The Only Winning Move
Posted: Sat Sep 22, 2018 6:31 am
((Gavin Hunter continues abusing chess metaphors from Resisting Against Fate))
There was nothing that eased tension more effectively than relaxing beside a blazing bonfire whilst listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the seashore. Even with all the pressures of the island weighing down upon his shoulders, Gavin Hunter still felt a pleasant sensation of tranquillity as he lay recumbent on an old sheet spread over the sand in the shadow of the freighter, sipping a plastic cup of hot, salty broth and letting the sound of the ocean wipe his mind clean of worry and anticipation.
The idea for building a fire on the beach had been thought up more or less on the spur of the moment, and had initially met with some resistance. After all, why run the risk of attracting unwanted, potentially hostile attention? Gavin had countered this argument by reminding people that a decent-sized fire would serve as an excellent warning to potentially hostile students that the area had been claimed by a group large enough not to be worried about announcing its presence to the island.
In the end, that argument and the prospect of an actual hot meal for a change had won the rest of his group over. The rest of the afternoon had been spent gathering driftwood and kindling - a task made none too easy by the light showers of rain which had struck without warning shortly after they had disembarked from the freighter. Fortunately, there had been just enough gasoline left in the fuel cans Gavin had salvaged from town to get the damp wood burning without too much trouble.
Cooking with improvised tools over an open fire was a massive nightmare, but after four days of ration bars and decades-old tinned food, Gavin had been prepared to risk third-degree burns and the angriest spider-crabs in the world for a little variety. The fact that he knew Megan liked seafood had only served to further cement his resolve. A trip to the galley aboard the freighter had turned up a few serviceable aluminium pots and pans, and a bit of beachcombing had resulted in a rich haul of fresh green seaweed, mussels and shrimp to add to the evening menu.
Despite the lack of appropriate utensils and a general lack of cooking experience, the resultant meal had been delicious. The seas around the island had been unpolluted by sewage and the general detritus of civilisation for over a decade, and this had caused the quality and quantity of marine life to expand almost exponentially. The boiled seaweed was sweet and crunchy, while the roasted mussels were pleasantly soft and robustly flavoured. Even the shrimp had been pretty good after a couple of aborted experiments had been conducted in how exactly to prepare them. When everyone had eaten their fill, Gavin had stirred whatever was left into one of the empty cooking pots and made a hot broth, the last few drops of which he was now savouring.
A small part of his mind was still worried about what was about to occur. All the lapping waves and crackling bonfires in the world couldn't completely negate the nervousness that came with the prospects of impending death, after all. Yet despite this tiny thread of lingering anxiety, Gavin simply didn't feel like bothering with morbidity at the moment. If he was going to die in the next few hours, it would at least be on a stomach pleasantly full of good food. He almost felt as if he was on holiday. In fact, only the presence of the collar weighing down his neck reminded him of the gravity of the situation around him.
Not that I'll have to deal with that for much longer. One way or another, anyway...
Gavin wasn't sure how to react to that thought. A few hours ago he had been a nervous wreck. Now he was almost relaxed enough to be enjoying himself again. A tiny part of his mind kept telling him that he ought to be afraid, even terrified of what was before him, yet it was being constantly drowned out by other, stronger signals.
The more he thought about it, the more it was becoming clear to him that he was enjoying SOTF. The concept behind the game was repugnant to him, but he couldn't deny that the adrenaline and the heady sensation of defying the expectations of an omniscient authority were addictive to him. In a game that was supposed to be about death, Gavin Hunter was more alive than he ever had been. He felt as if he was almost buzzing with vitality even while at rest, all his senses operating at a heightened level of awareness. Hyperawareness.
He was beginning to see why some people murdered simply for the thrill of it. In another world, another time and place, Gavin might've become one of those people. But not in this time and place. Not now. Not when he still had things to hold dear and to cherish, even if they were abstract concepts like morality and personal integrity.
I just need to remain steadfast, unmovable. It's not in my hands anymore. Sit back, relax, let others do their part.
After all, he wasn't going to have to wait long. Everything was ready. The chess pieces had been aligned on the board for the execution of a master strategy. Gavin had been instrumental in bringing those pieces together, but he was not the one to make the first move.
That honour was reserved for the Queen.
There was nothing that eased tension more effectively than relaxing beside a blazing bonfire whilst listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the seashore. Even with all the pressures of the island weighing down upon his shoulders, Gavin Hunter still felt a pleasant sensation of tranquillity as he lay recumbent on an old sheet spread over the sand in the shadow of the freighter, sipping a plastic cup of hot, salty broth and letting the sound of the ocean wipe his mind clean of worry and anticipation.
The idea for building a fire on the beach had been thought up more or less on the spur of the moment, and had initially met with some resistance. After all, why run the risk of attracting unwanted, potentially hostile attention? Gavin had countered this argument by reminding people that a decent-sized fire would serve as an excellent warning to potentially hostile students that the area had been claimed by a group large enough not to be worried about announcing its presence to the island.
In the end, that argument and the prospect of an actual hot meal for a change had won the rest of his group over. The rest of the afternoon had been spent gathering driftwood and kindling - a task made none too easy by the light showers of rain which had struck without warning shortly after they had disembarked from the freighter. Fortunately, there had been just enough gasoline left in the fuel cans Gavin had salvaged from town to get the damp wood burning without too much trouble.
Cooking with improvised tools over an open fire was a massive nightmare, but after four days of ration bars and decades-old tinned food, Gavin had been prepared to risk third-degree burns and the angriest spider-crabs in the world for a little variety. The fact that he knew Megan liked seafood had only served to further cement his resolve. A trip to the galley aboard the freighter had turned up a few serviceable aluminium pots and pans, and a bit of beachcombing had resulted in a rich haul of fresh green seaweed, mussels and shrimp to add to the evening menu.
Despite the lack of appropriate utensils and a general lack of cooking experience, the resultant meal had been delicious. The seas around the island had been unpolluted by sewage and the general detritus of civilisation for over a decade, and this had caused the quality and quantity of marine life to expand almost exponentially. The boiled seaweed was sweet and crunchy, while the roasted mussels were pleasantly soft and robustly flavoured. Even the shrimp had been pretty good after a couple of aborted experiments had been conducted in how exactly to prepare them. When everyone had eaten their fill, Gavin had stirred whatever was left into one of the empty cooking pots and made a hot broth, the last few drops of which he was now savouring.
A small part of his mind was still worried about what was about to occur. All the lapping waves and crackling bonfires in the world couldn't completely negate the nervousness that came with the prospects of impending death, after all. Yet despite this tiny thread of lingering anxiety, Gavin simply didn't feel like bothering with morbidity at the moment. If he was going to die in the next few hours, it would at least be on a stomach pleasantly full of good food. He almost felt as if he was on holiday. In fact, only the presence of the collar weighing down his neck reminded him of the gravity of the situation around him.
Not that I'll have to deal with that for much longer. One way or another, anyway...
Gavin wasn't sure how to react to that thought. A few hours ago he had been a nervous wreck. Now he was almost relaxed enough to be enjoying himself again. A tiny part of his mind kept telling him that he ought to be afraid, even terrified of what was before him, yet it was being constantly drowned out by other, stronger signals.
The more he thought about it, the more it was becoming clear to him that he was enjoying SOTF. The concept behind the game was repugnant to him, but he couldn't deny that the adrenaline and the heady sensation of defying the expectations of an omniscient authority were addictive to him. In a game that was supposed to be about death, Gavin Hunter was more alive than he ever had been. He felt as if he was almost buzzing with vitality even while at rest, all his senses operating at a heightened level of awareness. Hyperawareness.
He was beginning to see why some people murdered simply for the thrill of it. In another world, another time and place, Gavin might've become one of those people. But not in this time and place. Not now. Not when he still had things to hold dear and to cherish, even if they were abstract concepts like morality and personal integrity.
I just need to remain steadfast, unmovable. It's not in my hands anymore. Sit back, relax, let others do their part.
After all, he wasn't going to have to wait long. Everything was ready. The chess pieces had been aligned on the board for the execution of a master strategy. Gavin had been instrumental in bringing those pieces together, but he was not the one to make the first move.
That honour was reserved for the Queen.