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|Survival of the Fittest > Rules & Information > The Story|
|Posted by: Kaishi Jun 19 2005, 06:43 AM|
| Huff, huff, huff...
How long had Greg Rin been running? Hours, perhaps? He didn't know. Ever since he heard that one kid - armed with a crossbow gun call out his name, he took off running. People were playing this stupid game. People were playing for keeps. Who knew if the crossbow gun kid, too, was playing? Who was really apart of this program, and who wasn't? Greg slowed down his running, getting into a jog. He was so glad about the fact his parents forced him into the trackteam now.
"Running fast actually has its advantages, y'know..." Greg spoke aloud. He was, more or less, talking to his pitiful weapon. A fork. A freaking fork. He held it up to the light, watching it shine in the sunlight. "You might look shiney, but you're still just a fork." He fought the urge to throw it away. It might come in handy later, afterall.
Hearing the snap of a twig, Greg leapt into the bushes, clutching the fork tightly to his chest. Perhaps that crossbow gun kid had followed Greg after all. Fortunately, that wasn't the case at all. It was just some kid with a Beretta, yawning. What was his name again? Kevin? Maybe it was Brennen. Who knew? He was just another one of those stupid, good-for-nothing pretty boys in the class. If only I had his gun...
Brennen (or was that Kevin?), meanwhile, sat down, rummaging through his kit, seeing all the items inside. His gun, a Beretta was off to the side. "This stupid gun doesn't even work." He picked up the Beretta, and held it infront of his eyes, pouting. "I bet this whole thing is just something fake...something to teach kids a lesson in life."
I wish you were right, Brennen. Greg had already seen the dead body of Christie. There were stab wounds all over her body, and one bullet hole right between her eyes. Judging by it all, it was probably some sort of mercy kill. Either way, it made Greg sick to his stomach just thinking about the fact that she died. This game hadn't been going on for very long and already one person was dead. No way am I going to end up like her. No way in heck!! He gripped the fork tighter, his knuckles turning white.
Brennen yawned again, pulling the gun's trigger again and again. "Stupid thing. Maybe it's jammed." He shrugged. "Maybe all the guns are jammed, and this thing really isn't real." He threw the Beretta off to the side. The gun landed into the bushes, convienently where Greg was hiding. "Best free my hands for something useful."
Brennen went through the kit once more, taking out a loaf of bread. "These things are as hard as a rock!" He took the time to comment on all the items, ending it all off with his look on a very important instruction manual. "Pfft, everyone knows that no one reads the instruction manuals." He crumbled it up and threw it off to the side. With a yawn, he layed himself down. He was so tired that he didn't notice the figure walk over and pick up the wadded up instruction manual. Brennen held in a breath.
He let it all out, though, when he saw that it was only good ol' Greg. Good ol' Greg holding...a gun?
"Greg? Hey, man! ...What're you doing with that? The gun don't ---"
Greg chuckled to himself, turning off the safety with a click. Blam! He missed, and frowned. Blam! Again, Greg missed his target, sending the bullet into Brennen's lungs instead.
"...W-why...?" The single word was hardly coherent, for Brennen's choked gasps for air made it seem like Brennen was drowning. If only Greg could tell that Brennen truly was drowning...
Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! What was left of Brennen soon was long gone. Greg emptied the whole clip into Brennen's head, neck, and shoulders, laughing all the while.
"Because, my friend," Greg dropped the paperwad onto what was left of Brennen's face. The dumb, prettyboy's face looked oddly like swiss cheese now that it had all the bullet holes in it. Greg laughed, and then went on, "The first rule of this game...the strong will always survive. And the weak...well, they'll just always die."
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
Only the fit shall survive. So play, and see if you truly are fit to live, or not.
...It wasn't supposed to happen.
It was supposed to only be great.
It was supposed to be a nice plane ride far away, to some exotic island. And at the island, everyone was just going to relax. It was, afterall, an end of the year trip.
But this was far from a trip.
The horrendous video... Some kid with a fork running and running, and then hiding out in the bushes. When that idiot threw away the gun, it was all over for him. The fork guy shot him down just like that.
Shot him down as if he was playing a vicious game.
And then, at the end, those dreadful words appeared. "Survival of the Fittest" and that terrible slogan: "Only the fit shall survive. So play, and see if you truly are fit to live, or not." A slogan that would be burned into the minds of many.
The strong will survive. The weak shall die.
Why wasn't they putting a stop to this? Mainly because the guards were all armed with guns that they pointed at each of the students. Why they were doing that, no one really knew, because they were all bound tightly to their seats. All the students were pretty much silent, aside from a few kids filled with some false courage whom had cheered on the kid with the fork.
False bravery...a wanted trait by many.
Next, the teachers accompaning the children on the trip were unbound, and forced down onto their knees. The guards were strong, keeping the teachers from struggling as they each placed the muzzle of the guns next to each of the teachers' heads.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
They were all killed, as easy as that. Their corpses were thrown into a corner, piled on top of eachother. Now everyone was quiet, even the kids that had the guts to laugh and cheer at the video. No one made a peep, in fact, quite a few of the children seemed entranced by it all. Their eyes were stuck on the dead bodies of their former teachers. It was probably just shock, or they were hoping this was some sort of nightmare.
The nightmarish video came on again.
Their attention was diverted by the sound of a man coughing to gain attention. Now on the big, pull-down screen was a man sitting in a chair.
"Hello Class-B." He pulled out a lighter, lighting the fat cigar that jutted out of his mouth. "Now, I'm sure you are all wondering about all of this. Wondering and worrying... Hey, how many of you unlucky fools peed themselves?"
He laughed. ...The man laughed.
"Just joshing with all of you pathetic Americans." The man put away his lighter as he introduced himself. "My name is Mr. Danya, although all the pretty girls can call me Danny." He puffed out a ring of smoke. "You all are probably wondering about all of this... Probably wondering about how unlucky you are. To think, just about an hour ago you all could've sworn you were going to some beautiful little trip." Mr. Danya laughed again.
That ugly, terrible laugh... The laugh was mocking all of the students.
"Stupid, stupid, idiotic good-for-nothngs." He said through out his laughing fit. He laughed so hard that he nearly swallowed his cigar whole. "...Anyways, after this little video of mine, you all shall be gassed into a simple slumber. It'll probably be the best sleep you'll get during the next few days." He grinned this time to mock them, instead of partaking in his hideous laugh.
"When you wake up, you'll find yourself on an island. It should be pretty empty...all the dead bodies were cleared out yesterday, anyway. Yet, there may be a few deranged kids from the last game. They're not too bad, though." Mr. Danya shrugged. "Just give them some medicine, and they'll be fine, right?"
He was joking around...it was clear he didn't care about the students at all.
He coughed once more. "So, in short, once you wake up, find safety. Build a shelter and barricade yourself, or something. That's what a few kids did in the last game. Most of them ended up killing themselves. That's what being all alone does to people like this." He pulled the cigar out of his mouth, puffing out another ring of smoke, much to his sickening delight. "Friends against friends...kill or be killed. Yada yada. Whatever you want to put it. The Japanese had a neat little slogan like: 'Could you kill your best friend?' Now, you tell me if you all could do that.
"Now, if you can't, be sure that your best friend probably could kill you. Some people get lost in it all. Don't feel remorse."
It's survival of the fittest in a nutshell.
"Anywho, after doing all that pansy barricade stuff, pick your weapon out of the bag. We've got weapons ranging from butter knives all the way to shotguns. Pray you get a good one. Judging by a few of you, you guys won't be merciful to any kid that gets a cruddy weapon." Mr. Danya yawned. "When you wake up on the island, note the collar. The handbook explains about it somewhat... There has to be atleast one person who dies in 24 hours, elsewise all the collars explode. The only time this rule doesn't even count is when you're the last one standing. Even then, what with all the students coming into the island, I'd still be on my toes and be weary of the rule."
Now, he looked rather annoyed. "You know, I have to talk about this all the time to the new kids. This wastes precious time. It gets me rather mad, you know... Wastes a ton of air. And you know what else I hate? Stupid highschool punks like that one guy who get me so mad. Guards, kill the guy sitting behind the girl with the blue hairclip."
He was dead. He hadn't done a thing. Except for wearing his hat sideways, that is. But, even then, that wouldn't really count for anything, right? To Mr. Danya it did. He hated punks.
"Thank you very much, my kind soldiers." The guards' replies to Mr. Danya's thanks were muffled by their gasmasks. "Now, now...it's sleepy time for you fools." With his words, all the 10th grade students of Class-B Barry Coleson High fell into a deep, gas-induced slumber...
And to think, when they wake up, they'll be on an island fighting for their lives and nothing else.