If you've got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow

[NotAFlyingToy]

The next time the train doors opened, he was out of breath, heaving air in and out of his lungs, the sound reminding him of a handsaw cutting through wood - a swish swish that felt rough, ragged, vaguely painful. He didn't know how he was tired - why he was breathing so funny - what was making him pant this way. All of these things seemed to just be.

There were nine seats filled on the train now, nine pairs of eyes staring out at him. Their stare was oddly soothing, comforting as they watched him through the scratched, dusty windows of the metal doors. The boy in white was still smiling, though his smile seemed less sarcastic, less patient, more welcoming.

The combination had him hesitating, the hesitation causing his breath to whoosh out further and faster, his vision going spotty.

"You know, you haven't stopped since you got here. Maybe it's time to finally hop aboard?"

His response was to shoot up a middle finger at the speaker, his other hand dropping to his knee, bending over. He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't slow the sawing of air out of his throat, nose, body.

"All you need to do is let it go, and come aboard."

He shook his head, swayed on his feet. He needed to just stop, just think. He needed a little room.

"Come on, man. We're not going to be here forever. You deserve a break - you can't keep this up."

He felt like he could. He felt like it was a solution - this was a solution. All he'd need was to make it a little further - all he'd need was the bag to stay with him.

Through his blotty gaze he saw a milky hand, extended from a white sleeve. He tried to focus on it, and suddenly it was dotted in red, bloody flecks across it as green surrounded it, his hipbone and throat aching, ribs bruised. For a moment, everything changed, shifted, and his breathing slowed. For a moment, he knew where he was, what this was, and he was almost ready to defy, distance, shove.

For a moment, Hansel knew it wasn't real.

But then the blood flecks disappeared and the white sleeve was crisp and new again, and all he could do was gasp with the breath that overcame him, sway forwards, slump against that hand that seemed so strong, so firm. It held him aloft, held him up.

More hands joined it, one after the other, supporting his weight until he was back on his feet. He felt surrounded by warmth, surrounded by... love, as he was pushed back onto his feet. Tears sprung to his eyes as he glanced around the train car, all nine faces seated back where they were when he first looked, smiling serenely at him.

The white hand - white sleeve -was still outstretched.

He hesitated, then stepped backwards, feeling the pressure filling his lungs again. "I... can't," he murmured.

The boy in white shrugged, rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"It's cool. We'll be back."

---

((Hansel Williams, The Society of the Spectacle))

Hansel's life had become numbers, ticking steadily down towards a goal that he was no longer sure of. He didn't know what awaited him when the number of students left hit one, or what would happen when the number of bullets at his disposal hit zero, or what he'd do when the numerous wounds - serious and minor - added up to incapacitation.

All he knew was that there was something soothing in it - the order in the chaos. There was something centering about the fact that he knew now - he had definable proof - that when the chips were down, when his back was against the wall, when it was him or the other guy, he was the type of person to fight rather than back down.

And while all of those numbers dwindled downwards - days left on the island, survivors of the ten day massacre, number of bullets and hits he could withstand - one number rose steadily. One number was almost at double digits - could very well be there already.

Nine - or ten - lives claimed in order to escape.

He wondered how many more would join them.

((Hansel Williams, The big tough boy on the side of right? That's me.))