SOTF Mini

The cameras watched as Nate Suchinda, backpack left in front of the door, stumbled into the houseboat, bandana on his wrist. He did not look to his right. He did not look to his left. He simply continued straight onwards, into the room, searching for a door. He opened one, revealing the control cabin, but he did not see to that for her then turned to the other door, opened it, and rushed in. The door closed.

From the outside, all that could be heard was retching.

(SS10 - NATTAWORN "NATE" SUCHINDA - START)

What gathered in the toilet bowl was like a ghastly green waterfall, a deluge of decay. Remnants of sick gathered at the bottom, swirling like muck. If Nate was in a poetic mood, perhaps he would've thought of that. Instead, he was trying to puke his way out of a dreadful hangover because he just found out that he was going to die on national television, so, well, that wasn't happening.

When he finally got a brief moment of respite from the regurgitation of his morning meal, Nate shot a nasty look at the camera. Prove that he would not let them break him down, that we would be digni-

It was coming up again, and he went to hurl once more.

Cory awoke on the roof of the swaying houseboat as the noise of seagulls ringed throughout the air. As his vision began to clear, he slowly lifted himself from the ground, grasping the railings as he pulled himself to a stand.

He removed his glasses, taking a moment to rub his eyes before placing them back on and gazing across the horizon, to the mass of ships and connections, crude masses of wood and iron. It took a moment to process everything. He was no longer in the world of the living - he was in Survival of the Fittest. And while he knew little about the show that he was now an unwilling participant in, there was a crucial fact that had not escaped him.

He was already as good as dead.

ES03: CORY CARTWRIGHT - GAME START

If there was something Cory knew a lot about, it was probability. With every action he took, there was a chance for something to go wrong. Even if it was less than half a percent, there was still the possibility. Chances had petrified him all his life. Perhaps that's why he found them so interesting to study. To find a way to avoid as many of them as possible. As he looked out across the sea, he thought about how unlikely his predicament had been. How small the chance had been.

And how powerless he was to change anything about it.

Out of all of the approximately thirty-seven thousand high schools in the United States, the one that had been chosen was Mangrove Garden High School. The chance wasn't impossible, or even astronomical, but it was unlikely. Of all schools, it had to be his. And of all people, it was him staring out on the horizon, the sun beaming down on his face.

In theory, everybody in Survival of the Fittest had around the same chance of winning. In practice, this wasn't the case, and Cory knew that very well. In a perfect world, his chances were one in however-many the number of people taken was. But this wasn't a perfect world. This was his reality.

And in reality, he knew his chances.

They were zero.

Gregory Miller was... honestly, he wasn't actually quite sure how he felt.

((BC09 - Gregory Miller - TV3 Start))

He had awoken on the sofa of the houseboat, and had barely a moment to blink away his sleepiness before someone barged in and headed straight to another room. From there, he could hear vomiting. Someone wasn't having a good day. Currently, he was sitting up on the sofa, eyes warily shooting between the door in which the guy had ran into, and the door that he had came from. Having already unpacked his bag, his bandana was tied around his forehead.

"Hey, Sammy, tell the bees what I'm doing, alright? It's like, some old European beekeeping tradition! The man of the house - who I guess would be you. It's like, some old custom." He had already said that. Man, he could educate the whole nation on beekeeping stuff! From the rural farmers of California who got their bees from Sammy, to what his grandfather scathingly described as "the coastal elitists" in New York!

"If you don't tell them of important events in their keeper's lives, like marriages and deaths and stuff like that, then apparently you get punished by them refusing to make honey or something like that! But if you do, then they don't! It's probably some old religious tradition, I dunno." Frowning, Gregory looked down at his bolas. Apparently you were supposed to throw it at people's legs to trip them, but honestly it kinda looked like it would do more if you hit them on the head with it.

"Anyway, uh, you guys gotta save the bees!" He wished he had got a sword. A longsword, a claymore, one of those fancy curved Spanish swords when the Umayyad Caliphate was in control there. But he got something from like, Rome. It was still cool! But he wished he had something,.. deadlier.

He looked at the room the vomiting was coming from, and a sudden idea popped into his head. Maybe that dude had a sword... but then again he could kill Gregory with it. And did he wanna like, sour his image so early? He didn't know. To be honest, he didn't know what he wanted to do.

When he was finally able to wrench his head away from the toilet in which he had deposited all that he'd eaten, Nate heard voices from outside. Something about bees? Last wishes? Some hackneyed monologue by a loser desperate enough to use this as a platform to fame? Nate grumbled, but that caused his stomach to rumble even more, so he stopped.

God, did he feel like shit. Because of course it had to be after he had way too much to drink that he got put into this situation with a bunch of psychos, and nerds and wannabes and really, it was just very frustrating. Maybe it was the fact that his head still hurt like a bitch, but Nate was nowhere near happy with the loudness of the voice on the other end.

"I swear to God," Nate muttered at the door and whoever was outside of it. "If you're gonna kill me, can you just do it now? Don't give me a whole song and dance about it beforehand."

It took a moment for Cory to notice the beeping of his collar.

It took another moment for him to think.

He wasn't sure if he could keep going. He wasn't sure if he could take it anymore. He didn't want to die. But he didn't want to be here anymore.

He wanted to go home.

He knew he would never see home again.

Soon, he heard the sound of feet pounding on the creaking floors of the rickety building and the voices of other people somewhere in the houseboat. The beeping grew louder, and the panic set in. Cory was scared to die. He wanted to live, and he wanted to live so badly, he didn't want to have it all end here. He dug through his bag, the only lifeline he had. He rifled through it before clasping his hand on a small piece of fabric, the team bandana he was now supposed to wear. He wrapped it around his arm, with the symbol facing outward, and his collar went silent.

As his mind cleared, he noticed a small glint of light in the corner of his eye.

As Gregory continued to ramble on about bees, his rambling was suddenly interrupted by some dude in the bathroom yelling at him. This was irritating. He was just trying to educate the people about some bees, for goodness' sake!

Right. Killing game. He should. Get on that.

"Hey, buddy, I ain't gonna kill you! Whatcha team?" Friendly conversation. Gregory wasn't actually quite sure if he wanted to kill him yet. Watching it happen with your grandfather on the TV, chatting away as some teenager beats another teenager to death was one thing. Being said teeenager doing the beating was another thing.

Nonetheless, with a sigh Gregory stood up. "Save the bees!" He cheerfully directed at a camera, giving a mock salute with a hand, before turning to the door. "I ain't gonna kill you, dude."

Nate blinked at the voice on the other side of the door, squinting. Not that he could see the jackass on the other side, but projection. Something like that.

"I mean, don't all killers say that?"

Considering everything that had happened, it really felt to Nate as though his brain was still in the process of booting up, and if he could just be given some space to do that so he could feel less like shit, that would've been very much appreciated. He obviously wasn't getting that here, though, because apparently personal territory was not sacred, but ugh. Whatever.

Nate went to go and sit up a little straighter now, his legs not working quite enough to actually stand up.

"But fine, I'm on the..." Nate glanced at the bandana wrapped around his wrist. "Marines?"

Close enough.

He wasn't noticed.

Good.

As the two boys conversed through the door, a third appeared behind Gregory's shoulder. He held the tip of the stick to the small of the other boy's back.

"The instructions say, 'When the Powerhead is hit against a target, an impact-sensitive firing pin sets off a rifle cartridge screwed inside of the steel cylinder.'"

He read it when he woke up.

"Tell me your team and show me your weapon. Now."

Cory brushed aside a few pieces of cloth and packets of some food to reveal to him a shining blade. His hands trembled as he picked it up, holding it carefully. It glimmered in the light. He quickly grabbed the sheath, placed separately within the bag, and attached it to his side using the straps. He slid the knife inside, closed his bag, and stood up.

He peered down the stairwell into the room below. He needed information, and if the worst came to pass, he had exits available to him from which he could remove himself from the situation. He made his way down the stairs quietly, taking care to avoid making any more noises than necessary, and he hoped to hell that he wouldn't come face-to-face with some maniac.

He was left deeply unhappy when he realized that he had the poor fortune of entering the situation at the worst possible time. As his right hand gripped the rubber handle of the sheathed knife at his side, his left hand moved up into the air with an open palm, closer to the universal symbol of surrender than a wave of greeting.

He attempted to speak calmly, to have a chance to defuse the situation in front of him, but his confused words tumbled almost pathetically out of his mouth, as nervous and unsteady as the rest of his general demeanor.

"So, uh...is-is this a bad time?"

Ah. This was not good. While he had been paying attention to the mystery man behind the door, another person had snuck up on him and was currently sticking whatever the hell a Powerhead was. A drill? A screwdriver? Nonetheless, he didn't want to get shot in the back. Rifle cartridge didn't mean much by itself; a .22 could technically be a rifle cartridge. But at the same time, something more powerful could be fired through that stick, and he didn't wanna be one of those lame guys who died early on and got forgotten outside a minority of the fanbase.

"B-Ben's Crabs." He replied, turning his head to look at the person behind him, Gregory didn't recognise him - maybe he was in the year above him? Holding the bolas limply in his right hand, he raised it up. Fuck, he could feel himself start to panic

"J-j-just take it dude I don't want any trouble just don't kill me." His words came out in a rush, like a tap turned on only to have water shoot violently out of it and soak the user. It was only a bolas. If he really needed one he could make his own, and besides, he wasn't someone who knew how to use that thing. Throwing it at someone's legs seemed like it might just fly out of the arena and sink to the oceanic depths below.

And now there was another person standing in the doorway, looking at both of them worriedly. Maybe this dude was - no, that was another bandana. Was this a set up? Was he just gonna die here? Baited by three teammates and being shot in the back? He hadn't even started!

Nate rolled his eyes as he began to hear new voices come in. Not that whoever was out there could see his displeasure, but he felt that it still had to be let out in some manner. Because, what, this he had to be a sort-of witness to a robbery. Wonderful.

Bad time? Well, obviously coming down and witnessing a potential mugging was a very fucking bad time, but Nate didn't.bother to voice his very correct opinion out loud. Instead, he was going to heed to his very newfound realization that talking shit was probably not the best idea right now.

If there was anything really important Nate had learned from this immediate situation, though, is that he was very grateful for the power of his working digestive system to encourage him to find a bathroom to be in rather than being out in the open, getting held up by...Hmm. The voices outside sounded vaguely familiar, in that way someone you had seen in the hallways or at a party once or twice was vaguely familiar, but without a face to match it to, Nate certainly wasn't going to call out any names. Because, firstly, why, how would that change things, and secondly,, whoever was there wasn't really a friend, in the sense of being friends and not just friendly and as such less inclined to just shoot him in the face and be done with it.

That seemed like the point the robber guy or whoever he was seemed to be approaching, and while Nate really did not want to be around the scene of a murder, it didn't seem wise for him to actually go and intervene. Not that the wiseness of certain actions always factored into Nate's decisions, but fighting a man on an empty stomach and the remnants of puke on your breath seemed particularly ill-advised. Still, he forced himself standing, even on unsteady legs, and began to look for some tissue, wincing as he saw his crap complexion in the mirror.

A waste of time, honestly, but Nate was not feeling quite up to the whole teenage murderpalooza shit just yet. All the better to not think about the whole situation developing right outside the door.

The crab boy's weapon was useless.

"Keep it."

As was his team.

There was one more now. He saw the black and white bandana.

Time to leave.

He threw a punch at the back of the crab boy, dashed past the black and white boy, and bounded through the doorway of the houseboat.

((continued elsewhere))

As the action played out in front of Cory, he felt powerless to intervene.

What could he do? Run in and attack the guy? He'd just get killed for his trouble. That would be a way to die about as moronic as his previous statement, which he was self-aware enough to know was both unhelpful and had a blatantly obvious answer. He was a writer, and yet he lacked the words to speak up.

As the would-be robber surveyed his situation and promptly decided that leaving was the best idea, Cory felt as if his presence had been pretty much pointless. So much for defusing the situation, considering it had done that by itself.

At the very least, he hadn't gotten killed, and he hadn't gotten anyone else killed either. That was good enough for now.

Leaving sounded like a pretty good idea right now. But he considered his options, and he thought that his chances of survival in this houseboat were better than his chances out in the open. And after that brief fiasco, he figured that they wouldn't be looking for a fight. He looked at the boy who had just been punched in the back. He took a small step towards the former hostage, his left hand still raised non-threateningly, and right hand still clutching his assigned weapon.

"Hey, are you okay? You know - besides the mugging and all that."

He tried to be calm, but he couldn't keep his voice from sounding unsteady and worried, divulging both his continued nervousness and his genuine concern for the other boy. He wanted to bite his tongue at the fact that he had asked another pointless question. Of course, the person wasn't okay. None of them were okay. They were all supposed to fight to the death.

How could anyone be okay in this situation?

"Ow! That hurt, asshole!" Gregory yelled at the rapidly retreating man and his boomstick, rubbing his back. He had been punched, and it hurt, but being shot in the back would have hurt a lot more. At least he kept his bolas and his bag, and his life too!

Wait, he could have thrown the bolas at the guy while he was running away and knocked them down. And then taken their boomstick and shot them with it. Oops. Ah well, at least he was alive. It took a little while for him to stop shaking, but soon his attention was turned to the boy who had just walked into the houseboat. He kinda looked like a senior, but Gregory didn't recognise him. He didn't think they were doing a two school thing this time. Whatever. He had a different bandana tied around his arm, so he wasn't on Gregory's team, and that was the most important thing. But he seemed friendly enough, so surely it couldn't hurt to engage in conversation.

"Heya. I'm fine. Just a little shaken, heh... Whatcha got there?" He gestured at the thing Cory was holding in his right hand. It looked like he was trying to conceal a weapon of some kind, and after whoever had been mugging him poked him with his boomstick, Gregory wasn't in the mood for more conflict, or indeed secrets. And there was still the guy in the bathroom, but he was more concerned with throwing up. At least, if this dude tried to attack him he had the bolas out so he could just hit him with it, although this dude sounded like he was gonna start crying so Gregory wasn't too worried.

Maybe he could actually relieve this guy of his stuff. If he had a better weapon than a bolas, Gregory would certainly want to have that. Plus, his food and stuff would be useful. had they ever had a starvation death in SOTF? He couldn't remember one, but maybe this guy would be the first.

Was it bad that Nate laughed at the fact that the mugger just punched the other guy and ran? What, was he wrong to try to find some humor in a place like this? He didn't really care about where that placed him in the grand scheme of things, no, but he figured it was something he could mull over if he was still going to be stuck in the bathroom.

Which, hey, probably not the best place to be in, but it wasn't as if there was much of a reason to go out and actually get out of the bathroom other than fresh air or something. Or to get the bag that had all his things so he wouldn't starve. Oh, that was actually pretty important. Sure, if Nate had felt more strongly about his ethics he would've considered starving or something, a big middle finger to the Authority like all those dead Tibetan monks. But Nate liked to eat more than he liked to starve, and even if Nate didn't feel optimistic about his chances, he'd still rather have like a 6% shot rather than be six feet deep.

Nate thought about asking the guys outside whether it was okay to come out, but then he realized he didn't particularly care if they thought it was okay. As such, the bathroom door opened, and he stepped out, glancing at the other two guys.

"'Sup, bitches?"

How fun. How friendly.