((Enter Karl Chalmers))
Well.
That was about the only thing there was to think. Blackness, grogginess, a head full of gas, and above all sheer knuckle-biting annoyance were muddying Karl's mind, making him uncertain, but he knew one thing, oh yes he knew one thing.
They were all screwed.
He was more screwed than most.
As he blinked, clearing his eyes, it came back, all of it, the bus, the tent, the man. The man. They were on The Program. Selected. Statistically improbable: Lies, damn lies.
This was all for the good of the country.
Really.
Honest. We mean it.
How many times had he made this argument?
The Program reduces crime by compelling obedience. It is a show of force, the sort of thing that prevents thugs from ravaging our streets. Without it, we'd be just another tin-pot dictatorship, a central authority without real teeth. It's evil, sure, but a most necessary one; as we suffer through The Program, we work towards a day when it will not be needed, when, more than that, every man, woman, and child can live in peace, when strife will not exist, when everyone will be watched over by one government, for their own good, and happiness will be universal.
Karl was not feeling so universally happy just now.
A groan, some movement. Propping himself up on his elbow, he struggled to clear his vision. Where was he? Some sort of complex. Bag. Had to be a bag near him, with his weapon. Reaching around, frantic groping. Had to be here somewhere. His hands connected with a strap; he pulled it close, clung to it.
They were out there. Everyone who had crossed him these past few years. Every traitor and psycho and freak, all out there, and now, now there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Nobody to bail Karl out, not anymore.
He had to be ready. Had to be prepared to defend himself. Had to... something. Just something.
And then: a noise. Behind him.
Only one response at a time like this: "Oh, fuck."
Some Folks Are Born Made to Wave the Flag
Private (Sorry....)
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MurderWeasel
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(Enter Juliet Watanabe)
She was dressed like a pirate. Always her Announcement Day outfit. Brown leather longcoat with gold trim. White t-shirt and white linen pants. Brown tabi boots, her brother's--they were the same foot size, and he wasn't using them anymore.
The outfit wasn't exactly practical, but it was dashing. Made her feel good. And she had stuck the tail of the coat full of pins, so anyone who tried to grab it would get a nasty surprise.
So, the Program…huh.
She hadn't exactly expected to go out this way.
Might as well be sporting.
The taste of gas was still in her mouth, and she wanted to spit. There was another warm body lying next to her, in this…something. Tower. With windows. They were high up. The body was Karl Chalmers.
Fuck. Because anything she wanted to do on the Program, anyone she wanted to protect, would not be accomplished if she was shot to death by Karl Chalmers.
She scrambled into her bag. The zipper sound was loud. His eyelids were fluttering. Come on, come on, come on…
First aid kit, flashlight, food. And a gun.
She put it in her hands. She had seen people hold guns before, in anime. Maybe she had seen this gun before. It felt familiar, somehow.
No time now. Karl was waking up. She slid behind him, pulled her bag out of his range of vision.
He sat up, and groaned, rubbed his eyes. There was a sleepy silence before he pulled his bag close. Fuck! She hadn't checked his bag. He could have a better weapon than she.
She cocked her gun. I have no fucking idea if there's even a clip in here. But it didn't matter. He knew less than her.
He broke the silence. "Oh, fuck."
And her gun was at his neck, and her hand was at his throat. He didn't even struggle.
Silence. And stillness. For a few tense seconds. Do I want to kill him?
She swallowed. His breath was coming harshly.
I don't think I do.
She wanted to find Claire, Durrikan and Marilyn. Family. No, not family. Chosen family. Claire and Durrikan and Marilyn. If Karl could help her find them, that would be the best arrangement. And he would help her find them. She had the gun to his head.
Laughingly, her thoughts. Might makes right.
It was not the kind of thought she tried to quash anymore.
Claire was tough. She had watched the Program before. Knew how to survive, at least for the first few days. Durrikan was popular, well-liked. He would find allies, at least until shit truly hit the fan. Marilyn Marilyn had neither advantage.
And I never even got to tell her I liked her.
She was likely deluding herself about Marilyn. Marilyn doesn't want to spend time with ding-dong revolutionaries, even in hellmurder land. But she had to try. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.
And Karl was here to help.
Her mouth was to his ear.
"Karl," she whispered. "You're going to help me find Marilyn Williams, because in this Program, two bodies are better than one, and the people who explicitly want to kill me likely don't want to kill you. You're going to run point, because I'm holding the gun. And you're going to open your bag right now, and show me what weapon you have."
He opened the bag, slowly, silently. The weapon, spread and colorful, was immediately obvious.
A goddamn American flag.
The irony was almost laughable.
Almost.
She was dressed like a pirate. Always her Announcement Day outfit. Brown leather longcoat with gold trim. White t-shirt and white linen pants. Brown tabi boots, her brother's--they were the same foot size, and he wasn't using them anymore.
The outfit wasn't exactly practical, but it was dashing. Made her feel good. And she had stuck the tail of the coat full of pins, so anyone who tried to grab it would get a nasty surprise.
So, the Program…huh.
She hadn't exactly expected to go out this way.
Might as well be sporting.
The taste of gas was still in her mouth, and she wanted to spit. There was another warm body lying next to her, in this…something. Tower. With windows. They were high up. The body was Karl Chalmers.
Fuck. Because anything she wanted to do on the Program, anyone she wanted to protect, would not be accomplished if she was shot to death by Karl Chalmers.
She scrambled into her bag. The zipper sound was loud. His eyelids were fluttering. Come on, come on, come on…
First aid kit, flashlight, food. And a gun.
She put it in her hands. She had seen people hold guns before, in anime. Maybe she had seen this gun before. It felt familiar, somehow.
No time now. Karl was waking up. She slid behind him, pulled her bag out of his range of vision.
He sat up, and groaned, rubbed his eyes. There was a sleepy silence before he pulled his bag close. Fuck! She hadn't checked his bag. He could have a better weapon than she.
She cocked her gun. I have no fucking idea if there's even a clip in here. But it didn't matter. He knew less than her.
He broke the silence. "Oh, fuck."
And her gun was at his neck, and her hand was at his throat. He didn't even struggle.
Silence. And stillness. For a few tense seconds. Do I want to kill him?
She swallowed. His breath was coming harshly.
I don't think I do.
She wanted to find Claire, Durrikan and Marilyn. Family. No, not family. Chosen family. Claire and Durrikan and Marilyn. If Karl could help her find them, that would be the best arrangement. And he would help her find them. She had the gun to his head.
Laughingly, her thoughts. Might makes right.
It was not the kind of thought she tried to quash anymore.
Claire was tough. She had watched the Program before. Knew how to survive, at least for the first few days. Durrikan was popular, well-liked. He would find allies, at least until shit truly hit the fan. Marilyn Marilyn had neither advantage.
And I never even got to tell her I liked her.
She was likely deluding herself about Marilyn. Marilyn doesn't want to spend time with ding-dong revolutionaries, even in hellmurder land. But she had to try. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.
And Karl was here to help.
Her mouth was to his ear.
"Karl," she whispered. "You're going to help me find Marilyn Williams, because in this Program, two bodies are better than one, and the people who explicitly want to kill me likely don't want to kill you. You're going to run point, because I'm holding the gun. And you're going to open your bag right now, and show me what weapon you have."
He opened the bag, slowly, silently. The weapon, spread and colorful, was immediately obvious.
A goddamn American flag.
The irony was almost laughable.
Almost.
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MurderWeasel
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Cool press of metal against the back of his neck. Unfair. The only word to describe things. He wasn't even fully awake, and he was already going to die. What a brilliant end to his life. Of course, it made sense. Civilization was the only thing keeping the jackals at bay, the only protection decent folk had from the savage masses. He didn't mean that in any racist way, either; the vast majority of humanity fit neatly into the category of "savage masses", people too self-centered, too focused on their own good, to stop and realize that just maybe they were causing issues for everyone else. Anarchy meant death to the weak. Karl wasn't weak, but he wasn't the strongest of the strong, either. He knew that people didn't like him. He'd always known it. Had a scar to prove it.
And now none of that mattered, because all it'd take was a little flick of the trigger and he'd be over. Ended before he could do anything. Screwed over by his own poor biology, by the fact that he took five seconds too long waking up. His breathing was ragged, uneven. He was choking back words, screams, tears. If he was going to die, he'd at least go out with as much dignity as he could. Something, anything to keep some sense of self respect. Say it again: this is all for the good of the nation. It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done before.
Kinda didn't feel like it, though.
Words, at his ear. He so very nearly laughed, because he knew the voice, oh how he knew her. Juliet. What wonderful luck. Juliet, armed with a gun. Somewhere, this was probably being used as evidence that the government didn't play favorites. The Asian girl had the gun, the position, the power, the choice. For once in her life, she was on top, and she seemed to be planning to milk that for all it was worth.
And yet, she wasn't going to blow him away. For some reason, she'd decided to play this carefully, to let him suffer through a little longer in this hell. An odd choice. Tactically poor: what better way to establish yourself as a threat than to take out someone who'd spent many a lunch hour fighting with other people about just why The Program was a necessary element of domestic security?
But no, instead, Karl had already had his choice, his power, stripped from him. Like it or not, he was going to be sucked into an insane quest to find the other girl, the weak one, the one Harris had beaten to hell (oh shit, Harris was here too, wasn't he? That... couldn't be good). He was going to be in danger, and he was going to be at risk, and he was going to do it all because he didn't want to die right now, because he just couldn't bring himself to spit in her face and tell her to go to hell. When the time came, he was willing to do just about anything to make sure he wasn't first against the wall.
What a great example he was probably setting for all those other ambitious students back in the good ol' real world. God, even if he won, by some miracle, he wouldn't have a half hope of being allowed free, not unless he could somehow spin this like he was playing Juliet. That would take some pretty fancy maneuvering, too, given the way things had gone down.
Right now, though, he had a job to do. Open the bag. Show the weapon. Probably fork it over. Unfair. He didn't even have that moment of hope his fellows did, that second of possibility, of potential to pull something amazing and waltz through things. No, the only hope he had was that he got a grenade, something to turn this into a standoff. Even then, he'd probably be shot before he could use it.
Slowly, he pulled the zipper, stalling as long as he could.
And lo, nestled within lay that most poignant of symbols of freedom, Old Glory itself, neatly folded and pressed, all ready for a parade. It was just too much. Too much.
Before he knew what he was doing, Karl found himself giggling.
And now none of that mattered, because all it'd take was a little flick of the trigger and he'd be over. Ended before he could do anything. Screwed over by his own poor biology, by the fact that he took five seconds too long waking up. His breathing was ragged, uneven. He was choking back words, screams, tears. If he was going to die, he'd at least go out with as much dignity as he could. Something, anything to keep some sense of self respect. Say it again: this is all for the good of the nation. It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done before.
Kinda didn't feel like it, though.
Words, at his ear. He so very nearly laughed, because he knew the voice, oh how he knew her. Juliet. What wonderful luck. Juliet, armed with a gun. Somewhere, this was probably being used as evidence that the government didn't play favorites. The Asian girl had the gun, the position, the power, the choice. For once in her life, she was on top, and she seemed to be planning to milk that for all it was worth.
And yet, she wasn't going to blow him away. For some reason, she'd decided to play this carefully, to let him suffer through a little longer in this hell. An odd choice. Tactically poor: what better way to establish yourself as a threat than to take out someone who'd spent many a lunch hour fighting with other people about just why The Program was a necessary element of domestic security?
But no, instead, Karl had already had his choice, his power, stripped from him. Like it or not, he was going to be sucked into an insane quest to find the other girl, the weak one, the one Harris had beaten to hell (oh shit, Harris was here too, wasn't he? That... couldn't be good). He was going to be in danger, and he was going to be at risk, and he was going to do it all because he didn't want to die right now, because he just couldn't bring himself to spit in her face and tell her to go to hell. When the time came, he was willing to do just about anything to make sure he wasn't first against the wall.
What a great example he was probably setting for all those other ambitious students back in the good ol' real world. God, even if he won, by some miracle, he wouldn't have a half hope of being allowed free, not unless he could somehow spin this like he was playing Juliet. That would take some pretty fancy maneuvering, too, given the way things had gone down.
Right now, though, he had a job to do. Open the bag. Show the weapon. Probably fork it over. Unfair. He didn't even have that moment of hope his fellows did, that second of possibility, of potential to pull something amazing and waltz through things. No, the only hope he had was that he got a grenade, something to turn this into a standoff. Even then, he'd probably be shot before he could use it.
Slowly, he pulled the zipper, stalling as long as he could.
And lo, nestled within lay that most poignant of symbols of freedom, Old Glory itself, neatly folded and pressed, all ready for a parade. It was just too much. Too much.
Before he knew what he was doing, Karl found himself giggling.
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Okay, after Karl started giggling, she did start laughing, a sound she hadn't expected to hear. She started to pull her hand to her mouth--
Don't let your hand leave his throat. Then he'll push, turn, try to grab the gun, and suddenly you'll be screwed as usual, because he's a slimehead.
So she pushed her mouth to her shoulder and giggled into her shoulder instead. You look dumb. Yeah, like that was important.
And then she remembered that she didn't even know if the gun was loaded.
Well, that could be fixed.
He had stopped giggling by now, and so had she. Stupid irony. And the gun was still by his neck.
"Karl," She looked around the room, looking for something, anything to hook a rope. There was a desk at one of the windows, bolted to the ground. "I'm going to tie you to that desk, with whatever I can find. There are a couple things I need to do before I leave this tower, and I don't want to have to worry about you attacking me." Thing that you are not supposed to think right now, Karl Chalmers--that I don't know how to load my own gun. That I didn't have time to learn before you woke up. Because while I could probably knock you out with this thing I'm not sure, especially if you suddenly spin around right now and try to kill me.
He didn't spin around and try to kill her. "Fine", he said.
So she tied him up with some of the adhesive tape. His hands were weak and soft. She used a lot of layers, so he couldn't rip through while she was reading the manual (thing she wasn't doing while keeping one hand on a gun--tying knots into non-adhesive bandages. Or, Lord forbid, letting him tie the knots).
Then she crawled back to her bag, took out the manual, and started to read.
Don't let your hand leave his throat. Then he'll push, turn, try to grab the gun, and suddenly you'll be screwed as usual, because he's a slimehead.
So she pushed her mouth to her shoulder and giggled into her shoulder instead. You look dumb. Yeah, like that was important.
And then she remembered that she didn't even know if the gun was loaded.
Well, that could be fixed.
He had stopped giggling by now, and so had she. Stupid irony. And the gun was still by his neck.
"Karl," She looked around the room, looking for something, anything to hook a rope. There was a desk at one of the windows, bolted to the ground. "I'm going to tie you to that desk, with whatever I can find. There are a couple things I need to do before I leave this tower, and I don't want to have to worry about you attacking me." Thing that you are not supposed to think right now, Karl Chalmers--that I don't know how to load my own gun. That I didn't have time to learn before you woke up. Because while I could probably knock you out with this thing I'm not sure, especially if you suddenly spin around right now and try to kill me.
He didn't spin around and try to kill her. "Fine", he said.
So she tied him up with some of the adhesive tape. His hands were weak and soft. She used a lot of layers, so he couldn't rip through while she was reading the manual (thing she wasn't doing while keeping one hand on a gun--tying knots into non-adhesive bandages. Or, Lord forbid, letting him tie the knots).
Then she crawled back to her bag, took out the manual, and started to read.
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MurderWeasel
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Well, they laughed together. That was almost touching. Find some common ground, like how funny it was that Karl had been given a flag for his weapon. Hey, yeah, that was great. A true patriot could defend themselves with their own two hands, with the strength of their convictions.
Actually, the real reason to find some common ground was so that Karl would get his head blown off. Even with their little understanding, he couldn't help but imagine that his relationship with Juliet was going to be somewhat tense. It was no secret that they held... divergent political opinions. That was actually something of an understatement. Juliet was exactly the sort of borderline-treasonous student Karl had taken great pleasure in busting. Sure, she wasn't half as bad as, say, Marilyn (the object of their search, Karl remembered. Just great), but she still was a troublemaker. The sort of person who shook up the order, who made things tougher on everyone else. Free speech was great, in theory. In practice, it meant that one person could drown out everyone else, provided they could scream loudly enough. Juliet was exactly the sort to scream.
These musings were pretty good at letting Karl distract himself as she bound him to a chair. If she hadn't shared her goal, he'd have been kicking and screaming by this time, thrashing and struggling and doing his best to get free. He didn't really like watching The Program, but he heard stories. Everyone heard stories. Getting killed at the outset was by no means the worst thing could happen to you. Oh, no, far worse to fall into the hands of a sadist. There were people out there, seemingly normal people, who, given half a chance, would slit your belly open and then anally penetrate you with and assault rifle, laugh and jiggle the thing as you tried to hold your guts in, then pull the trigger and blow you apart from the inside out. That was anarchy. That was chaos. That, Karl was beginning to suspect, was the true purpose of The Program. It demonstrated, in a contained environment, exactly why the government was necessary, exactly what happened if you took it away. With nothing to protect you, with no centralized authority, what was the world except a bigger version of The Program? One that never ended, of course. That was why the winners were never seen again. No matter what you did, no matter how hard you fought, eventually something would get you. Might be cancer. Might be old age. Might be tripping off the curb and getting caught by a passing bus.
The metaphorical brilliance was actually somewhat impressive. Karl just found himself wishing he wasn't a part of the ongoing demonstration. Surely there was some better way, right? It was hypocritical in the extreme, he was fully aware of that, but he was really starting to wonder whether there might not be a more useful way to hold these things. Maybe grab criminals instead, the psychos too deranged to get thrown back into the army. Maybe make it a consequence of academic failure, avoid wasting the potential of so many bright, productive citizens.
He was grasping at straws, distracting himself while Juliet sat and read the manual to the fucking gun, because of course she didn't know how to use it; if there was one truly shining success in this country it was the removal of guns from the hands of civilians. Karl could probably have just muscled it away from her, turned the tables and run.
Probably.
Then again, maybe it was loaded, primed, and ready. Maybe he'd be dead right now had he tried that.
The stress, the justifications, it was all too much for him. He was still groggy, still uncertain. Still dwelling on the chain of events that had led to his current predicament. It had seemed so simple, so safe. No way General's Pride would ever be picked. The odds were just too long.
In the parade ground, Karl sat at his desk, waiting and watching. He felt a bit self conscious. Always did, come Announcement Day. It was the suit. Black suit, black tie. Hair carefully combed. Dress shoes. Formal, calculatedly so.
He wasn't alone, of course. A few people dressed up for the announcement. Harris had his uniform. A couple of the seniors were also dressed nicely. One girl had on a long pink dress, and wore ribbons in her hair. Karl didn't have the slightest clue what they were thinking. Did they plan to play to the cameras if they got chosen? The odds were so far against that happening as to make the eventuality not even worth considering. Were they just stupid attention whores? If so, that was in remarkably bad taste. Karl felt smugly superior to all of them, because he had class, and he had a purpose.
He dressed well because of the occasion. It was a day of hope and of fear, of suffering and of heroism. It was a day on which students, people in many cases no older than he, made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Karl's outfit reflected pride and mourning. It showed that he wasn't the sort to laugh this off. The Program was no joke. There would be bereaved families, no doubt. There would be tears and blood spilled this day.
And then, The General spoke, and Karl's world came crashing down.
As the school, the class, the names were called, Karl felt a horrible sense of foreboding creeping over him. He knew what would happen. He knew he'd be called. It was just his luck. It wasn't fair, wasn't reasonable, but it made sense. On some cosmic level, it made sense that he'd have to put his money where his mouth was, would have to show that he didn't just approve of bad things when they happened to other people. Sure enough, he was named right after Ben Latimer, a generally good fellow.
He didn't resist when he was escorted to the bus. Didn't speak. Didn't cry. He made no visible reaction at all. Inwardly, though, he was already working things through, planning, considering. No way to wheedle out of this, which left one option. Play. Kill the others. A glance around the bus. Hey, look, Harris. Some of the other military kids, and enough of the freaks and weirdos, enough people Karl had turned in for their crimes, to ensure he had a pretty good shot at the title of biggest target around. Okay, he needed a good weapon, then. A really good one. Flamethrower or something. But really, even then, it would just take one lucky person, one good shot.
He glanced around again. His prospects weren't looking any better. A look down, at his lap. The expensive pants, part of the expensive suit.
At least he was already dressed for a funeral.
And now, he was taped to a chair, his suit probably smudged, at the mercy of Juliet Watanabe, and he wasn't yet dead, so, comparatively speaking, the day was actually going fairly well. Surviving would be the tricky part. Juliet needed him for the moment. She'd need him up until she found Marilyn. At that point, Karl would likely become a liability, an untrustworthy ally. His goal, his focus, had to be on surviving beyond that moment. He'd get a brief opening, a brief second while Marilyn and Juliet tried to figure out if they could trust each other. He'd have to run when it came, run and not look back.
Assuming he didn't get shot first.
Juliet, odd as it seemed, was not such a bad person to be captured by. She didn't seem like a sadist or torturer. She was actually trying to figure out how her weapon worked, and, assuming she didn't immediately test it out on Karl, that meant she wouldn't get killed off easily and leave him in an awkward situation. She did have a point; by traveling together, they could minimize the number of people who wanted to kill them.
Yeah. This would be fine. Just fine.
He'd been staying pretty quiet, so far. Been trying not to draw much attention to himself. Hadn't even tried to slip the bonds, though it probably wouldn't be impossible. Getting loose and getting past an armed Juliet, on the other hand...
To distract himself, Karl cleared his throat.
And then, he found himself talking.
"So, uh, why are you looking for Marilyn, anyways?"
A good start. Ascertain their goals. Eliminate any surprises. Get Juliet talking.
A great plan, as long as she didn't take offense and open him up.
Actually, the real reason to find some common ground was so that Karl would get his head blown off. Even with their little understanding, he couldn't help but imagine that his relationship with Juliet was going to be somewhat tense. It was no secret that they held... divergent political opinions. That was actually something of an understatement. Juliet was exactly the sort of borderline-treasonous student Karl had taken great pleasure in busting. Sure, she wasn't half as bad as, say, Marilyn (the object of their search, Karl remembered. Just great), but she still was a troublemaker. The sort of person who shook up the order, who made things tougher on everyone else. Free speech was great, in theory. In practice, it meant that one person could drown out everyone else, provided they could scream loudly enough. Juliet was exactly the sort to scream.
These musings were pretty good at letting Karl distract himself as she bound him to a chair. If she hadn't shared her goal, he'd have been kicking and screaming by this time, thrashing and struggling and doing his best to get free. He didn't really like watching The Program, but he heard stories. Everyone heard stories. Getting killed at the outset was by no means the worst thing could happen to you. Oh, no, far worse to fall into the hands of a sadist. There were people out there, seemingly normal people, who, given half a chance, would slit your belly open and then anally penetrate you with and assault rifle, laugh and jiggle the thing as you tried to hold your guts in, then pull the trigger and blow you apart from the inside out. That was anarchy. That was chaos. That, Karl was beginning to suspect, was the true purpose of The Program. It demonstrated, in a contained environment, exactly why the government was necessary, exactly what happened if you took it away. With nothing to protect you, with no centralized authority, what was the world except a bigger version of The Program? One that never ended, of course. That was why the winners were never seen again. No matter what you did, no matter how hard you fought, eventually something would get you. Might be cancer. Might be old age. Might be tripping off the curb and getting caught by a passing bus.
The metaphorical brilliance was actually somewhat impressive. Karl just found himself wishing he wasn't a part of the ongoing demonstration. Surely there was some better way, right? It was hypocritical in the extreme, he was fully aware of that, but he was really starting to wonder whether there might not be a more useful way to hold these things. Maybe grab criminals instead, the psychos too deranged to get thrown back into the army. Maybe make it a consequence of academic failure, avoid wasting the potential of so many bright, productive citizens.
He was grasping at straws, distracting himself while Juliet sat and read the manual to the fucking gun, because of course she didn't know how to use it; if there was one truly shining success in this country it was the removal of guns from the hands of civilians. Karl could probably have just muscled it away from her, turned the tables and run.
Probably.
Then again, maybe it was loaded, primed, and ready. Maybe he'd be dead right now had he tried that.
The stress, the justifications, it was all too much for him. He was still groggy, still uncertain. Still dwelling on the chain of events that had led to his current predicament. It had seemed so simple, so safe. No way General's Pride would ever be picked. The odds were just too long.
In the parade ground, Karl sat at his desk, waiting and watching. He felt a bit self conscious. Always did, come Announcement Day. It was the suit. Black suit, black tie. Hair carefully combed. Dress shoes. Formal, calculatedly so.
He wasn't alone, of course. A few people dressed up for the announcement. Harris had his uniform. A couple of the seniors were also dressed nicely. One girl had on a long pink dress, and wore ribbons in her hair. Karl didn't have the slightest clue what they were thinking. Did they plan to play to the cameras if they got chosen? The odds were so far against that happening as to make the eventuality not even worth considering. Were they just stupid attention whores? If so, that was in remarkably bad taste. Karl felt smugly superior to all of them, because he had class, and he had a purpose.
He dressed well because of the occasion. It was a day of hope and of fear, of suffering and of heroism. It was a day on which students, people in many cases no older than he, made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Karl's outfit reflected pride and mourning. It showed that he wasn't the sort to laugh this off. The Program was no joke. There would be bereaved families, no doubt. There would be tears and blood spilled this day.
And then, The General spoke, and Karl's world came crashing down.
As the school, the class, the names were called, Karl felt a horrible sense of foreboding creeping over him. He knew what would happen. He knew he'd be called. It was just his luck. It wasn't fair, wasn't reasonable, but it made sense. On some cosmic level, it made sense that he'd have to put his money where his mouth was, would have to show that he didn't just approve of bad things when they happened to other people. Sure enough, he was named right after Ben Latimer, a generally good fellow.
He didn't resist when he was escorted to the bus. Didn't speak. Didn't cry. He made no visible reaction at all. Inwardly, though, he was already working things through, planning, considering. No way to wheedle out of this, which left one option. Play. Kill the others. A glance around the bus. Hey, look, Harris. Some of the other military kids, and enough of the freaks and weirdos, enough people Karl had turned in for their crimes, to ensure he had a pretty good shot at the title of biggest target around. Okay, he needed a good weapon, then. A really good one. Flamethrower or something. But really, even then, it would just take one lucky person, one good shot.
He glanced around again. His prospects weren't looking any better. A look down, at his lap. The expensive pants, part of the expensive suit.
At least he was already dressed for a funeral.
And now, he was taped to a chair, his suit probably smudged, at the mercy of Juliet Watanabe, and he wasn't yet dead, so, comparatively speaking, the day was actually going fairly well. Surviving would be the tricky part. Juliet needed him for the moment. She'd need him up until she found Marilyn. At that point, Karl would likely become a liability, an untrustworthy ally. His goal, his focus, had to be on surviving beyond that moment. He'd get a brief opening, a brief second while Marilyn and Juliet tried to figure out if they could trust each other. He'd have to run when it came, run and not look back.
Assuming he didn't get shot first.
Juliet, odd as it seemed, was not such a bad person to be captured by. She didn't seem like a sadist or torturer. She was actually trying to figure out how her weapon worked, and, assuming she didn't immediately test it out on Karl, that meant she wouldn't get killed off easily and leave him in an awkward situation. She did have a point; by traveling together, they could minimize the number of people who wanted to kill them.
Yeah. This would be fine. Just fine.
He'd been staying pretty quiet, so far. Been trying not to draw much attention to himself. Hadn't even tried to slip the bonds, though it probably wouldn't be impossible. Getting loose and getting past an armed Juliet, on the other hand...
To distract himself, Karl cleared his throat.
And then, he found himself talking.
"So, uh, why are you looking for Marilyn, anyways?"
A good start. Ascertain their goals. Eliminate any surprises. Get Juliet talking.
A great plan, as long as she didn't take offense and open him up.
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LeMat revolvers were apparently incredibly complicated. If this manual was to be believed, they were combination revolving pistols and shotguns; nine rounds of pistolfire, and a second barrel to load a shotgun cartridge, in case you needed to take down a cloud of pigeons once you were finished shooting your pistol rounds.
This model was a centerfire, too, which meant, apparently, that you could load cartridges from the back. That was a relief; loading balls by hammering them down the barrel (which was apparently how it used to be done) sounded slow and like it had potential to shoot off your face if you accidentally whacked the hammer. Yeah. The gun had two separate hammers, one to cock the pistol part, and one to cock the shotgun part.
So. Seemed overly elaborate, but otherwise a pretty good gun.
After a couple tries, she loaded it.
Karl cleared his throat. She turned to him, gripping the gun a little harder than she had intended.
"So, uh, why are you looking for Marilyn, anyways?"
Oh, great. Things she didn't want to confess to Karl: that she had a lesbian crush on Marilyn Williams. That, for dumb fifteen-year-old romantic reasons, she didn't want to die without telling Marilyn this, even though it was totally unlikely that Marilyn would reciprocate even a little bit.
But she had to tell him something.
She looked down at her gun.
"I'm looking for Marilyn because I like her. I'm looking for Claire Heartland and Durrikan Lovel, because I like them too. I want to keep them safe, at least for as long as I can. Marilyn's first, because she's the most likely to get immediately shot."
Although now that I think of it, Claire letting her mouth off at the wrong person might prove instantly fatal…
Ugh. She didn't want to think about Claire dying. Claire's tough. She'd made her choice. For now she'd look for Marilyn. Maybe stow her somewhere safe (were there safe places to stow people?). Find Claire, and Durrikan. Protect her people.
Simon's face floated into her mind. Not like you could do that before…
It was all hopeless, in the long run. They would all die. At best, they would be the last ones standing, and one of them would survive (not Juliet, never Juliet) and then they would vanish.
So don't think about the long run. Think about the short run.
Nowadays, it was all about the short run.
===========================
Announcement Day, in her pirate outfit. For the flavorful title, it was surprisingly practical; the shirt, pants and boots were all stuff she'd wear while dancing. The jacket was her father's, too small for him and too big for her, heavy as an embrace, ambiguously historical, the leather worn faded and silent. The pins had been her own innovation.
When General's Pride had been named, she'd felt like a rock had been dropped in her stomach. Well, here we go. She was going to be named; if there was anyone in the sophomore class the government should make an example of, it was her.
She put her arm around Claire. Sure enough, she was named third.
And then Claire was named, and she almost spit on the ground. She felt Claire falter under her arm, squeezed her shoulder, I'm here, but she'd been confronted with the sinking feeling that this didn't make sense. Claire was a good kid. Sure, she and her Dad knew about her crimes, but Claire was just a kid in a way Juliet was not. The government could reform her. Why were they bringing her here?
She'd been able to think please not Marilyn once, before Marilyn was named. Of course they would name her. Another one of them in their borders. People had reported her enough as a troublemaker that the government probably actually thought she was a troublemaker. Of course they would name her.
But it still wasn't fair.
Juliet had been silent on the way to the bus, fuming. Claire was weeping silently, and Juliet had drawn her close, sheltering her. One of the soldiers snickered. Juliet glared at him, and the others. [/i]Don't you dare split us up.[/i]
Of course they had split them up. And put her with Karl Chalmers, in a watchtower, in some kind of ominously empty compound. Military. Probably where her parents and brother had spent their last days. Appropriate.
But Claire, Durrikan, Marilyn. That was incorrect. They weren't supposed to be here. They weren't supposed to be here at all.
She felt sick.
Let's see if you can protect your family this time, Watanabe. The voice in her head sounded suspiciously like the voice of whatshisname Adams, the asswad who'd gotten them on the bus and made his stupid speech that sounded like he didn't know English even a little bit.
Juliet clicked the gun back together. It was loaded. She aimed it at imaginary whatshisname Adams, imaginarily fired.
Just watch me, Adams-man. Just watch me.
This model was a centerfire, too, which meant, apparently, that you could load cartridges from the back. That was a relief; loading balls by hammering them down the barrel (which was apparently how it used to be done) sounded slow and like it had potential to shoot off your face if you accidentally whacked the hammer. Yeah. The gun had two separate hammers, one to cock the pistol part, and one to cock the shotgun part.
So. Seemed overly elaborate, but otherwise a pretty good gun.
After a couple tries, she loaded it.
Karl cleared his throat. She turned to him, gripping the gun a little harder than she had intended.
"So, uh, why are you looking for Marilyn, anyways?"
Oh, great. Things she didn't want to confess to Karl: that she had a lesbian crush on Marilyn Williams. That, for dumb fifteen-year-old romantic reasons, she didn't want to die without telling Marilyn this, even though it was totally unlikely that Marilyn would reciprocate even a little bit.
But she had to tell him something.
She looked down at her gun.
"I'm looking for Marilyn because I like her. I'm looking for Claire Heartland and Durrikan Lovel, because I like them too. I want to keep them safe, at least for as long as I can. Marilyn's first, because she's the most likely to get immediately shot."
Although now that I think of it, Claire letting her mouth off at the wrong person might prove instantly fatal…
Ugh. She didn't want to think about Claire dying. Claire's tough. She'd made her choice. For now she'd look for Marilyn. Maybe stow her somewhere safe (were there safe places to stow people?). Find Claire, and Durrikan. Protect her people.
Simon's face floated into her mind. Not like you could do that before…
It was all hopeless, in the long run. They would all die. At best, they would be the last ones standing, and one of them would survive (not Juliet, never Juliet) and then they would vanish.
So don't think about the long run. Think about the short run.
Nowadays, it was all about the short run.
===========================
Announcement Day, in her pirate outfit. For the flavorful title, it was surprisingly practical; the shirt, pants and boots were all stuff she'd wear while dancing. The jacket was her father's, too small for him and too big for her, heavy as an embrace, ambiguously historical, the leather worn faded and silent. The pins had been her own innovation.
When General's Pride had been named, she'd felt like a rock had been dropped in her stomach. Well, here we go. She was going to be named; if there was anyone in the sophomore class the government should make an example of, it was her.
She put her arm around Claire. Sure enough, she was named third.
And then Claire was named, and she almost spit on the ground. She felt Claire falter under her arm, squeezed her shoulder, I'm here, but she'd been confronted with the sinking feeling that this didn't make sense. Claire was a good kid. Sure, she and her Dad knew about her crimes, but Claire was just a kid in a way Juliet was not. The government could reform her. Why were they bringing her here?
She'd been able to think please not Marilyn once, before Marilyn was named. Of course they would name her. Another one of them in their borders. People had reported her enough as a troublemaker that the government probably actually thought she was a troublemaker. Of course they would name her.
But it still wasn't fair.
Juliet had been silent on the way to the bus, fuming. Claire was weeping silently, and Juliet had drawn her close, sheltering her. One of the soldiers snickered. Juliet glared at him, and the others. [/i]Don't you dare split us up.[/i]
Of course they had split them up. And put her with Karl Chalmers, in a watchtower, in some kind of ominously empty compound. Military. Probably where her parents and brother had spent their last days. Appropriate.
But Claire, Durrikan, Marilyn. That was incorrect. They weren't supposed to be here. They weren't supposed to be here at all.
She felt sick.
Let's see if you can protect your family this time, Watanabe. The voice in her head sounded suspiciously like the voice of whatshisname Adams, the asswad who'd gotten them on the bus and made his stupid speech that sounded like he didn't know English even a little bit.
Juliet clicked the gun back together. It was loaded. She aimed it at imaginary whatshisname Adams, imaginarily fired.
Just watch me, Adams-man. Just watch me.
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MurderWeasel
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The explanation Juliet provided for their search was good enough for Karl, even if he didn't really believe it. His guess was that it was because Marilyn was someone similar to Juliet, someone who had faced at least some of the same challenges as her, someone of the same race. When trouble really got going, it seemed like people did their best to surround themselves with other people just like them. Karl wasn't going to judge; given half a chance, he'd be hanging out with some of his buddies rather than tied to a chance by a dissident.
Juliet wasn't looking so happy. Maybe this hadn't been the best topic. At least he knew who her friends were, now. More than that, he knew her general goal. If any of those other people showed up, he'd have to be on guard. Another ally would make him expendable pretty quickly, especially given the fact that Juliet wasn't going to trust him to any degree at all if she had an ounce of sense. Trust was a thing of the past, an unfortunate relic of a bygone era. Trust was what would get a large portion of Karl's classmates and friends killed. Far better to rely upon prediction. Better to base all decisions on what you thought a person would do, not what they said.
Karl didn't think Juliet would kill him, at least, not unless he did something to scare her. Not without her friends. She was an idealist. The sort of person who had always thought The Program a barbaric and worthless exercise in sadism. She was the last sort to snap and play along, not unless she was nudged over the edge, not unless she was goaded by someone else or forced by her own desperation. Karl would probably be safe alone with her until the end of the game neared. With allies, things would change, the situation would become more complex.
Karl was feeling a little stiff. Being crammed into bus seats, lying on a hard floor, being bound to a chair—none of these positions was exactly comfortable. He shifted his feet a little, trying not to draw any attention to his movement. No reason to get shot for an escape he wasn't even trying.
Juliet seemed to have figured out her weapon, finally. It was some sort of insane revolver, the sort of thing used in old cowboy movies. She leveled it, looked like she was concentrating. Had she snapped? Gone completely insane? It hardly mattered. She wasn't pointing the thing at Karl.
Soon they'd be going. Soon they'd be moving on, searching for Marilyn. If Juliet was insane, things would be more dangerous, but it would simply become a matter of figuring out her particular delusions and catering to them for a while. And anyways, she'd have to sleep eventually. Karl could always sneak off in the night, vanish into this complex and try to get a new start.
He took a glance out the window. Luckily his position provided a fairly good point of observation. The entire complex spread out, the place where his classmates and he would live out the remainder of their time. Irrationally, what bothered him most at this second was just how ugly it all was, concrete, cement, greys and blacks. Not a single thing that looked like home.
Don't cry.
A couple more deep breaths calmed him a little more. And then he risked speaking again.
"It might be best to get moving soon. From what I've heard, it usually takes people a while to really get going, and if we seize the initiative, we may be able to cover some ground before the bullets start flying. Once it turns into a war zone, we'll have a lot more trouble finding people."
Juliet wasn't looking so happy. Maybe this hadn't been the best topic. At least he knew who her friends were, now. More than that, he knew her general goal. If any of those other people showed up, he'd have to be on guard. Another ally would make him expendable pretty quickly, especially given the fact that Juliet wasn't going to trust him to any degree at all if she had an ounce of sense. Trust was a thing of the past, an unfortunate relic of a bygone era. Trust was what would get a large portion of Karl's classmates and friends killed. Far better to rely upon prediction. Better to base all decisions on what you thought a person would do, not what they said.
Karl didn't think Juliet would kill him, at least, not unless he did something to scare her. Not without her friends. She was an idealist. The sort of person who had always thought The Program a barbaric and worthless exercise in sadism. She was the last sort to snap and play along, not unless she was nudged over the edge, not unless she was goaded by someone else or forced by her own desperation. Karl would probably be safe alone with her until the end of the game neared. With allies, things would change, the situation would become more complex.
Karl was feeling a little stiff. Being crammed into bus seats, lying on a hard floor, being bound to a chair—none of these positions was exactly comfortable. He shifted his feet a little, trying not to draw any attention to his movement. No reason to get shot for an escape he wasn't even trying.
Juliet seemed to have figured out her weapon, finally. It was some sort of insane revolver, the sort of thing used in old cowboy movies. She leveled it, looked like she was concentrating. Had she snapped? Gone completely insane? It hardly mattered. She wasn't pointing the thing at Karl.
Soon they'd be going. Soon they'd be moving on, searching for Marilyn. If Juliet was insane, things would be more dangerous, but it would simply become a matter of figuring out her particular delusions and catering to them for a while. And anyways, she'd have to sleep eventually. Karl could always sneak off in the night, vanish into this complex and try to get a new start.
He took a glance out the window. Luckily his position provided a fairly good point of observation. The entire complex spread out, the place where his classmates and he would live out the remainder of their time. Irrationally, what bothered him most at this second was just how ugly it all was, concrete, cement, greys and blacks. Not a single thing that looked like home.
Don't cry.
A couple more deep breaths calmed him a little more. And then he risked speaking again.
"It might be best to get moving soon. From what I've heard, it usually takes people a while to really get going, and if we seize the initiative, we may be able to cover some ground before the bullets start flying. Once it turns into a war zone, we'll have a lot more trouble finding people."
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Karl spoke up.
"It might be best to get moving soon. From what I've heard, it usually takes people a while to really get going, and if we seize the initiative, we may be able to cover some ground before the bullets start flying. Once it turns into a war zone, we'll have a lot more trouble finding people."
Juliet nodded. Yeah. That seemed sensible. She didn't know anything about how the Program worked. Claire watched it at home sometimes, with her Dad, but they were always respectful of Juliet. They never did it around her.
Only once had Claire broached the topic.
"Don't you think you're shielding yourself from reality?"
Juliet had been walking with a limp at that point. It was not long after her leg had been broken.
"No."
Claire had never brought it up again.
So now she was on the Program, and she had to trust Karl Chalmers, of all people, to know the ropes. If he's misleading me, I swear I'll shoot him in the face. I'm not walking into some damn trap on his advice.
There was something unnerving about that sentiment, so automatically, roughly, in her brain, now that she actually did have a gun. She'd told someone--not even someone she was close to, Bryant Carver of all people--in a fit of rage, that she wanted to kill all her classmates once. For what they'd seen, for what they were ignoring, for how incredibly complacent they were, to pretend to live in a normal world when when every three months the government rounds up fifty kids and has them kill each other to show that it has balls.
And now she was remembering using that phrase in an argument with Karl. She almost laughed. But no.
She untied Karl, keeping the gun trained on him. He breathed and massaged his hands when she let him up. He was trying to stretch without letting her see. He's scared.
She pushed him onto the tower's outside observation deck before her, gun to his head. Yes, he was running point. If anyone was taking bullets now, it was Karl Chalmers.
The military base was laid out before them.
"Jesus, this place is ugly."
No color. Only concrete and cement, grays and blacks. They took Mom, Dad and Simon to a place like this. Probably.
It was so ugly. Everything was square. Home, home for them had always been full of those rugs Mom used to hang on the walls, and wood that smelled really nice, and the fireplace, and things that Dad collected from places that were Not Here. And Simon, a pack rat, with his colored lightbulbs and chaotic room and piles of filthy sci-fi books--
Everything's way too neat here. Neat and square and bloody ugly. There's got to be a better place to die than this.
But she had to search for Marilyn, and Durrikan, and Claire. Maybe neat would be good; it meant less places to search.
And that's when she realized she had no idea how to run any sort of goddamn dragnet over this place.
Oh, hell. Karl had watched this show before, probably. Maybe he would have the answer. And she had the gun.
"Tell me a good way to search this place that isn't just systematically going everywhere and shouting Marilyn's name." Her smile was grim. "Usually I'm loud enough that that works, but I suspect in a place where everyone wants to kill at least one of us, that's suboptimal."
He looked miserable. His stupid suit was in no way useful for being at the top of a watchtower, strong winds pulling at both of their hair. It would be less windy below, but right now, even Juliet, in her jacket, was cold.
She had the absurd urge to offer him her coat.
Instead, she pressed the barrel of the gun against his neck. Threatening, maybe. The sooner he said something intelligent, the sooner they'd get off the watchtower.
Somehow, being the one with the gun wasn't nearly as empowering as she had envisioned.
"It might be best to get moving soon. From what I've heard, it usually takes people a while to really get going, and if we seize the initiative, we may be able to cover some ground before the bullets start flying. Once it turns into a war zone, we'll have a lot more trouble finding people."
Juliet nodded. Yeah. That seemed sensible. She didn't know anything about how the Program worked. Claire watched it at home sometimes, with her Dad, but they were always respectful of Juliet. They never did it around her.
Only once had Claire broached the topic.
"Don't you think you're shielding yourself from reality?"
Juliet had been walking with a limp at that point. It was not long after her leg had been broken.
"No."
Claire had never brought it up again.
So now she was on the Program, and she had to trust Karl Chalmers, of all people, to know the ropes. If he's misleading me, I swear I'll shoot him in the face. I'm not walking into some damn trap on his advice.
There was something unnerving about that sentiment, so automatically, roughly, in her brain, now that she actually did have a gun. She'd told someone--not even someone she was close to, Bryant Carver of all people--in a fit of rage, that she wanted to kill all her classmates once. For what they'd seen, for what they were ignoring, for how incredibly complacent they were, to pretend to live in a normal world when when every three months the government rounds up fifty kids and has them kill each other to show that it has balls.
And now she was remembering using that phrase in an argument with Karl. She almost laughed. But no.
She untied Karl, keeping the gun trained on him. He breathed and massaged his hands when she let him up. He was trying to stretch without letting her see. He's scared.
She pushed him onto the tower's outside observation deck before her, gun to his head. Yes, he was running point. If anyone was taking bullets now, it was Karl Chalmers.
The military base was laid out before them.
"Jesus, this place is ugly."
No color. Only concrete and cement, grays and blacks. They took Mom, Dad and Simon to a place like this. Probably.
It was so ugly. Everything was square. Home, home for them had always been full of those rugs Mom used to hang on the walls, and wood that smelled really nice, and the fireplace, and things that Dad collected from places that were Not Here. And Simon, a pack rat, with his colored lightbulbs and chaotic room and piles of filthy sci-fi books--
Everything's way too neat here. Neat and square and bloody ugly. There's got to be a better place to die than this.
But she had to search for Marilyn, and Durrikan, and Claire. Maybe neat would be good; it meant less places to search.
And that's when she realized she had no idea how to run any sort of goddamn dragnet over this place.
Oh, hell. Karl had watched this show before, probably. Maybe he would have the answer. And she had the gun.
"Tell me a good way to search this place that isn't just systematically going everywhere and shouting Marilyn's name." Her smile was grim. "Usually I'm loud enough that that works, but I suspect in a place where everyone wants to kill at least one of us, that's suboptimal."
He looked miserable. His stupid suit was in no way useful for being at the top of a watchtower, strong winds pulling at both of their hair. It would be less windy below, but right now, even Juliet, in her jacket, was cold.
She had the absurd urge to offer him her coat.
Instead, she pressed the barrel of the gun against his neck. Threatening, maybe. The sooner he said something intelligent, the sooner they'd get off the watchtower.
Somehow, being the one with the gun wasn't nearly as empowering as she had envisioned.
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MurderWeasel
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She untied him, nodded her agreement. Didn't shoot him. A small relief, but he'd take it, right now he'd take just about anything. His hands were sore, tingly. The circulation had been hampered by his bonds. She'd done a pretty good job. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to break free after all. That was not a comforting thought, not in the slightest. Juliet might very well put a serious kink in his plans if she decided to tie him up when it was his turn on watch.
He would deal with that hurdle when he came to it. For the moment, they were moving. As ordered, Karl took the lead, walking outside onto the platform. The compound seemed even more bleak now, even more desperate. It was clear, from her words, that Juliet agreed. Karl nodded in response to her statement. No need to vocalize it. No need to look like a suck up. Not now. If there was one person who'd see through a compliant act, it was Juliet. They weren't going to have any illusions about where they stood in relation to each other. None at all.
H glanced around, trying to make out anything distinct, anything useful. Off in the extreme distance, he thought he could see a figure moving, but it could easily have been his imagination, or a trick of the wind or light. The area seemed dead. No shots were echoing around, not yet. No screams. No death. It was the calm before the storm. For this one, brief moment, Karl could fool himself into thinking that it wasn't real, pretend he was on a tour of some kind. He'd seen military facilities before. It came with wealth and status. He'd accompanied his father to a training camp, once, had watched the soldiers practicing, exercising. They'd seemed happy. Spirited. They had the sort of easy camaraderie that came only from truly caring about someone, truly trusting someone with your life. That was what the military was supposed to be. For the most part, that was what it was.
It seemed, though, that foreign countries weren't the only ones that had occaisional lapses.
The bus trundled to a halt. Somehow, though, what should have been a long three hours had flown by. Perhaps it was simply that this was almost certainly the last time Karl would ever ride in a vehicle. That was an odd thought. Well, maybe they'd dump him into something when they placed him, but he'd be unconscious for that. The people chosen usually woke up. The disorientation was part of things, part of the way they got things rolling. It was also part of the luck. Everyone should theoretically wake up somewhere around the same time. It wasn't any good if people got killed without a chance to defend themselves. That held no value, educational, motivational, or patriotic. Still, a few seconds' head start could be a huge boon when it came to finding an advantageous position.
The students were herded off the bus, straight into a tent. No chance to see the outside world, no chance to feel the fresh air. It was a smart choice. This was the last chance to do something stupid and suicidal, the last chance to become a problem for the system. Karl walked straight, posture perfect, ducking collisions as was his fashion. He met the gaze of the soldiers, offered one of them a nod. The gesture was not returned. They could have at least shown a little respect. What was that old line the gladiators said? He couldn't remember just now.
Then they were inside, back in desks. The room felt stifling. Karl could smell the fear. It looked like some guy had fainted or something. He'd be a quick out. Anyone who showed fear now, anyone who cracked, would be devoured as soon as things got moving. Their class would be divided into predators and prey. Karl didn't watch The Program all that often. He knew a few things, though. To start with, a small number of people usually got violent right away. Maybe one in ten would immediately decide to play. Some of those, say half, would choke and fail, or fall apart after their first kill. The others would be popular targets.
It was the people who broke a little later that would be the real dangers. Karl went ahead and estimated that somewhere between one in five and one in four students would eventually take to playing aggressively and actually make some headway. A similar amount would probably act violently in self defense. The rest would simply be killed by one group or the other. If he was going to decide where he fell in that equation, now was probably the time. Get a little planning done. Steel himself for what was to come.
The man at the front shattered his concentration. As he began to speak, Karl blinked.
“Sup kids? How’d the bus ride go?"
Seriously?
They were going to die. They were going to die, were going to be sacrificed for the good of the nation, and the person handling it all, their director of events, was this guy? He sounded like the sort of person Karl would have expected to encounter panhandling downtown, or maybe see in line for a soup kitchen. And as the speech went on, it just got worse. "Kill each other to death"? English was not Karl's strong suit, and even he was horrified by that little bastardization of the language.
He was starting to wonder if there was some mistake. Maybe they hadn't been picked after all. Maybe this was a big joke, some sort of stupid team building exercise. Maybe it was a test, and only those with true faith in the government, only those who bore even this indignity without questioning, would be spared the trials ahead. That was a good hope. Just stay straight, power through this, and you get a free ticket out.
It wasn't so simple, of course.
When the gas mask was pulled out, Karl knew what was coming. He closed his eyes.
Juliet was asking for his plan. Asking for the search method they were to use. It took Karl a second to respond, not because he hadn't thought of something, but because the cold had him shivering, and the gun barrel pressing into his neck wasn't helping any. His tie fluttered in the breeze. He resisted the urge to run a finger along his scar. Now was not the time to indulge nervous habits. He had to focus, concentrate. Make sure he stayed useful.
"I... I wouldn't yell, no," he began. "I think our best bet would b-be to take what we know about Marilyn and use that to search the most likely spots as quickly as we can. T-then, if we haven't found her when stuff heats up, we can cycle through progressively less likely locations."
So far, so good. The next part, though, could very well get him shot.
Karl didn't really know Marilyn so well. In his situation, he couldn't afford to. They ran in different circles, and, unlike Juliet, Marilyn wasn't the sort to rise to a political debate. She was a much more subtle problem-causer, playing up her own weakness to avoid real conflict where possible, while still baiting just the right amount.
At least, that was what Karl had always told himself. It was what helped him not think about what she faced. What helped him not flash back to middle school. Whether it was true or not, though, Marilyn was scared much of the time. She was scared, and when she was scared, she avoided conflict, and the best way to avoid conflict was to never let it find you in the first place.
"What can I do for you, Chalmers?"
"I'm really sorry to have to disturb you, ma'am, but there was an incident in the hallway. From what I've gathered (and I wasn't there at the start), Marilyn did something to upset Harris. Anyways, they had an altercation, and Marilyn screamed at everyone in the hall, called us names. Now she's in the girls' bathroom. I think she's ditching class."
Yes. Marilyn hid. When she was scared, when she was hurt, when she was battered and beaten, she went to ground, until someone or something (had it been the janitor that day, or maybe an administrative aide?) flushed her out.
Karl opened his mouth, closed it. Considered. He hoped he wouldn't get shot for this. Hoped to win some points for honesty.
"She's probably hiding somewhere. At school, she always found places where no one would follow her. I imagine we'll find her somewhere like that. That implies somewhere inside, ideally with cover. A storehouse of some sort is probably our b-best bet."
He closed his eyes for a second, took a breath, braced. Hoped he would live to see the next moment.
He would deal with that hurdle when he came to it. For the moment, they were moving. As ordered, Karl took the lead, walking outside onto the platform. The compound seemed even more bleak now, even more desperate. It was clear, from her words, that Juliet agreed. Karl nodded in response to her statement. No need to vocalize it. No need to look like a suck up. Not now. If there was one person who'd see through a compliant act, it was Juliet. They weren't going to have any illusions about where they stood in relation to each other. None at all.
H glanced around, trying to make out anything distinct, anything useful. Off in the extreme distance, he thought he could see a figure moving, but it could easily have been his imagination, or a trick of the wind or light. The area seemed dead. No shots were echoing around, not yet. No screams. No death. It was the calm before the storm. For this one, brief moment, Karl could fool himself into thinking that it wasn't real, pretend he was on a tour of some kind. He'd seen military facilities before. It came with wealth and status. He'd accompanied his father to a training camp, once, had watched the soldiers practicing, exercising. They'd seemed happy. Spirited. They had the sort of easy camaraderie that came only from truly caring about someone, truly trusting someone with your life. That was what the military was supposed to be. For the most part, that was what it was.
It seemed, though, that foreign countries weren't the only ones that had occaisional lapses.
The bus trundled to a halt. Somehow, though, what should have been a long three hours had flown by. Perhaps it was simply that this was almost certainly the last time Karl would ever ride in a vehicle. That was an odd thought. Well, maybe they'd dump him into something when they placed him, but he'd be unconscious for that. The people chosen usually woke up. The disorientation was part of things, part of the way they got things rolling. It was also part of the luck. Everyone should theoretically wake up somewhere around the same time. It wasn't any good if people got killed without a chance to defend themselves. That held no value, educational, motivational, or patriotic. Still, a few seconds' head start could be a huge boon when it came to finding an advantageous position.
The students were herded off the bus, straight into a tent. No chance to see the outside world, no chance to feel the fresh air. It was a smart choice. This was the last chance to do something stupid and suicidal, the last chance to become a problem for the system. Karl walked straight, posture perfect, ducking collisions as was his fashion. He met the gaze of the soldiers, offered one of them a nod. The gesture was not returned. They could have at least shown a little respect. What was that old line the gladiators said? He couldn't remember just now.
Then they were inside, back in desks. The room felt stifling. Karl could smell the fear. It looked like some guy had fainted or something. He'd be a quick out. Anyone who showed fear now, anyone who cracked, would be devoured as soon as things got moving. Their class would be divided into predators and prey. Karl didn't watch The Program all that often. He knew a few things, though. To start with, a small number of people usually got violent right away. Maybe one in ten would immediately decide to play. Some of those, say half, would choke and fail, or fall apart after their first kill. The others would be popular targets.
It was the people who broke a little later that would be the real dangers. Karl went ahead and estimated that somewhere between one in five and one in four students would eventually take to playing aggressively and actually make some headway. A similar amount would probably act violently in self defense. The rest would simply be killed by one group or the other. If he was going to decide where he fell in that equation, now was probably the time. Get a little planning done. Steel himself for what was to come.
The man at the front shattered his concentration. As he began to speak, Karl blinked.
“Sup kids? How’d the bus ride go?"
Seriously?
They were going to die. They were going to die, were going to be sacrificed for the good of the nation, and the person handling it all, their director of events, was this guy? He sounded like the sort of person Karl would have expected to encounter panhandling downtown, or maybe see in line for a soup kitchen. And as the speech went on, it just got worse. "Kill each other to death"? English was not Karl's strong suit, and even he was horrified by that little bastardization of the language.
He was starting to wonder if there was some mistake. Maybe they hadn't been picked after all. Maybe this was a big joke, some sort of stupid team building exercise. Maybe it was a test, and only those with true faith in the government, only those who bore even this indignity without questioning, would be spared the trials ahead. That was a good hope. Just stay straight, power through this, and you get a free ticket out.
It wasn't so simple, of course.
When the gas mask was pulled out, Karl knew what was coming. He closed his eyes.
Juliet was asking for his plan. Asking for the search method they were to use. It took Karl a second to respond, not because he hadn't thought of something, but because the cold had him shivering, and the gun barrel pressing into his neck wasn't helping any. His tie fluttered in the breeze. He resisted the urge to run a finger along his scar. Now was not the time to indulge nervous habits. He had to focus, concentrate. Make sure he stayed useful.
"I... I wouldn't yell, no," he began. "I think our best bet would b-be to take what we know about Marilyn and use that to search the most likely spots as quickly as we can. T-then, if we haven't found her when stuff heats up, we can cycle through progressively less likely locations."
So far, so good. The next part, though, could very well get him shot.
Karl didn't really know Marilyn so well. In his situation, he couldn't afford to. They ran in different circles, and, unlike Juliet, Marilyn wasn't the sort to rise to a political debate. She was a much more subtle problem-causer, playing up her own weakness to avoid real conflict where possible, while still baiting just the right amount.
At least, that was what Karl had always told himself. It was what helped him not think about what she faced. What helped him not flash back to middle school. Whether it was true or not, though, Marilyn was scared much of the time. She was scared, and when she was scared, she avoided conflict, and the best way to avoid conflict was to never let it find you in the first place.
"What can I do for you, Chalmers?"
"I'm really sorry to have to disturb you, ma'am, but there was an incident in the hallway. From what I've gathered (and I wasn't there at the start), Marilyn did something to upset Harris. Anyways, they had an altercation, and Marilyn screamed at everyone in the hall, called us names. Now she's in the girls' bathroom. I think she's ditching class."
Yes. Marilyn hid. When she was scared, when she was hurt, when she was battered and beaten, she went to ground, until someone or something (had it been the janitor that day, or maybe an administrative aide?) flushed her out.
Karl opened his mouth, closed it. Considered. He hoped he wouldn't get shot for this. Hoped to win some points for honesty.
"She's probably hiding somewhere. At school, she always found places where no one would follow her. I imagine we'll find her somewhere like that. That implies somewhere inside, ideally with cover. A storehouse of some sort is probably our b-best bet."
He closed his eyes for a second, took a breath, braced. Hoped he would live to see the next moment.
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storyspoiler*
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"I... I wouldn't yell, no," he began. "I think our best bet would b-be to take what we know about Marilyn and use that to search the most likely spots as quickly as we can. T-then, if we haven't found her when stuff heats up, we can cycle through progressively less likely locations."
Juliet nodded. So far, so good. He opened his mouth, and closed it again before saying the next part. Tread carefully, Karl.
"She's probably hiding somewhere. At school, she always found places where no one would follow her. I imagine we'll find her somewhere like that. That implies somewhere inside, ideally with cover. A storehouse of some sort is probably our b-best bet."
Juliet opened the map while Karl shivered. Everything was in a dull shade of blue, marked off in neat squares. Field hospital seemed sinister, Mess Hall too open. Barracks and Officer's Quarters were a possibility. Admin buildings…maybe. Warehouse definitely. The Firing Range, Jailhouse, Helipad and Garage/Depot, she had no idea; jailhouses varied from place to place, as did garages and depots, and Juliet had never dealt with a firing range or a helipad before.
So. Warehouse it was. Frowning. "There's a warehouse here--we can check it out. I guess we should go around the back of the field hospital, mess hall, etcetera. I don't want to go out through the middle of everything. We might get shot by some overzealous patriot."
She snapped the map closed. "You're freezing. Let's go."
She directed him to go down the ladder first. He went, without a word. She followed. The wind clipped her hair over her face. Standing at the top of the ladder, she threw back her head and smiled. She had always loved heavy breezes, soupy air and thunderstorms, electricity in the air. And even if the storm was full of everything horrible, hell if she wasn't going to try and get some pretty out of the next few days.
Yup. Screw it all if she wasn't going to enjoy the wind.
(Juliet Watanabe continued in M05: Start)
Juliet nodded. So far, so good. He opened his mouth, and closed it again before saying the next part. Tread carefully, Karl.
"She's probably hiding somewhere. At school, she always found places where no one would follow her. I imagine we'll find her somewhere like that. That implies somewhere inside, ideally with cover. A storehouse of some sort is probably our b-best bet."
Juliet opened the map while Karl shivered. Everything was in a dull shade of blue, marked off in neat squares. Field hospital seemed sinister, Mess Hall too open. Barracks and Officer's Quarters were a possibility. Admin buildings…maybe. Warehouse definitely. The Firing Range, Jailhouse, Helipad and Garage/Depot, she had no idea; jailhouses varied from place to place, as did garages and depots, and Juliet had never dealt with a firing range or a helipad before.
So. Warehouse it was. Frowning. "There's a warehouse here--we can check it out. I guess we should go around the back of the field hospital, mess hall, etcetera. I don't want to go out through the middle of everything. We might get shot by some overzealous patriot."
She snapped the map closed. "You're freezing. Let's go."
She directed him to go down the ladder first. He went, without a word. She followed. The wind clipped her hair over her face. Standing at the top of the ladder, she threw back her head and smiled. She had always loved heavy breezes, soupy air and thunderstorms, electricity in the air. And even if the storm was full of everything horrible, hell if she wasn't going to try and get some pretty out of the next few days.
Yup. Screw it all if she wasn't going to enjoy the wind.
(Juliet Watanabe continued in M05: Start)
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MurderWeasel
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No gunfire. No instant, smashing death. Karl sighed in relief. Good. Juliet was enough of a pragmatist to put any feelings of anger behind the value of a true assessment. The gun's pressure loosened; he heard her messing with paper. The map, most likely. She consulted it for a time, then went ahead and made a suggestion. Warehouse. Sounded exactly like where Marilyn would be. Of course, there was also a pretty good chance that it would attract some of the nastier elements of the General's Pride population. If it was stocked, even with useless things, it would be a wonderful place to hole up and make a stand, from a tactical perspective. Cover, choke points, the works. All the more reason to be in and out as quickly as possible, before anyone could get established.
Juliet had a route in mind. It took them away from the central areas, away from anywhere exposed. Karl wasn't too sure that they'd face any real trouble this early. Then again, the position he was in did a pretty fine job of negating that point, and it wasn't like he could really push his captor. If she wanted to go through the back ways, it was probably best for him in the long run, anyways. It meant less chance he'd be shot, less chance things would turn ugly.
At least he'd have a measure of protection from all the outcasts. With any luck at all, once they saw his position, they'd assume he was safely under control and ignore him. Being ignored was a pretty good way to live for a little bit on The Program. It didn't carry you through, didn't see you over the finish line, but it meant that bad things weren't as imminent.
Karl wracked his mind, trying to recall some of the previous winners. Had any of them been minorities? How many had been real patriots? Of those, how many had not been military prep sorts?
No matter. Calculating the odds didn't serve any purpose.
She was telling him to go, so he went. Odd, that she commented on him being cold. What game was this? Another little note to remind him of her superiority? Likely. Made sense, given the situation. He couldn't say that he wouldn't do the same, given half a chance.
The rungs of the ladder were cold, the winds unnerving, but it didn't matter. He'd survived just about the worst first minutes there could be. From here, things were sure to look up.
At least, that was what he kept telling himself, even if he didn't believe it in the slightest.
((Karl Chalmers continued in M05: START))
Juliet had a route in mind. It took them away from the central areas, away from anywhere exposed. Karl wasn't too sure that they'd face any real trouble this early. Then again, the position he was in did a pretty fine job of negating that point, and it wasn't like he could really push his captor. If she wanted to go through the back ways, it was probably best for him in the long run, anyways. It meant less chance he'd be shot, less chance things would turn ugly.
At least he'd have a measure of protection from all the outcasts. With any luck at all, once they saw his position, they'd assume he was safely under control and ignore him. Being ignored was a pretty good way to live for a little bit on The Program. It didn't carry you through, didn't see you over the finish line, but it meant that bad things weren't as imminent.
Karl wracked his mind, trying to recall some of the previous winners. Had any of them been minorities? How many had been real patriots? Of those, how many had not been military prep sorts?
No matter. Calculating the odds didn't serve any purpose.
She was telling him to go, so he went. Odd, that she commented on him being cold. What game was this? Another little note to remind him of her superiority? Likely. Made sense, given the situation. He couldn't say that he wouldn't do the same, given half a chance.
The rungs of the ladder were cold, the winds unnerving, but it didn't matter. He'd survived just about the worst first minutes there could be. From here, things were sure to look up.
At least, that was what he kept telling himself, even if he didn't believe it in the slightest.
((Karl Chalmers continued in M05: START))