Risoluto

[Shangela†]

((G074 - Brianna Battaglia - Start))

Get up. Get up right now. A voice inside Girl #74's head urged. A lingering voice of action drowned out by the dull void inside her head. No voice countered the sole flicking beacon of light, just an absence of anything whatsoever.

Empty. Vacant.

If she could liken it to anything, it would be the quiet murmurs of a tv that searches for a flickering reception. In a similar sense, her own mind was searching for a reception. Something to get her off of the scorched, arid sea of grass that engulfed the seventy-fourth girl. Pooling around her face, the sharp, dry blades of grass prodded at Girl #74's cheeks. The grass smelled nothing like the wet, dewy grasses of Seattle. Drenched in rain, Seattle's grass smelt like nature, a refreshing aroma. Whatsmore, they smelt like home. This foreign grass ...To the girl, they smelled like neglect.

Abandonment.

Life had been forgotten here sometime ago. Would they all be forgotten on here as well? Like the dry grasses of the abandoned school yard, would she just become a docile, sedentary fixture of the once kept land? Only through virtue of the forgiving clouds did the grass survive the loneliness at all. Girl #74 was not grass. The freckles of moisture that pooled onto the girl's cheeks would not give her sustenance. Her tears were just a bitter reminder that she, like the majority of her fellow students, would never see Seattle grass ever again. Her tears turned an inhuman shade of black due to her coating of mascara that she had just hours before applied in the airplane bathroom. The black streaks collected down into her mouth. When she pursed her lips, she could taste the chemical, salty tears that graced her pallid face.

Yet Girl #74 did not stir. Her knees pressed against her chest gave her no comfort, but nor did they give her any discomfort. Just like the faint buzzing her mind, everything did nothing. At the moment, all the girl could do is lay there.

Waiting.


The etymology of the word "ant" stems from a Middle English word, "ante." Congruently, that word can be traced father back to the Old High Germanic "ameiza." From there, etymologists can further refine the history of the word to the West Germanic "amaitjo." This is where we get the definition of the word "ant." Quite literally, it translates to "the biter."
Seemingly living up to it's name, a solitary fire ant made it's way over to the static Girl #74. Maybe it was the inflammatory color of red, maybe it was those deeply rooted memories of being stung by a fire ant during her vacations to the beaches of Sardinia. In any case, the mere memories of the lancing pain that a single bite could cause, was enough to awaken Girl #74.

Girl #74 leapt up with a frenzied jerk, sending the small fire ant scattering through the air. Flailing backwards, the girl fell over what was meant to provide her safety and protection: the black duffle bag containing her impersonalized number. She hit the dry grass with a padded thud, nearly crushing the more sensitive contents of her duffle bag. For the first time since the girl awoke on the dreadful island, she took note of what was strewn around her.

Through the grace of her short stature, Girl #74 narrowly avoided hitting her head on the rim of a discarded soccer goal when she had fallen over backwards. The netting stood at about five and a half feet high, supported my scuffed and cracking plastic piping. Where the girl's head had nearly collided, plenty of soccer balls hadn't so narrowly missed, evidenced by the severe crack running transversally across. In an equal state of disrepair was the net itself; filled with holes and fraying ends, the net looked as if it would never survive another game of soccer. Though Girl #74 was never terribly interested in sports, she knew that in soccer both teams had a goal in which they defended from the other team. Even she could recognize that this solitary goal's lack of a partner was peculiar.  

Instead, across from the field, the girl only saw even more scorches of arid grass. Any colorations indicating one of soccer's intricate rules had been dried away, replaced by overgrown browning grass. The only sign that there had been any man made intervention was the disassembled lawn mower that was discarded by the metal spectator stands. Spare machinery laid strewn about the grass, turning it's own uniquely brown shade of neglect.

Girl #74 finally lifted herself off of the ground. Staring at all the neglect made her feel queasily nervous. It reminded her of the inevitability that she too would probably be decaying and dying just as the unkempt land had. She couldn't think about that now. All she could do now is start moving. Maybe her mind would catch up to her legs.

The girl slung her familiar backpack, and the alien duffle bag over one shoulder and began. While she walked past the metal stands, something caught her eye. Something red. Unlike the red fire ant that had stirred the girl from her pitiful stasis, this red was welcomed. A cheap, plastic easter egg. She had not seen the sign hanging in the cafeteria that announced the annual egg hunt, so the object (especially in July) was quite an unexpected find.

Curiously she held up the odd, red egg and twisted it. Inside rested two pieces of candy: a grape tootsie roll lollipop and an individual twix chocolate bar. The lollipop had been untwisted and frayed while being crammed into the egg; nature was not kind to it. However, the chocolate candy remained intact, something the girl was immensely thankful for. Chocolate always gave the girl some form of comfort, and right now, her trembling fingers could barely rip open the label.

Wanting to savor the find, Girl #74 closed her eyes and took a bite from the tip of the bar. The texture was quite off. The caramel layer had almost completely solidified, leaving it very brittle. That is, until her teeth really sank into the caramel. The adhesive properties of the confectionary were retained in the core of the caramel layer, where it adhered itself to the girl's two front teeth. The cookie portion was equally stale, crumbling in her mouth instead of slowly dissolving. Likewise, the chocolate coating tasted quite off from it's usually cloying quality.

Yet, for Girl #74, the first bite was magnificent. She felt her chest unbuckle, finally able to inhale deeply and freely as she chewed that first nibble. With clarity, she allowed herself to open her eyes and look around her. Darting past her toes were a colony of ants holding a deceased wasp. From Girl #74's eyes, the wasp possessed a strange, ghostly quality as it seemingly floated through the grass. The small fire ants obscured by their much bulkier prey. It was the will of nature that the ants hunt and kill. Darwin coined the term "survival of the fittest" for this very reason. Only the strongest get to survive and continue on. The rest get killed.

Killed.

Abruptly, the chocolate, that had given the girl so much comfort, turned sour in her mouth. She couldn't taste the relief and the comfort of the familiar candy in this unfamiliar situation. All she tasted was a relic of her past that she wouldn't get to ever see again. She had paid attention to what that Danya person had told the crowd of chained students, though now she desperately wanted to forget. Seeing the dead wasp just reminded her of the grim reality that she faced.

She swallowed just a small fraction of the chocolate bar, and yet it felt like she had swallowed an entire lump. She choked to keep the chocolate from coming back up. Her mouth once again was filled with salty tears. To quell her soft, muted cries, the girl took another bite from the chocolate bar. No satisfaction came from this bite either. Just further reminder of her mortality. The ants scrambled to collect the crumbling candy bar as small pieces flung from her agape mouth.

A few ants scrambled out from underneath the wasp to collect the crumbs. Despite all competing for the same object, the girl watched with complete absorption how they allowed one ant to carry the crumb along the path that their comrades were following. There was no fighting between the insects. Survival of the fittest would have dictated that these ants all compete for the crumb, fighting to the death for their own survival. Then why did the colony all work together to scavenge for their fellow brethren? This whole terrorist plot was founded on the idea that students had to fight against one other in order to survive. But the ant colony disproved their entire logic. Girl #74 thought that surely this was the way of the natural world: teamwork. There existed the lone wolf, but there were always more pack of wolves, or prides of lions.

Girl #74 reached the last bite of her chocolate bar, which she popped into her mouth and began to chew.  Unlike any candy bar she had ever eaten, this had a unique taste to it. It might not have been a taste in the most physical of senses, but the texture of the chocolate as melted on her tongue filled her with a feeling she'd never felt before.

Resolve.

Girl #74 didn't know how, but she knew that she was going to remind everyone on this island that the terrorists were wrong. As the girl exited the athletic field, heading aimlessly, but with determination reading across her face, she felt the duffle bag pound back and forth against her hip. Looking down, she read the bold white writing that they had written on her bag. G074. This made the willful girl's face recoil with anger. The slick black camera that had been positioned on the loud speaker pole had captured ever contortion of anger that the girl had made.

"I am not, nor will I ever be 'Girl-number-seventy-four.' I am Brianna Battaglia, and I promise that we'll find a way off this island. Together." With her mission clear, Brianna Battaglia left, resolute in her mission. The camera watched her ever step now.

((Continued in Welcome to Summoner's Rift))