Edit Draft One

[Espi]

((Eric Cunningham continued from First Cut))

Eric had to admit, the depths of the ship's hold was a visually dramatic location. He could imagine a classic cop procedural playing out here, a tense stand-off of armed individuals ready to lay down their lives for some greater purpose. That wasn't terribly off the mark, to be honest, though whether 'killing classmates to stay alive' was equivalent to enacting justice was another thing entirely.

More relevant to Eric was it was quiet and creepy and nobody in their right mind would come here, and if they did he could easily avoid them, which bought him some time. There were sounds of movement, but they could easily be caused by the ship itself, so he was cautious, but opted to leave it be. Instead, he found a small corner, set everything down, and knelt next to the pile to deal with his newfound goods.

Step one; unjam reload the Zip 22, which he did after a few minutes of prying. It was not terribly useful as a gun, and jamming immediately was not encouraging, especially with its small caliber. Still, if he'd hit tree boy in the face, he might have killed him, or at the least, made it trivial to do so with the sword or by dumping him overboard or in the pool or something. Eric swallowed. It had worked out overall at least. He just had to be more cautious with future engagements.

The bag itself was unceremoniously left on the ground; it was too bulky to carry inside his own and carrying two was an enormous red (or blue) flag. Inside he left the squid, the seaweed, and the sub, none of which were appetizing to him. He also left the map, the sextant, and the condom, which were superfluous, superfluous and bulky, and in incredibly poor taste respectively. The irony of people on their last days worrying about pregnancy or transmitted diseases was not lost on him; it just wasn't a funny joke.

As for what he did keep; the crackers and bread were light and portable, as were the Life Savers and Gatorade. Eric didn't like the flavor much but hydration would be important in such a hot environment. He was already sweaty. Speaking of hydration, Eric downed one of the water bottles in one go before putting the other three in his back. Water was heavy, but essential. He considered the rum and kept it; he could throw it in someone's eyes or something if it came down to it.

After some consideration, Eric kept the brand name shirt and the trunks. Wearing another team's colors was begging for suspicion, even if he didn't intent to interact with people, but he also didn't want to be in the situation Gus was now in. Not that he'd have allowed himself to be robbed this way, but still. He threw the colored team clothes onto the top of the crate on the off chance finding them would have helped someone else. Petty, perhaps, but he needed any advantage he could get.

And of course, there was the cutlass. Eric threw up.

It came on suddenly as a rush of mostly-clear fluid spurted forth from his mouth and nose all across the old backpack and food. Retching, stomach clenching tight, Eric felt his chest seize up. Poison? Was it a trick? No way was tree boy smart enough for something like that. He'd just looked through the medicine pack, there was nothing to treat poison. Shit, shit, shit. That wasn't an acceptable outcome. What could he do?

After a couple of moments of hyperventilating, he threw up again. This time, almost nothing came up, leaving foul-smelling drool dribbling down his nose and chin. Eric gasped and panted. Hand shaking, he reached over to the medical kit, and pulled it over. The only medication in there was ibuprofen and aspirin, plus some topical shit. Hell, he couldn't even treat the symptoms. It wasn't like he had a headache, the vomiting was the only real effect. Maybe he'd just drunk his water too fast? Eric gulped. He supposed had no choice but to hope so. He'd been exerting a lot all day, and hadn't eaten anything, so maybe that was it. Well, there was an easy solution to that.

--

Once a few silent, tense, slow minutes had passed, Eric was reasonably confident he wasn't going to get sick again. That was good, but he'd have to be careful of that in the future. If anyone heard the sound of him making a mess, they didn't come to find him. Now that he was calm, Eric had used his 'fanservice' outfit to clean it up. He could only assume that he'd been left it due to his affinity for photography. He was sure someone thought that was very clever. As he, slowly, drank a second of tree boy's water and ate some of his bread, he spent the whole time staring up at the camera above him.

There were many in the room, but this one, mounted against the wall above him to get an overhead shot of this section of the maze, was closest. It was a good quality piece of equipment for what it did; unobtrusive and unlikely to be seen by its brethren, with a wide-angle lens that could definitely capture a good deal of the surrounding environment. Eric almost pitied it; used correctly, it would be an excellent tool. Instead, it was watching a man eat a loaf of bread on the floor. A waste, just like this entire show was a waste of time, money, and lives.

And here Eric was, forced to participate. He supposed he could use this as a platform, espouse the virtues of media that wasn't mindless slaughter and had actual narrative components, but any slack-jawed moron watching him right now was probably incapable of appreciating it. Typical. There also appeared to be a camera on his collar after examining it as close as he could with a reflection, which had presumably provided an excellent view of him puking. He hoped that made at least one viewer share the experience. It was an impressive piece of technology, he had to admit, but once again, going to complete waste. Surely there were better points of view that could be recorded than 'you are being stabbed to death'?

Once Eric had eaten and drank his fill, he could resume repackaging his possessions. The med kit of course, if only to keep someone else from having it. And finally, the cutlass. A sword was not ideal, since it required physical prowess and close range, but it was more reliable than the Zip. It also served as a decoy; with the sword at his hip, he would appear to be ineffectual from a distance, which could buy him time to land a deadly, or at least debilitating, shot.

And that was his goal, right? Eric had to consider his options and stick with his plan. If he could kill 10 people, he instantly won. If he could kill fewer than that, it hastened the game, removed competition, armed himself, and increased the ratio of his team to enemies. If he killed nobody, he would remain anonymous and equipped enough to defend himself for at least a while. Two people had already won this way recently, with one also starting with a mediocre at best weapon. He could do this if he started early and played it smart. If it failed, he could find a plan B. Ally with his team, perhaps.

Eric had almost killed tree boy. He probably could have, if he hadn't prioritized his escape. Perhaps a mistake, but Eric knew it was within his power. It had to be, or all the planning in the world wouldn't save him. Eric knew he was taking a risk. But his life was more important to him than anything else, and if he wanted to preserve that, risks--and sacrifices--had to be made. So he made his choice.

Slinging his now heavier bag over his shoulders, Eric rose to his feet and set out in search of his first victim.

((Eric Cunningham continued in No Rest for the Wicked))