In the Wake of the Bunt

[Cyco†]

It was the most unpleasant thing James Brown had ever experienced, waking up after forgetting how fucked he and everyone else was and then remembering again in an instant. The collar was a big hint.

"AHH! NO!" he tried to scream but just ended up wheezing, and scrambled to a sitting position. His head swam. His glasses were grimey, so he swiftly removed them and wiped them with his shirt, trying not to break them in his frantic hurry. Maybe through some ridiculous fairytale logic when he put them on again everything would be completely different. Of course it wasn't, but holy fucking shit soup if it didn't hurt to try.

"No! No, no, no, it can't be...wake up...gotta wake up, it's a dream..." he mumbled, looking around him and clutching the foreign green daypack tightly. The dark room he and his classmates had been in, at the mercy of the infamous Mr Danya and his terrorist group, had been replaced by thick underbrush and trees in all directions. He couldn't see anyone around. Where was his bag? He was sitting on it. But where were his glasses? He touched a hand to his face. Oh. Right. Breathing heavy and fighting back the urge to get up and run terrified in some random direction, James wiped his damp brow with his sleeve.

'There's no one around, so don't fucking panic.' It made sense, barely, and he did his best to calm down. His stomach felt sick, perhaps from lack of food. He licked his chops, dreading the...

...oop, speak of the devil. It started with a slight gurgle, dampened by the copious amount of saliva coating his mouth, and suddenly James lurched forward, throwing up forcefully onto his daypack and down the front of his shirt. It was nasty and acidic, but over quick and ultimately relieving despite the chunky mess. His head felt clearer, he could finally think straight.

When he felt more at ease (although the lingering terror made that a very loose term), James went about cleaning up. He pulled off his once-magnificent-now-shitty-and-gross red local band tee and used it to wipe his mouth and chin. Then, since this was hardly the situation to fret over a single article of clothing, he went ahead and cleaned most of the vomit off the daypack, tossing it aside when satisfied and unzipping his bag to fetch a clean shirt. There were only two in there, a bright blue Mega Man and a bright yellow Primus, neither of which were ideal camouflage. He opted for the Primus, if just because it was his favorite, discarding the bag after because he'd packed light and it was now pretty much worthless.

'Ok. Still calm.' He decided he was doing well, although that didn't exactly put him in a chipper mood. He still had a splitting headache. And he was starving. It was time to open up the daypack and get some food and water in him, not to mention see if he had a fighting chance or not by himself. Not that he was playing. No. Just...defending himself. He wouldn't kill anybody if he could help it.

"A guy's gotta defend himself," he whispered, unzipping the daypack and going through its contents. His assigned weapon was a rifle, which seemed good given what he'd seen and heard of some people getting in the previous games. There was ammunition. Map. Flashlight. Water bottle, that's what he was looking for. And bread, too. He took a swig and a bite, and then another swig. Hardly satisfying, but it would do. He quickly put everything away and slung the pack over his shoulder, getting to his feet and hefting the rifle with little confidence.

A tingle ran up his spine as he realized there was someone else near him, facedown in the brush. Pointless as pointing the rifle at them was, he did anyway. Yeah, but was it even loaded? The person (who he was fairly sure he recognized) wasn't moving, although as he summoned his courage and got closer he noticed she was breathing. After a moment to deliberate, he began poking her with the end of the rifle.

***

Jessa Vanallen woke up to find someone was poking her sharply in the back. It was annoying. Of course, when it suddenly donned on her what was going on it became much more mind-numbingly terrifying than anything. She let out a startled cry and scrambled to her feet.

***

James let out a startled cry and scrambled backward, bumping against a tree and nearly dropping the rifle. She'd come to suddenly. Maybe in retrospect it hadn't been such a good idea to wake her in the fashion he had.

***

Jessa was a little confused but it registered quickly enough that she was at gunpoint. Her mind raced as she glared for a second at the equally bewildered face of James Brown, a casual acquaintance she'd seen all the time at shows and even flirted with once or twice. Somehow that meant nothing though, and since it was better to run and get shot than stay put and get shot Jessa suddenly darted to her right and sprinted away into the trees as fast as her legs would carry her. It didn't occur to her she was leaving her gear behind, and it certainly didn't mean anything to her when James began calling "Wait! Jessa!"

((G09 continued in Dropping the Soap))

***

"Wait! Jessa!" James called after her as she ran off, but it did nothing to stop her. James exhaled heavily, his head still swimming as he looked down at the daypack and duffle that had been left behind. He wrinkled his nose, then peered back out into the trees where Jessa had ran. No sign of her.

"Dammit," he finally mumbled, a bit ashamed of himself as he set the rifle down and unzipped her daypack. Maybe it was the survival instinct kicking in, but he would've been lying if he'd said he wasn't the least bit curious as to what weapon she'd received.

A slinky. James pulled the lousy gag weapon out and eyed it over bemusedly for a second before letting it fall with a jangle to the ground. Her food and water hadn't been touched, though, so it wasn't a total loss. He quickly transferred it to his own bag and was about to high-tail it himself when it occurred to him that Jessa owned a small butterfly knife. She'd shown it off to him before. Maybe she'd brought it with her. Not really giving a rats ass anymore as to whether he was invading her privacy (it seemed stupid now), he quickly rummaged through her dufflebag. There were clothes, a belt, a few toiletries and to his embarrassment a small vibrating object, but no trace of the weapon.

'Probably took it out before they dropped her off,' he figured glumly, doublechecking the pockets. He'd missed something, and although it wasn't the knife his thoroughness had produced an aspirin bottle that was about a quarter-full. James shrugged and unscrewed the lid, popping one of the small orange pills to soothe his headache and hopefully help him think straighter. He had to stay sharp. Even if he didn't know where he was going.

((B13 continued in House of Boo))