all said and done, neither of them had known who was doing the shooting, but that it was going down all the same. It had been in a thick stretch of forest, and they had both scattered in opposite directions.
It hadn't mattered.
The gunfire had taken both of them down.
As the student lay, bleeding, crawling forward and endeavouring to try and escape the thick brush that surrounded them, the sounds of voices were both unfamiliar and hopeful. Maybe someone would be willing to help, someone would be willing to come to their aid.
William Apgar clawed his way through the brush, using vines, bushes, and any tree that he could to allow himself to force his way towards the voices. Dragging himself towards someone else - anyone else could be tantamount to suicide, but the newfound hole in his gut had placed pretty much anything else lower on the priority list.
Emerging from the brush, Willy gasped in surprise as he realized that the voices belonged to soldiers, but ones not clad in the usual black of the United States military. These ones were different, weren't masked, and looked... pleased to see him? Grimacing, he tried to pull himself to his feet and only managed to rise to his knees, using a tree for support.
"H-hey. Over here."
The soldiers noticed him, and pointed in his direction. Willy tensed up, expecting another hail of bullets. Soldiers being here could only mean one thing, and that thing probably meant the end of his life.
But the bullets never came.
Instead, two of the soldiers came over to him, and he felt himself being lifted up by his arms. He groaned in pain, his gunshot wound proving to be more painful than it had been while he was prone. This was probably what Kate had felt when he'd found her on the beach. Nothing but pain.
The soldiers said something - the tone was reassuring, but Willy barely heard the words. They sounded... British? He focused a bit on the words, trying to block out the pain.
"Just hang in there chum, we'll get you right fixed in no time."
Shit. He was being rescued.
And where was Kate?
As the two men carried William through the forest and towards what sounded like a chopper, all that he felt was a burning in the pit of his stomach - gunshot would aside. Kate should have been here - she deserved to be here.
But she wasn't, and Willy couldn't help but feel totally responsible for that.
He tried to say something - to let the men know that Kate was still out there, but the pain got to be too much, and his brain finally started to slip into unconsciousness.
He'd screwed up; he hadn't been paying attention, and she'd paid the price; so close to rescue.
Willy knew that he'd never forget her.
For better, or for worse.
Fuck.
APGAR, WILLIAM -- RESCUED