Remember the Name

[Cactus]

Hours had passed.

Something about the wilderness of this island reminded him of some of the trails back home. There was one particular trail that he would run near to the Military Park in Chattanooga that was full of similarly dense foliage and greenery as far as the eye could see. That one particular corner, one particular drop that he always looked forward to, trying to tackle the challenge as quickly and effectively as he could. Sometimes he had trouble with it; as of late it had come more easily.

Connor Lorenzen recalled that one day in the sun, running the trail. He'd run into Sierra Cook. It had been a nice conversation, they'd walked the monument and gone for ice cream. Not someone he would have expected to converse with, but it had been a nice day all the same. Had they ever spoken again? He didn't remember.

In all likelihood, they never would, either.

Another shame in a land riddled with them.

((Connor Lorenzen continued from Steady as She Goes))

There was a small part of him that felt guilty about leaving Mike and Regina behind with fatty and the cuckoo clock, but the truth was that they were always a means to an end. The less he thought about them as people who he needed to help and the more he gathered they were simply waypoints, the more it propped his sense of righteousness up. Fats McGee had obviously wanted no part of Connor's leadership abilities, and hey - that was his loss. Without him, he couldn't imagine that he'd ever see any of them alive again. It was a strange thought, and truly, this whole exercise had been one that he'd tried to tackle with cold detachment. All he needed to do was wait. In time, his father would purchase his freedom and that would be that.

That kind of stigma might hurt his draft ranking, though.

Smiling as he brushed another branch out of the way of his face, Connor knew that in the long haul, it didn't matter. Tom Brady had been a sixth-round pick. He'd read that scouting report enough times to know it almost by heart. Poor build. Very skinny and narrow. Lacks mobility and ability to avoid the rush. Gets exposed if he must ad-lib. To most publications, that was damning. Most NFL teams would have looked at that and gone 'thanks, but no thanks' - and most of them had. Falling to the sixth round, nobody would have expected that he would go on to be the greatest NFL quarterback of all time. That argument was another one to behold, of course, and Connor had discussed it often with his football buddies. Brady had always believed in himself and didn't let any of his perceived weaknesses weigh him down. Through sheer force of will - good coaching as well - the Patriots had become a dynasty, and Brady a legend.

Sheer force of will. That was exactly what Connor knew would drive him through all of this situation. He hadn't forgotten the fact that he had an explosive collar around his neck. He wasn't a fool. Things were bad, things were more than bad. Historically, the odds of surviving this awful terrorist game were miniscule. If you weren't one of the six people who killed their way out, you had to almost hope for divine intervention to be rescued.

Connor stopped beside a large tree, smiling at the thought. Reaching into his pack, he took out one of the water bottles and drained half of it in a quick gulp. It was an awfully good thing that he had a personal line in to someone who had more capital than God himself. Besides, the odds of making the NFL as a quarterback were probably smaller than that of living through Survival of the Fittest. The generally agreed-upon odds of making the pros as a high school player were less than one percent - and that meant out of the million players at every position. As a quarterback, the odds were even fewer. There were thirty-two professional teams that carried two rostered players, give-or-take someone on a practice squad or sitting on the roster as a third-stringer. So that would be sixty-four; hell, say eighty spots. Out of over one million high school athletes in the United States, not even counting those who played in lesser-known spots like Canada or Europe.

Less than one percent. Probably less than half of one percent. 0.05% at least.

Tom Brady had bucked the odds and made the NFL. He had done so on the strength of his will and his work ethic, the intangibles that he had. All Connor Lorenzen had to do was survive three days, until rescue came for him. The terrorists weren't about to toss a nest egg like Connor away. He was a windfall, a lottery ticket for them. Connor wouldn't have been shocked if they pulled him from the game in a day, locked him away and made sure that he was safe for whatever the agreed-upon number would be.

He would bury the odds here in Survival of the Fittest, that wasn't even a question. After that? No matter what they would say about him and what had happened here, he knew he would be one of that miniscule percentage to make it to the next level as well. In twenty years, people would be talking about the greats. They'd be talking about Nasmith, Montana, Marino. They'd whisper the name of Peyton Manning and they'd revere the great career of the GOAT, Tom Brady.

Then they would smile, and they'd nod, and they'd acknowledge - they were all great, they were all superstars, on a whole other level. But they were no Connor Lorenzen. Would he have played for several teams, like Manning, or just one, like Brady? It depended on where he'd be drafted, he supposed. Playing somewhere like Los Angeles would be an intriguing experience, where athletes ended up almost being movie star-like in their lifestyles. Even a shithole like Buffalo wouldn't be the worst thing in the world; taking a franchise that had never won anything and had been a total joke since before he'd been born could have solidified his legend. The Patriots hadn't been much before TB12. Now, they were the preeminent franchise in the NFL.

But still, first things first. Connor knew he was getting ahead of himself a little bit, though he didn't mind the mental diversion from the reality that most of his peers were about to die. They would die, and quite possibly perpetuate horrible things in trying to survive. The terrorists had promised a morning announcement; would he know the names on that list? Would Wyatt or Bret be among the victimizers listed out? Could they have already perished?

Connor laughed out loud, his voice echoing a bit among the trees. Not likely.

It would be strange, walking back to a community that had seen its youth cleansed from it prematurely. Many of them had been ready to head off to college, to travel, to leave Chattanooga behind, but that was supposed to be joyous, supposed to be a pleasing sort of sorrow for their parents. September would be difficult for him, seeing all of the parents in town mourn the loss of their legacies. Connor wondered how different the winner might be when they arrived back in town. What if it were someone he knew; a friend? What if it were Madison, or even someone like Erika, whom he'd spent just the day before discussing-

Ah, hell.

His mind soured a bit as he remembered their whole conversation; that whole 'Lorenzo Tavares' issue. At the very least, it seemed like Lorenzo would receive his comeuppance. Hopefully in a manner which befit someone of his character. Perhaps Erika might dole the justice out herself? Or her scary boyfriend, Tyrell? Now there was someone he reckoned he'd steer clear of. Wyatt and Bret had already seen firsthand how much of a loose cannon that deadbeat loser was. He'd been willing to pull a knife on the guys in a normal day. What would that guy do in a situation like this?

Wiping his brow, he took a small hair elastic off his wrist and bound his hair back into a ponytail. His blue polo shirt was rife with sweat, and while he had a change of clothes in his knapsack, he figured he'd worry about that tomorrow.

Maybe Lorenzo and Tyrell would be a problem that solved itself. No matter, anyhow. It wasn't really his problem.

Backtracking on that thought, he decided that he'd have to check in with Artem when he got back to Chattanooga. He didn't really know the boy, but if he could provide him some solace, maybe even privately arrange to send him on a vacation or a private sojourn somewhere, it might help ease his mind. That would be a good thing to do, it would be kind. Besides, if Erika didn't make it out of here, perhaps doing so in her memory would be appreciated.

"Dammit, where the heck are y'all goin', Connor?"

He'd love to have known how many steps he'd picked up on this particular day. It seemed like he'd been walking for hours, and his tracker would have probably buzzed four times over by now. Of course, the bastards had confiscated any technology, so his smart watch was nothing now but a tan line around his wrist. It felt odd not to have it, but the whole thing was odd. This island seemed to have a fairly massive area to it, and while he'd occasionally heard voices, faint murmurs, what sounded like a scream (and something that could have been a gunshot or two, but that was silly), he'd really been traipsing through bushes for a while. He was glad that he'd spend so much time outdoors, it almost prepared him for this impromptu hike. Madison had never wanted to come with him on any of them, so she was probably having a hell of a time being outside without her creature comforts.

There it was again, a feeling he hadn't wanted to admit - a pang of sadness. Madison was here too. The two of them had certainly had their moments and their ups and downs, but Connor did care for her. That she was here with the rest of them wasn't fair. Madison was sometimes her own worst enemy and acted before she thought. The thought crept across his mind that perhaps he'd hear her name tomorrow morning, but he dismissed it as quickly as it appeared. There was no way Madison Springer would allow herself to die so fast; the girl was too stubborn to die.

If only she believed in herself that much.

Maybe he would see her again. Perhaps she would get back, be the sole survivor.

Connor doubted it, but he could hope.

He realized that he was frowning, and stopped thinking about his doomed girlfriend. There was no reason to bum himself out any more than he needed to. He had to be even-keeled. He had to be determined. As always, he had to emulate Tom Brady. Connor pushed some brush aside, and smiled. He wondered what Tom would do in this situation, kidnapped by terrorists and forced into a death game.

That was an easy answer, of course.

Tom Brady would persevere, he'd work his ass off, and he'd survive, even when the odds said he wouldn't. He'd come out the other side, smiling and wearing his newly minted legendary status.

Especially when the odds were against him.

Just like Connor; he'd be a legend.

The legend kept on going and eventually disappeared into the thick brush.

((Connor Lorenzen continued in Dead Moon))