The Helipad is an oversized, out of place structure in the confines of the Compound. Raised up off the ground by steel struts, it offers a view easily rivaling the tops of the two story buildings it shares the space with, only trumped by the watchtower. To get up onto it, one must take a long series of staircases which wind their way up to the top.
Embers of pain smoldered deep within Alli's quads and calves, her athleticism proving invaluable as she bounded up the spiraling stairs, each step injecting that much more hope that the top was near. Her issued duffel bag, one of fifty-odd duplicates, swung violently from her shoulder and threatened to send her toppling over with each step. It had remained unopened up to that point and she'd hazard a guess that it'd stay that way for as long as she could manage. Even thinking about it sent slivers of just the most intense... dislike that she could muster. It's just... ugh, like she just couldn't even begin to process the frenzy of emotions racing through her. Should she blame someone, is that what normal people do? It wasn't as if Alli wasn't mad, she was hardly ever mad. Upset? Sure. Worried? Of course. Who knew where Alex and Logan were, but mad? Not at all, it's not as if she could blame soldiers for trying to provide for their families, y'know? Like, what if their dog was dying and the only way they could get the money to fix her was to join the army? People just did things they had to do, that's all.
But that just meant she had to do the same and do what she had to do to get everyone home safe, right?
She wanted those memories, the ones at graduation and like, at the ten year reunion and stuff. Those memories that you just look back on and think about and just... smile. She had a few of those, mostly from waaay long ago, before all the bad stuff happened. That wasn't to say she didn't have any from afterward, though, but-- call her selfish-- she wanted more, darnit. And, as crazy as it sounds, maybe this whole experience would be a good thing? Maybe they could all go home and things would be different, there wouldn't be and racism or anger and they could all have those memories together.
She had to fight for this, she had to. General Pride was like a second family, y'know? So, no matter how hard it'd be, she'd fight for it.
With shaking knees, Allie stepped on to the smooth black platform, stopping to catch her breath and take in her surroundings. A please smile spread across her face, if she could make it up those steps in, she checked her watch, four minutes and thirty-nine minutes she could do anything. Wiping her brow quickly, Alli let her duffel slide off her arm and land with a thud on the hard surface. She made her way to the center, stopping right in the middle of the large 'H' and dropped to her bottom, crossing her legs in Indian style. Briefly she thought about Posie and her mom, her dad, Alex and Logan, before staring down at her shoes, admiring the subtle nuances of her classmates signatures.
She'd get up in a bit and scope, but for now she wanted to be with her memories.
At the bottom of the structure of the helipad, another student was struggling to come to terms with the atrocity that had befallen him and his classmates.
ALEXANDER ADAM TARTAGLIA: START
God damn it. Alex was too young for this. He had too much to live for.
*bang*
He was going to change the world, change the corrupt, bloodthirsty system he called a government from within.
*bang*
Even without that, he had so much to live for. He wanted to settle down with a person he loved, commit himself to them. He wanted to spend more time with his friends. Hell, he wanted to waste weekends drawing doodles or reading a new novel. He missed his old life and viewed it with a nostalgic tint already.
*bang*
He was too damn young to die.
*bang*
Too much to live for.
*bang*
The fact nearly everyone else he was close to was in exactly the same situation didn't help him cope.
*bang*
There was something therapeutic about repeatedly, rhythmically banging your head against a hard surface, at least in Alex's humble opinion. It was a great way to let out pent-up stress or try and get his mind off of a depression (both of those being problems Alex was struggling with right now to a degree he once thought was impossible).
Technically, it was self-harm, especially with the force and the frequency Alex was doing it with. Alex knew that perfectly well, and he knew the potential consequences of it far too well. Yet, Alex didn't view it as he viewed other forms of self-harm. He viewed things like cutting your wrists as emo and silly and pathetic, yet whenever he was in a bad mood and he couldn't find a suitable distraction, he would smash his head against his cupboard door until it got sore. Alex's father had a (justifiably) lower view of the concept. He snapped at him whenever Alex resorted to bashing his head against the wall as a coping mechanism (the last time being after the disastrous breakup with Matt), and would pull Alex away from whatever hard surfaces were in reach and give him a lecture whenever he caught him.
But, the views of Fred Tartaglia didn't mean shit any more.
Alex would never see him again.
Or his grandparents. Or aunts, or uncles, or cousins, or neighbours, or teachers, or favourite TV shows, or half his friends.
The only "loved ones" he would ever see again were Matt (Alex still missed him, and had felt lonely since they broke up) and his friends like Allison.
The fact that they were all going to die, possibly at his hands, and could very well end up being the ones who killed him made the small comfort of spending his final moments with his friends irrelevant.
"GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!"
He threw a punch at the steel in front of him, creating a distinctive, loud (almost loud enough to rival the obscene shout he had just let out in anger) sound that made Alex jump back a bit in shock. Most of the force made by his tightly-clenched fist connecting with the steel strut was absorbed by the spiked brass knuckles he had apparently received as his weapon. He was wearing them out of boredom and curiosity rather than because he had a plan for them, but whatever.
Tears welling up in his eyes once more, Alex slouched against the steel strut he had just attacked, and just waited.
Brett never exactly had a way with words. He didn't hide the fact, and he didn't try to. The way Brett saw it, words didn't matter all that much in the long run. The world was based around action, decided by action. You could send all the letters you wanted to that dictator slaughtering hundreds in Guatemala, but unless you sent in the shock troops he probably wouldn't bat an eyelash. The way Brett saw it, action was necessary for the good of the world.
He wasn't exactly sure why this particular action was necessary for the good of the world, but he was working on it.
Brett sat alone near the base of the heli-pad, he'd angled himself so that he had a particularly good view of the steps leading up. Brett had no idea if his classmates would start with the blood and guts right off the bat, but he was intent on not getting caught unawares. The area was silent for the most part, safe a strange banging noise, close by. Brett wasn't exactly sure what it was, a loose panel, banging against the structure in the wind? It wasn't trying to kill him in any case, and that was as much as he could hope for. Brett reached over into the bag and once more laid his hands reassuringly on the small semi-automatic pistol he had been given. He didn't know how many bullets he had, but he'd spent a good 10 minutes making sure he had loaded the gun correctly.
50, that's all I ask for God. Gimme' 50 bullets.
It was a sickening thought, gunning down his classmates his... friends. But this was do or die. Brett had watched The Program. Escape was impossible, and usually just resulted in heartbreak. The only way out was through hell itself and he was being asked to run the gauntlet.
Anything for you Uncle Sam, you want a blowjob with that sandwich?
Brett leaned back against the base of the heli-pad, relaxing slightly. He was tense. They usually dropped the contestants close together, but Brett hadn't seen anyone yet. That was bad as far as he was concerned. He'd rather come across some dick-sniffing hippie straight off the bat then get ambushed an hour later.
"Oh Brett! Brett, if you ever got in The Program, what would you do?" He said out loud, mockingly. "Hurr durr, what the fuck you think boys? I'm gonna get a sniper rifle, get up on the roof start poppin' heads. Because y'know, I totally know how to operate a gun. Just point and shoot the kids, ain't that right? Just like a video game! Because I'm a marine, and it's EASY. You fucking morons."
Brett looked down on the ground, finding a piece of rock. Holding it up to the light, he examined it. Sometimes the little things fascinated Brett. But then he remembered, the little things were just that. Little. Insignificant.
"Oh, Brett, Brett, no man, you got it all wrong! See, we're killers! We're gonna be soldiers! It would be easy for us, it'd just be practice! So dontcha' see, you'll win no matter what. I'm just wondering how would you kill all those kids? Oh, I know you will kill'em Brett, because you're not a pussy, but I'm just wondering HOW exactly?"
Brett threw the rock as hard as he could. It sailed through the air before coming down atop one of the various buildings close by. Brett wasn't exactly sure what the buildings were. Barracks maybe? The general layout seemed to suggest he was on a base of some kind.
"...Well, you want to know, do you? You wanna know what a real soldier would do? One with honour, one who actually understands what the Stars and Stripes are, and why The Program exists in the first place? I’ll tell you what he’d do. First, he’d find a gun. If he ‘Spawned’ with one, that’d be ideal, but if not, find some hippy-commie fascist, preferably a girl, and tell her it’s gonna be okay, that you’ll protect her. Then, blow her brains out. If you really want, you can fuck her while you do it. All depends on your preferences. If it’s a guy, same thing. Nothing like realizing you’re a faggot moments before your brains get blown out. Wouldn’t that be an awkward scene at St. Peter’s gates? Head lookin’ like playdough, dripping my lovejuice out your ass. HA! ‘Uh, yeah, Peter, trust me, that meant nothing.’
Now, okay so NOW, our solider now has a weapon, and he’s taken at least one of those fuckheads down. Established his ‘Do not fuck with me status’. You don’t need to kill’em all, that’s the beauty of the game.
Why kill them all, a waste of good ammunition? Bullets don’t come cheap! People? Shit, you can make as many people as you want when you get back, perfectly decent replacements. But bullets! That’s hard earned cash! That shit comes straight from Uncle Sam’s pocket! He’ll be very disappointed if you go all Dirty Harry on their asses straight up. No, no, Uncle Sam wants someone smart. He wants someone who knows what they’re doing. He knows you’re a blood thirsty monster already, don’t you worry your pretty little pants off about that.
So what do you do? You find a safe spot, hunker down. Kill anyone who enters, no questions asked. ‘Oh man, thank God I found you! Listen, we’ve got this escape pla-’ BAM shoot’em in the face. No, no the chest. So when he’s going down, sucking blood he realizes what a fucking idiot he was. After a while, things will quiet down. You’ll have to go out, scrounge for supplies, get some grub, take a whizz. They usually drop’em in groups of what? 50? Our soldier will know the body count is probably pretty high at this point. He’ll start gearing up for the big finale. It’s a show after all, gotta entertain the people! Who wants a lame finale, two lovers holding hands, telling each other everything is going to be alright? Maybe that faggot our soldier killed at the start, but not America! America wants blood, America wants the soldier, America wants explosions and death!
So, last 10 or so. Whatever. Our soldier goes out. He starts chopping heads. He rapes them. He cuts their dicks off, sticks them down their throats, gags’em with it. Final four now. Everyone knows our Soldier is a monster. They’ll be gunning for him, trying to take’em down. That’s okay. That’s just fine! It’s the chance he’s been waiting on, it’s the chance for the soldier to waste these last 3, show America just how much of a fucking monster he is. Now, if I was the soldier?
What would I do?
Okay, well, first guy. Blow off his feet. He’s walking on stumps. Let him crawl around a bit, make the floor slippery wet with his blood. I’ll watch as he does this, I’ll keep telling him, ‘Walk back and forth! Back and forth, nice and wet!’ See, I’m making a slip n’ slide! Eventually he’ll pass out, from blood loss or something. What a pussy right? Can’t even make a decent slip n’ slide with his blood. His mother probably hated him anyways. That’s okay. Cut his jugular, spray all that he’s got left. Then, have some fun in the sun! Now, the last two. You’re walking up to them, coated in blood. Now me, I’d smile. Unnerve the fuck outta’ them. The audience back home would be like ‘Holy shit Brett! Holy shit, my dick is so wet right now! I want you to kill my babies Brett!’ But I’m not there yet, I got work to do first.
First guy. Straight to work. Disembowel the fucker. They might want a parley or they might go in guns blazing, it doesn’t matter. I cut that bitch up. Now, his intestines. Do you know how long intestines are? Pretty long. Now, last one, it’s almost always a girl. Ain’t that just fantastic? Time to have some fun.
You ever seen Monty Python? Well, what I’d do is this. I’d tie her up first right? Tie her up with the other fucker’s intestines. She’s tied down, oh, oh, I’d strip her naked too. Yeah. So she’s there, naked, and I’m there and I’ll be like ‘Listen girl. You answer three questions; I swear on everything holy in this world, I will shoot myself in the face. I’ll shoot myself, I swear on the Bible and the 10 Commandments and all that, I will shoot myself and you’ll get to go home. Just answer all of these questions. First question! What… is your name?’ She’ll probably be crying and all that, but y’know, who cares, right? Give her some time. Let her answer. ‘Next question! What… is your quest?’ Now, this one, see, she might not know. That’s okay. Even if she doesn’t know what to say, give her a free pass. Come’on, it’s the Christian thing to do. So then! Then!
Final question. ‘What… is your favourite color?’ Now. NOW, now, now, NOW. It doesn’t matter what she answers. She probably figured this ahead of time. She could say blue, yellow, red, whatever. She gives me an answer, I whip out my cock. And I beat her to death. I beat her to death, with my cock. It’ll take a while, no doubt about that. But that’s how I’d win The Program.”
Brett leaned back against the wall, smiling a nasty grin. The banging hadn’t yet stopped. It was starting to get annoying, and Brett was beginning to suspect the noise was human in origin. His hand drifted back down towards his gun.
“Gee Brett that sure is crazy. Would you really do it?”
Hefting his pack up and pulling out the pistol, Brett checked. The safety was off. The gun was loaded. He was ready. The banging suddenly stopped, replaced by a final solitary crash. Brett heard swearing, close by. He frowned as he checked the gun one more time.
“No way man, are you sick in the head or something? That’s not nice at all!”
Brett, gripped the gun tightly in his right hand and began to walk around the structure, towards the source of the noise.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Little Boy. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
That's what she had been telling herself as she'd walked. Anywhere was better. That was her creed, her mantra. That wherever she ended up would be better than where she was now. That's what fueled Corrina. That's what kept her going as she dragged the hunk of plastic behind her.
She tugged at the riot shield, dug into the ground for the hundredth time. Had it been a hundred times already? Wasn't sure. She'd lost count. Corrina grunted and tried to pull it out of the ground, but her arms were just too weak.
Sighed. Cursed. Let go of the handle. Turned around. Kicked it loose. Hurt her foot. There was probably an easier way, but Corrina preferred hers. She could vent. Let loose. Taking out her frustrations on a plastic shield.
Kind of pathetic really, but there she was, stood there and kicking the crap out of it. Kept her from crying, at least. Give thanks for small blessings.
Now it was out of the ground, she grabbed the handle, started dragging it again. It was starting to make her arms burn, dragging the thing. The burning had started off small, at first. Now it was an inferno, threatening to tear her muscles from the bone.
Corrina just gritted her teeth and carried on dragging it. Up to a point, she could ignore the pain. Wherever she was headed, there wasn't far to go now. Just a little further. That was all.
Then she saw it. It wasn't far away; a structure. A large metal structure, with long, winding stairs stretched up into the sky. Looked like a helipad, although any aircraft were long since gone.
Corrina glanced down at her shield, then back up at the stairs. Wasn't happening. She set the shield down by a nearby tree. She'd come back for it. Honest.
Kept walking. Much easier now that she had liberated herself of the shield. Covered the distance quickly, for her. She started to approach the base of the structure when-
A shout. A clang. Corrina nearly turned around, nearly ran.
Don't do it, Corrina. They're nice people. You'll get along. Promise.
This time, Corrina listened. They wouldn't be all that bad. She quietly made her way around the perimeter of the Helipad. Tried to get a better look at who was on the other side. Who'd banged on it, who'd screamed. Stood in shock.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
Alex was sobbing quietly into his arms, unaware of the sounds and sights around him, and ignorant of the fact that he was far from alone or safe where he sat.
Alex's thoughts were a confused blur right now. Every emotion possible (nostalgic, sad, envious, furious, betrayed...) was running through his head, colliding with the others, the emotions forming either in response to his current situation or conjured up by his mind in a hopeless subconscious attempt to improve his attitude in his final moments.
And as much as he was ashamed to admit it to himself, he was unknowingly becoming increasingly tempted by the concept of going along with the Program, slaughtering his classmates to save his own life.
Of course, he wasn't thinking that explicitly.
He was using clever euphemisms to try and deceive himself into the morality and justifiability of it.
But ultimately, it wouldn't have much point. Alex couldn't kill the pricks in the class easily, let alone people like Alli or Matt.
The very fact he was even considering doing that was just making him cry harder.
The trembling in Alli’s legs was unwavering, planted firmly despite the initial shock of exertion long gone. She’d been struggling to ignore the fear currently nipping at her, attempted to pretend it didn’t exist and tried be the strong person she promised herself she’d be. People were counting on her, without a doubt, and Alli was positive that breaking down wouldn’t accomplish anything—no matter the ache in her heart trying to convince her otherwise. It was silly to be afraid, honestly. There was nothing to be afraid of, her classmates wouldn’t hurt one another. Call it blind faith, or stupidity, call it whatever you want, but rest assured; General’s Pride wasn’t a school of murderers, she was sure of it.
Alli traced her finger across the rough canvas of her shoes, a smile dancing across her face as hope breathed anew inside of her. All of those signatures, each one a life petering on the edge of being extinguished, but she could prevent that. Escape wasn’t an intangible dream, not as far as she was concerned. She could save them, get them all far, far away from this damned place. Would the government hunt them down if they did that? Alli shook her head, her smile growing larger. One problem at a time, right? They’d think of something after they got out, no problem.
Just trust her. She’d make sure not to disappoint.
Vaguely, Alli had taken note of the metallic clanging in the close proximity, her bodily going rigid in accordance long before she’d accepted it as reality and not just her imagination. She remained rooted to her spot, curiosity and fear devilishly intertwining within her and rendering her completely immobile. Loud sounds never were her forte, not even in real life. It continued, rapidly growing louder and becoming more frequent. Alli crept cautiously across the platform on all fours, heart thumping against her chest as she made her way toward the metal grating surrounding the circular platform. She was sure what the noise was or where it was coming from, but she remained firm in her resolve.
There wasn’t danger.
Not this time.
Don’t be scared, there’s no reason.
And there wasn’t. Far, far from it. Through the grating, as if a beacon, a sign even, stood her best friend in the entire world—doing exactly what she’d expect him to do. He wasn’t going around blowing heads off or hurting things, he was the same exact Alex Tartaglia she knew from the outside world. No horrendous change, just the same boy she’d confided so much in. Just Alex. Besides the crying, of course. Alex never really cried much, but she was willing to overlook just that one minor change because even she could feel hot tears tickling at her lower lid. It felt good, honestly. Reassuring. They’d all be the same people she knew from school, the people she grew up with.
Thank God.
Without a second thought, Alli withdrew herself from her perch and grabbed her duffel bag before racing down the stairs.
With Alex here, she could do anything.
Nothing could stop her now.
Or, at least that’s what she thought before she got to the end of the staircase, her thoughts crumbling into her throat the minute she saw Brett Torres creeping toward the helipad gun in hand.
She trusted them. Everyone she was friends with, the names on her shoes. All of it had to mean something, right?
Her feet felt as if they were glued to the ground, only able to gawk at Brett as he drew closer.
Unfortunately, Brett was a missing signature, his name nowhere to be found on either of her shoes.
Brett grinned as he came around the corner, gun first. It was all falling into place, fitting perfectly. Nothing had ever felt as right as that moment, spinning around the corner, danger nipping at his heels. It was as if he'd been born for it, molded and created for that one action. He absentmindedly nodded his head up and down as he walked, anticipation rippling through him.
Danger everywhere up in here. Danger doesn't know I've got a gun though, does it?
Spinning around the building as fast as he could, Brett saw the sobbing boy up against the side of the building. Without even so much as thinking, Brett had his gun up, aimed at the boys head. Squinting down the sights, Brett stood a good five paces away. He could feel a grin growing as he tightened the grip on his handgun. He knew who it was.
"Hi Tartaglia. Fancy meeting you here!"
Alex Tartaglia... Just my luck. Of all the squicky, crummy-ass bastards I could waste a bullet on... It had to be this squicky, crummy-ass bastard.
"How'set going Tartaglia? Keeping busy?"
Brett tried to keep his hand steady. Weakness wasn't an option. But really, what did he have to fear? Tartaglia was, from what Brett remembered, a total pussy. He couldn't remember a time when he'd seen Alex raise a hand against someone. Nevertheless, he couldn't afford to relax. Not now, not ever again.
If I let my guard down, just once, I'm as good as dead. Even now, even with this dick-suck Tartaglia. Just gotta keep my cool. I've got the advantage. Just gotta keep holding all the cards...
Brett slowly began to walk, keeping the gun trained on Alex. Carefully Brett moved his finger down towards the trigger of the pistol.
"No quick moves buddy. Safeties off and you and I both know I'm itching to find out just how loud a POW this puppy can make." Brett whispered, smiling a menacing smile.
Doubt he'll rush me. He knows good and well who I am. So what now? Let's play awhile...
"Pretty fucking ironic eh? Safeties? How is a gun in any way safe? But y'know. Enough about me. Tell me Tartaglia, how much cock did you hafta' suck to get in this game? Oh, and more importantly, what'd you get stuck with? You been crying Tartaglia?"
Brett gave a short high pitched laugh. Oh LORD, was he ever having fun.
This isn't healthy, not in the fucking slightest...
Not for the first time, Brett wondered why he hadn't simply pulled the trigger right off the bat. Was he enjoying himself? It was debatable. To be completely honest with himself, the longer this dragged on, the twitchier he was becoming. He couldn't for the life of him understand why.
There'll be plenty of time to figure it out. Later. After I'm out of here.
Glancing around, Brett checked the immediate area. It was unnerving to say the least, the silent buildings.. not a soul around except the blubbering Alex. Brett's mind was racing, and as if in answer to his paranoia, tapping footsteps sounded from above. Spinning about, Brett looked up to see a girl making her way down the helipad steps.
Oh shit.
With a growl, Brett jumped back another few paces, lowering the muzzle of his gun to the ground, and removing his finger from the trigger. His eyes darted back and forth between the pair, his heart suddenly beating faster.
"Balls." He whispered, shooting Alex a menacing glance. "Friend of yours Tartaglia?"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Little Boy. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Tartaglia. Alex Tartaglia. His last name the source of some amusement for her back when she cared enough to make jokes about names. So immature back then. They all were, really. Just kids.
Not like now.
He was the clanging noise she had heard earlier. She was sure of it now. Banged on the structure to get noticed. A scream of pain from hitting it too hard, or cutting it on a jagged piece of metal. That was probably how it happened? She wasn’t too sure, honestly.
The larger boy- his name escaped Corrina, a black hole in her usually flawless memory- was holding a gun. Wasn’t pointing it. Yet. Had it by his side. Talking to Tartaglia, probably about the figure obscured by the staircase.
Then they’d notice her. Then they’d shoot. Catch her off guard, hit her before she got a chance to raise her defences.
No. She couldn’t let that happen. Had to hide.
Corrina ducked back, behind one of the steel struts. The shield lay metres off in the distance. Nothing to save her if the larger boy turned violent. She was defenceless. Unless she went and got the shield.
She stayed hidden. Stayed safe. Safe from the boy with the gun and Alex Tartaglia and whoever they were talking to.
Come on, Corrina. Calm down. Everything’s going to be okay.
She silently shook her head. No. No it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay, and it wasn’t going to get better. Only worse. It could get so very, very worse.
Anywhere was better. Anywhere was better. Silently repeating her mantra, Corrina waited, hoping- no- praying it'd all blow over.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
Alex was brought out of his moping by an unwelcome introduction.
Brett Torres.
Brett had always rubbed Alex the wrong way. He'd given off a vibe that didn't mesh well with Alex's personality and interests. He could quite suitably be described as a bit of a jerk. Needless to say, Brett was not on the top of the list of people Alex was worried about.
Then again, having someone point a gun at you may do quite a bit to sour your memories of them.
Brett coming out from around the corner with a smug grin and a gun aimed straight at Alex had done little to improve the boy's mood or mental health, but had cleared his mind of trivial and depressing thoughts and got his attention, leaving him with little choice but to focus squarely on the gun. Alex was so focused on monitoring the gun that Brett's threatening comments went straight over his head. The irritatingly abysmal attempts at intimidation, humour and badassness did still get to Alex though. He'd probably spent his whole life thinking up those corny lines, with multiplayer FPSes being his only outlet. Alex HATED kids like that.
Okay, that's one person who'll be easier to kill.
Brett should have been thanking the Gods for Alex' non-violent persona and conscientous objections to killing. God knows that was the only thing allowing the irritating little pest to carry on living. That, and his gun.
Yeah, mainly the gun.
Alex was so preoccupied in his staring contest with the barrel of the gun he failed to register Alli's arrival onto the scene, as she ran down the stairs of the helipad structure. That was, until Brett brought her to Alex's attention.
And then, Alex was entirely focused on her.
"Alli! Oh God, it's so good to see you!", he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet to get a better view of his friend. "Well, it's bad that you're here but...oh God, this is just so..."
((Skipping post order with permission to get Corrina out.))
It'd all blow over. It was fine. It was all fine. Everything would be okay.
Corrina stayed couched on shaking legs, ducked behind one of the struts where she was almost certain no one could see her. She knew she wouldn’t choose somewhere that wasn’t safe to hide.
Shaking. Shivering. Corrina struggled to stay upright. She peeked around the corner. A risky decision, really. One she thought was worth taking. One hand on the structure, one on the floor to try and balance herself, Corrina peered round. Things still looked tense. She quietly watched. Alex seemed to be happy at the arrival of the figure on the stairs, whoever that was.
Corrina wanted to get out of her hiding spot and see who it was, but decided against it. She was hidden here. Safe. Tiny pin-pricks shot up from her knees through to her thighs. Corrina yelped, before quickly covering her mouth. She slouched down, crossing her legs. Breathing deep breaths. This wasn't good. At all.
No. It wasn't fine. She needed to get out of there, before they came after her. She needed the shield. That'd help. Scrambling to her feet, Corrina pushed her glasses on, pulled her hat down. Corrina darted away, silently thanking God that they'd never spotted her before.
She stopped running as soon as she reached the tree. The tree she'd left it at. Still there, of course. Corrina took a quick glance over her shoulder before she knelt down to pick it up. Corrina sighed. Stuck in the ground again. She tugged at it. No use, again stuck in the muddy ground. Corrina took a few steps back, before running forwards- slipping slightly on the ground but managing to stay upright- and kicking the hunk of metal and plastic loose. Hurt her foot. That was dumb.
She grabbed the handle of the riot shield and began walking away. She'd find somewhere. She'd have to.
Alex had turned, a look of palpable relief present on his face. Brett couldn't understand why. Why would he be relieved to see a friend? Just meant they were going to die. Just meant they were going to get brutally, brutally murdered for what? Uncle Sam? It didn't make much sense, but Brett wasn't in a position to argue.
Brett glared up at the girl as she made her way down the steps, slowly as she noticed the presence of Brett and more importantly, his gun. Brett sneered up at her. Alli, Alli something. Brett had seen her, never spoken to her. Not his type, not his social circle.
Wonder if any of the guys made it here...?
The thought was distasteful to say the least, and scary. Some of Brett's friends were stupid, but some were dangerously genre savvy, especially when it came to The Program, lifetime fans.
I-fucking-ronic. I'm not scared about killing my friends, I'm scared about THEM killing ME.
Alex looked like he'd all but forgotten Brett's presence. Smirking, Brett shimmied over towards the other boys bag.
I'm so very hurt by that, I really, really am...
Casting a passing glance at the bag, Brett saw his luck wasn't improving. There was nothing to be considered a weapon, nothing of use that Brett didn't already have. Then where was his weapon? Brett's eyes narrowed, looking back at the preoccupied boy. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it earlier. Sparkling on one hand, a pair of brass knuckles.
Holy shit. Didn't know Tartaglia was that kinda fag...
Brett took a hasty step back. There was no sense getting a shiner, no sense in stealing supplies he'd already been given.
"Well, this is a cute ass fucking reunion. Too bad you're both gonna die. Terribly sorry to break the news, but y'know. God hates fags, all that stuff Tartaglia. Learn that shit in Grade 1, Bible Studies..."
Brett shrugged his shoulders, looking up towards the girl on the stairs. Did she have a weapon he could use? Not likely. But if she did, she was in a perfect position to pop a shot off. Was it worth the risk? Two on One? And that was assuming, he could do it in the first place. It had gone good so far, but to be completely honest with himself, it was a little fucking worrying how fast he'd fallen into this mold. Was he going to really do it? Kill a defenseless girl, a boy, just because some guy in a suit told him to? This wasn't Vietnam, this wasn't World War 2. Justification in The Program was always a little hard to find...
I was always such a pussy.
Brett took another step back, keeping his hands firmly on his gun, a scowl on his face. He'd been granted a hasty retreat, but at least he knew two of his enemies. Two relatively harmless ones.
Maybe I got lucky and got stuck with a bunch of flower power hippies? Wouldn't that make my life easier...
"I'll be seeing you guys around. Don't wait up, please. It's not a macho thing, I can't stand the sight of you."
Flashing a peace sign, Brett took off towards the buildings in the distance.
"Peace out cunts, and save me some trouble and die early!"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Little Boy. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Resisting the urge to just pull Alli into a massive hug (Alex never really learned how to hug someone with spiky brass knuckles on, and it was the sort of thing you didn't want to get wrong), Alex was, for what may very well be the last time in his life, temporarily shove all his problems to the back of his mind and just be happy about the fact he was with a dear, true friend.
Unfortunately, Alex's heartfelt reunion with his friend was interrupted, and he was brought swiftly back to cruel reality, by the ever-tactful, ever-humble Brett Torres.
Why the fuck is he still here?
"Well, this is a cute ass fucking reunion. Too bad you're both gonna die. Terribly sorry to break the news, but y'know. God hates fags, all that stuff Tartaglia. Learn that shit in Grade 1, Bible Studies..."
Huh. Alex musta been busy staring out of the window in that lesson. He didn't remember the Bible passage that said "Oh, and God hates fags." He also must have been staring out of the window when Brett Torres decided to appoint himself God's messenger on Earth. Regardless, it was good to know that an outdated, intolerant book that was only good as a book-stopper disapproved of Alex's sexuality. He'd be sure to change it at the first opportunity.
In all seriousness, Alex had nothing against religion; he himself believed in some kind of higher power, though not God explicitly. It was just that when people used their religion to justify their hatreds or intolerances that he got annoyed and had to resist the urge to blow up into a massive rant. However, at the moment, Alex had better things to do than get into an argument with a homophobic, racist prick (who was armed. Can't forget that), so successfully restrained himself and confined his anger and indignation to within.
Brett rambled on for slightly longer, than walked away. Alex remained silent and unmoving, his solemn expression following Brett until he disappeared completely.
"....and not a single shit was given that day. Good fucking riddance."
Turning back to Alli, Alex carried on where he left off, but not before raving about Brett for a bit longer. "God, that stuck-up, obnoxious fuckwash. Oh, look at me, I'm Brett Torres, I'm super-patriotic and hate everyone who's different from me. I mean, I don't understand how he could say shit like that with a straight face. Especially with his surname. Torres. Hardly an all-American surname. Fucking hypocritical douchebag."
His anger spent, his voice returned to a calm, soothing, friendly tone. "So, Alli, you alright? God, this is bad..."
((Taking over handling Alli until her death, with approval from staff.))
Feet still stuck steadfast to the steel staircase, Alli just stood and watched as Brett approached, yelling his usual "patriotic" abuse towards Alex. Half-repressed memories of shock, panic over whether her lineage would ever be discovered briefly flashed through her head as he spoke, watching as the girls who weren’t “American” enough were bullied, tormented, abused. Had to keep the secret, tell lies to her friends out of a fear of the same fate.
Brett was focused on Alex, for now, but the dark thought still remained, eating away at the back of her mind.
When he spotted her, would he notice? That was the first question- the most important one- on Alli’s mind as he looked her up and down. Not many people did, of course- even Alex didn’t know-but there was always the possibility that someone might. Even then, would he really do it? No. No he wouldn’t.
Allison kicked herself for even daring to have a thought like that cross her mind. These were her classmates, her friends. Even Brett. They couldn’t do anything like this.
That didn’t stop hairs on the back of Alli's neck standing on end as Brett growled and pointed the gun at her. Friend of Alex's? He really had to ask that? Alli said nothing, though. Knew better. Brett said his piece.
He left. Alli exhaled a sigh of relief, looking over to Alex, shouting abuse of his own back at the departing figure. She opened her mouth to speak- …Alex made fun of Brett’s last name for being un-American- and promptly closed it again. She had nothing to say to Brett, now.
Now wasn’t the time, maybe later.
Alex was calmer now Brett was gone. He asked her how she was. Alli let the question sit for a few seconds.
"I'm fine," Alli was lying through her teeth but she hoped Alex wouldn't notice. She'd just never seen him so... frustrated. He wasn't like this at all, normally. Alli knew she had to put on a brave face for him. “Alex, I’m fine.”
She needed a distraction, really. Something that would let the two of them get on top of things, catch up. Neither of them was sure where they were going, and they’d need to have at least a basic understanding of the layout if they were to get anywhere. Where to start? That was a problem until Alli looked around. She descended the last few steps.
“Come on,” Alli grabbed Alex’s arm. “Up here, we should be able to get a better view.”
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
With Brett gone, the atmosphere around the helipad soon calmed down, and Alex was arguably in a better state than he was before (he was no longer throwing a tantrum, attacking the scenery out of frustration and yelling at every atom in existence.) He still felt depressed, furious and betrayed, but he no longer felt lonely.
Alli was with him now. Company.
Someone to keep his sanity from crumbling into nothing immediately.
Someone to help calm him down, approach these problems from a logical, level-headed perspective.
Someone to talk to.
Someone to spend his final moments with.
Someone he could trust to stick with him until the very end, not betray him or be irrecognisably changed by the General.
Yes, it was sad that Alli was here. Alex was far from the only student plucked from his class who had deserved a chance at life. However, they were both here now. That was undeniable. That was fact. That was a concrete piece of information that, unless a detouring time machine materialised in front of them, they'd just have to deal with in the future. Nothing they could have done to prevent it. No-one he knew could be blamed for it. Not even the shitheads like Brett Torres. Nope. This was purely the responsibility of a bunch of bored military buffoons and Lady Luck.
And, considering they were both in this situation, what better way to make the worst of a bad situation then spend it with your most trusted friends?
It seemed like a good idea to Alex, and once his temper had calmed down after his miniature one-sided stand-off with Brett Torres, the concept went a long way to helping calm him down. Obviously he still didn't appreciate his situation, but...he could deal with it.
For now.
And now Alli was suggesting they go to the top of the helipad, get a better view. Yeah, that seemed agreeable. Sure, the chance of them spotting a gap in the security measures or another dear friend were slim, but it was plausible. And it was something to do.
So, with an impish grin flashing across his face, Alex put his feet on the stairs.
"Race you up there."
And with that, he burst up the stairs, racing towards the top of the structure.
For a second, Alli wasn’t sure how Alex would react to her deciding to just knuckle down, get to the top of the helipad and figure out a game plan. Find out some way out of this place. The thought of hailing down a helicopter briefly passed her mind. That would be a sound plan. They could fly around and pick up the rest of the class before they left. None of them deserved this, not even Brett. The lack of a reply though, even for a moment, that made Alli feel just slightly uneasy.
Her hands found themselves reflexively reaching for the beautiful silver watch that her father had given her. She started fiddling with the strap, clasping and unclasping it in some strange half-nervousness. She quickly stopped when she realised what she was doing, sliding the watch back underneath the sleeve of her jacket. She couldn't afford for it to come off and get lost. Alli didn’t know what she’d do if she did. Best to make sure that it didn't happen.
Now she was starting to worry. This wasn't a good sign. Alli sighed. She had to stay positive. If not for her own sake, for Alex's. Even if anything happened to her, she didn’t want to let this change him at the least. But really?
She didn’t want it to change either of them.
Alex’s reply snapped her out of her trance almost instantly. Gave her just the answer she needed. He was to the point; didn’t give her a verbal yes or no answer. He just challenged her to a race to the top of the helipad. A race? The makings of a large grin stretched across Alli's face.
Sure thing, Alex. Just get ready to lose.
Again.
Alli didn't say a word, nodding in agreement and taking a long, deep breath before she started running up the stairs. Alex made the first move, stepping up on the first step, but Alli was already ahead. Alli held tight to the rail as she quickly ascended the steel stairwell. Sure, she wanted to win, but it wasn't worth risking falling off just to get to win the race. After all, winning would only improve Alex's mood; Alli had no problem losing a race if it made her best friend feel better.
"Well..." She kept her breathing steady, speaking between breaths. How many steps were there? She'd have to count on the way down. "Stairs are supposed to be a good workout."
She smiled, looked to Alex, and sped up. Heels clanged against steel as the two chased their way up the staircase.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
