Saturday, June 17, 2017, 02:45 A.M.: Undisclosed Location
The night lay still and heavy. Motionless. Silent, except for the constant shriek of tinnitus, the intermittent tapping of keys. Sentences written. Sentences erased. Phrases washing in, words washing out, concepts precipitating into an uneven landscape. It was an arduous process despite his own rhetorical thrust about how he'd faced far worse acts of impromptu surgery than letting niceties become offal in the name of efficient communication. Followed up, of course, by a calculated weighing of how snide one could be to a recipient against the anticipated value of the response. But, well, words were just words. And there was one question he did wish to answer. The question weighing on every soul in the nation. The one that, under its own diplomatic veil, formed the core of the entire mountain of requests he'd received: Was Survival of the Fittest back?
He understood. He really did. The fear, the uncertainty, the absolute maddening helplessness. And one person, exactly one, who had the experience of riding the sinking ship down from its bridge. Surely the uniqueness of his position afforded him some singular insight? Perhaps it really did, if not the sort everyone wanted. Because of course they hadn't the experience to look elsewhere. So, was this a repeat tragedy? Another attack? A followup by the same organization? He hadn't the ability to say, though his gut twisted to think on the promise he'd received, the only thing he'd ever kept truly private. Was this Survival of the Fittest? A different question, the ultimate answer to which still lay in the hands of the people. To temper hope and accept confirmation as total disaster, that was his message. A desperate plea he knew would go ignored. To let families grieve in peace and to leave space for one fractured life to find its way back wherever it fit. To honor memories not by dragging names though the 24-hour outrage cycle but by working to never allow it to happen again.
The list of requests was long, and growing ever longer. Whoever delivered it, he didn't care. They were all complicit. So he'd let the cold, uncaring universe decide. Quite literally cold; the cosmic microwave background radiation was only a few Kelvin, and the best random number generators pulled from it. He brought one up and let his cursor hover over the button. Trillions of possibilities passed beneath his finger. He snatched one, and wrote it down. For a moment he considered clicking again, but the absurdity of it made his face flash with what passed for a smile these days. One photon out of the uncounted multitudes shot through 14 billion years and captured for the purposes of avoiding even the most minute emotional attachment to a decision. He wasn't about to look such a profoundly random and impersonal gift horse in the mouth. A few provisions to copy off—exclusive rights, to be read in its entirety or not at all and so forth—and it was done. He shut off the screen's ghastly light and leaned back, closing his eyes. The night was still and silent again, save the endless ringing in his ears.
Saturday, June 17, 2017, Unknown Time: Undisclosed Location
The marine stood on the rear deck of the small boat, hands on the railing as he looked down into the water. The island would have been in sight, if he wasn't here. If it weren't for these nerves, if it weren't for his hands shaking on the railing, he would be with the rest of his platoon, nervously chatting about that small dot on the horizon. Questioning just what might await on it. He looked at the water—the straight white line that had been churned out by the motor trailed them for some distance before dissipating—and took a breath, tried to pull those butterflies out of his stomach. When they still remained, when it became clear that just breathing wasn't going to do it, he brought his eyes closer to the railing. Grabbed onto it harder, to try and see whether that stilled his hands or not.
At the very least, being here wouldn't make him seasick. Until the captain came to put him into order, he could stay here, for better or worse.
They were here because of a call from the… fire brigade, environmental police, whoever the fuck. Some old mining island—some place that hadn't been used in… twenty years? Thirty?—had burst into flame during the last couple of days, and this environmental nonprofit or whatever wanted to go there and put it out, prevent bad shit being done to the ozone layer. Problem was, there was something unusual about the patterns of the fire. Whoever—or whatever—had started the blaze had made it so that they resembled a lopsided smiley face. That suggested foul play. It implied there was something going on, so the Navy denied permission to the fire hippies until it could have a look-see of its own. And, of course, get some guns on the scene just in case there was something serious going on.
Personally, Jaxon Jeremiah was under the impression that the whole smiley face thing was a weird coincidence (like all the wacky disaster shit that'd been on the news) but he couldn't help but worry that it wasn't. He couldn't help but fret over the possibility of this being something else—something far more malicious.
He could hear the footsteps behind him. He was pretty sure of who was approaching him already.
"Commander Jeremiah."
Yep.
Right on the mark.
"Captain Grossi."
The rush of the waves and the roar of the boat were the only sounds as Jaxon kept staring into the waves. He couldn't really tell for sure what the captain was doing, but given that it was Grossi, Jaxon imagined that a new asshole was being stared into him right about now.
The pause continued, for a couple of seconds. The captain was the first to break the silence.
"Why have you broken off from the rest of the platoon?"
Jaxon didn't respond, for a few seconds. Figured he'd try and get more words out from the captain. Given he was already in trouble he may as well use the opportunity to fuck with Grossi mo—
Eh. Grossi probably wouldn't even notice it. May as well stop wasting time.
"...Nerves," he said, not looking back. "I know that we're probably not needed here, but…" He paused. "I don't know. Just can't help but have the feeling that there's gonna be something there, captain."
"I understand," Grossi said.
The silence between the two held. Jaxon didn't really have anything to say. He figured that in time he'd be told to head back to his position but he figured he could wait a little until then. Enjoy the view of the endless ocean, or some shit like that.
"If it helps," Grossi continued, "I'm feeling the same way."
Huh.
That was a surprise.
"How so, captain?"
A pause.
"Just got a feeling that there's gonna be something on that island none of us will like."
That got a brief chuckle out.
"Wanna bet on what it is?"
"Probably just some rich kids who decided to spend their spring break here, accidentally set the whole place ablaze," Grossi said, moving next to Jaxon on the railing and placing his hands down onto it. "If I were to be paranoid, though…"
He paused. Looked down into the ocean before looking directly at Jaxon.
"You remember Survival of the Fittest?"
That was…
"The thing five years ago?"
"If I wanted to make a bigger bet, I'd say it's happening again," Grossi replied. "There was a bus full of kids in New Jersey that disappeared a couple days ago. Nobody knows where they all went."
A pause.
"So you think that that's what happened to that bus? You think they're back?" Jaxon asked.
"It's what all the people on the internet are saying, at least. And there are some rumblings from up the ladder. Some army spook called Adams is back in the spotlight."
"Right."
The two of them stopped speaking again. This time, Jaxon was the one to break the silence.
"You think we'll get there in time? You think we're gonna save anyone?"
"I don't know," Grossi replied. "We've got no clue what we're going into."
"Right." Jaxon stood upright. Looked to the horizon behind him, rather than the sea. "How close are we?"
"About ten minutes from our destination," Grossi said. "Get to your platoon, commander."
"Aye-aye, captain," Jaxon said, letting go of the railing and turning around.
"Don't call me captain, by the way."
"Aye-aye, captain."
Friday, June 16, 2017, 02:00 P.M.: Saint Paul, Minnesota
As she led her visitor down the halls of Aurora Bay High School, Mrs. Bishop couldn't shake this little niggling of discomfort, and she also couldn't quite put her finger on its origin. This latter point, she thought, was what was making it so close to intolerable. She'd been late—again and of course, she tried really hard to be on time but the seconds and minutes just slipped away from her and before she knew it she was once again just a little tardy—but that hadn't seemed to have much impact on the man she'd been sent to meet.
Nothing did.
Maybe, then, the source of her discomfort was something related to him. She hoped not, because that would be personally uncomfortable. The man was huge, heavyset but in a muscular way, head completely shaved; he looked, she thought, like a beefier Samuel L. Jackson, except for his eyes, which were an odd pale green. She'd never known African-Americans could have eyes like that, and of course that immediately both made her feel racist and made her wonder if maybe he had some mixed ancestry.
"And, uh, and this is the math wing," she said.
Situated on the second floor, the math wing was also home to some of the lab rooms for science classes, and as such the floor was tile and easy to clean. It wasn't only chemicals that had been cleaned up here, but Mrs. Bishop wasn't about to talk about the other things she'd seen, the blood from broken or dry noses, the time someone had actually managed to pee in the hall in the middle of passing period without being noticed. She was supposed to be selling their guest on this job.
He wasn't showing much enthusiasm, though. His eyes slowly moved over everything, his lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile, but he rarely spoke. When he did, his voice was quiet but strong. Mrs. Bishop had a little synaesthesia going on with it, in that she had this inescapable idea that it was a large voice being made to pretend it was small.
"Do you..." she paused, swallowed, stopped walking. What was it that was making her so nervous? "Do you have any questions?"
"Why is this position open?"
She swallowed again. He knew, had to know, at least the official story. But then, wasn't this tour about giving him a teacher's-level view? He was trying to suss out whether there were any omissions, and of course there were, and Mrs. Bishop found herself more and more regretful of having agreed to have anything to do with this.
"The old—I mean, Principal Kendrick, he was involved in an accident," she said. "A car accident. He passed away."
"The students must be very sad?"
His tone conveyed some doubts, and almost unwillingly, Mrs. Bishop felt herself being drawn in.
"They're... shaken. He was stern but fair, but that doesn't make you popular, you know. I mean," and here she quickly corrected herself, "it can. But he wasn't a particularly... he sometimes struggled to relate. But they're shaken by his passing. It changes the situation."
"Are the kids rowdy?" This was the most he'd spoken in the hour-long tour, and the focus was throwing Mrs. Bishop off-balance. "I can be a disciplinarian, but I do not always enjoy the role."
"Some are." Blood, pee, so many crushed cartons of milk. "Most aren't."
"You might be surprised."
"What?"
He shrugged.
"Sometimes, it's the ones who seem quiet." He did not elaborate further, but started to walk again, and now Mrs. Bishop had to jog to follow, and as she did she figured it out. It was his footsteps. He was a large man, and each step of his was clearly audible, but they didn't quite match. They were precise, pointed even, almost calculated. She got the impression that he could be much quieter if he so chose.
That actually made her feel better, on contemplation. He was sneaky, the sort of man who would appear behind a troublemaker and haul them up by their collar without them ever knowing he was there. A good trait to have in a school official. And it meant she wasn't unnerved for racist reasons. Thus lightened, she pulled abreast of him.
"Do you," she said, then took a big breath and continued with a slightly different phrasing, "you're very qualified, and we desperately need someone. It may be a bit forward, but I think the superintendent will arrange an offer for you."
"I might like that."
"I think it has a nice ring to it," she said. "Principal Melvin Carter."
Friday, June 16, 2017, 7:00 P.M.: Undisclosed Location
A kind of peace had slowly settled over the island. The calm before a storm, perhaps, or the beginnings of a quiet slide into the end. Things seemed capable of swinging either way.
Victor Danya certainly knew which he would prefer, but at the end of the day, he would be satisfied knowing that he had done his job and done it well.
"Good evening, children." He paused for just a moment after the greeting to let the sense of finality sink in. "This is an emotional time for all of us, I'm sure. For all but one of you, this will be the last time that you hear my voice. For all of us here at the AT, it's the last day before another long break.
"Oh, that's not to imply that we won't be working just as hard off the air. You kids have put on such an impressive show. It would be a shame if we didn't all keep trying to top ourselves, hm?"
A threat, but not a promise. Not yet. Keep them guessing, on and off the island.
The truth was, most of the time even Danya didn't know for sure what would happen next. Fortunately, he valued a degree of spontaneity.
"So without further ado, let's see who fell just short of the finish line.
"Proving that some people only got this far through luck rather than smarts, Soren Rosendahl didn't jump when Saachi Nidal told him to, and he took a bullet for his transgression. Fret not, Mr. Rosendahl; Miss Nidal's past caught up with her soon after in the form of Chuck Soileaux and a crossbow. Better late than never on that initiative, I suppose.
"Oh, and somewhere between those two, Dan Liu tripped and hit his head. Let this be a lesson to the few of you remaining about making sure your shoes are tied and watching your step. We don't want an anticlimax on our hands."
Danya snorted derisively before continuing on down the list.
"Kitty Gittschall also caught a few bullets, but in a surprise twist, that wasn't what finished her off. Instead, Wendy Fischer swooped in for a coup de grace via baseball bat.
"Elsewhere, Tina Luz keeled over after not picking her battles carefully enough and sustaining a few too many injuries over the past week. Cody Jenkins met a similar fate when he decided to challenge gravity itself. You lot certainly have been generous to any future scientists who go digging in those tar pits.
"And to bring things to a close on our penultimate day, there was a scenic little shootout in the flower field. Irene Djezari didn't watch where her weapon was pointed and she did Daniel Whitten in, but not before Bunny Barlowe did the same for her and also popped Jonathan Lancer for good measure."
Danya heaved a great sigh, part satisfaction and part wistfulness.
"And with all that out of the way, there's just the last few of you to address.
"Maxwell Lombardi, you've stuck to your guns—at least metaphorically. There's nobody left to hide behind or to throw your life away for now, so why not do what you know you've got to do since you're the only one of our finalists who lacks a kill? Mr. Soileaux found his trigger finger, and since you know what'll happen if you don't, I'm confident that you can do the same.
"And speaking of, Chuck Soileaux, you're certainly full of big ideas and spirit. Maybe those will last you a little bit longer, but I'd just as soon see you rely on that crossbow now that you've finally figured out how to use it.
"Bunny Barlowe, you certainly haven't needed any help in figuring out your way around a gun or two, but you haven't been very wise about picking your battles either. Out of all our finalists, only one can match your body count, and I imagine most of them will be coming for your head. You had best come prepared if you don't want this to be your final curtain call.
"Kris Hartmann, you're certainly an enigma. You've gotten through the game so far with stealth and no small amount of luck; can you maintain when your enemies know you're coming? I kind of doubt it, but I'll be watching all the same.
"And last, but certainly not least, we have one more femme fatale in Wendy Fischer. That dumb blonde act of yours sure is cute, Miss Fischer, but everyone left knows what's lurking underneath it all. You're going to have to drop the sugar and spice and embrace the killer that you truly are if you want to make it home.
"And there you have it. Five enter, one leaves. It's Thunderdome time, kids. Get yourselves down to The Shipping Yard ASAP if you don't want to go out a chump, and I'll be waiting to congratulate one of you when the dust settles.
"Good night, and good luck!"
Endgame (Friday, June 16, 2017) 7:00 P.M.
Weather: the temperature warms slightly now that the rain is past. The evening sky is mostly clear, with a few scattered clouds here and there. The remnants of the fires still smolder in places, but there is little smoke at this point and no real danger of a fire starting up again on its own. The moon is in its last quarter.
It's been some time coming, but Endgame will soon arrive. As of the posting of this announcement, the timer is ticking on the Endgame start deadline, meaning the thread should be up within one week, as timed below:
Staff would like to take a moment to discuss the comparatively-lax deadline enforcement to this point regarding Endgame start. In short, a number of things were going on behind the scenes, many but not all centering around first the impending nature of the site change and then its practical and unfortunate realities, which led to us not holding the feet to the fire as we otherwise might have. That said, now that the board is fully-functional and we're getting everything back in order staffside. Activity deadlines through the remainder of Endgame will be enforced as usual (or even hopefully a bit better).
Once more, congratulations to the Endgamers. It's been a long and winding journey, but the end is now within sight.
