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Jason fell to the kick, rolling back. He could pretend this is what he wanted to happen, but it was nowhere near close. He had a goal, an objective, one that didn't involve being assaulted by someone he no longer gave a shit about. That goal had been achieved, what, only 20%? A gun was in his hands. But it had no bullets.

Well, the gun was actually off to the side, just like his bag. As he watched from the ground as Paris backed towards his own bag, he saw them laying together by the edge of a pit of tar. Taking this opportunity as the get-out-of-jail-free card it was, Jason scrambled quickly across the ground to his belongings.

He shoved the gun into his waistband. He shouldered his bag.

And with that, Jason ran faster than he'd ever remembered running in his life.

There was an old saying his dad raised him by, an alliterative one. Prior Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance? Well that wasn't the piss poor performance he expected of himself in such a situation, but it wasn't much better. It sucked.

If I'm going to get off this island, I need to fucking plan. And not like that. Better.

Jason couldn't tell what the roaring noise in the air was as he left the pits of tar, but he didn't stop to check if it was the wind echoing in his ears or something worse.

((Jason Andrews continues for a shower))
The Program 2.5 - Traitors

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The Land of Shadow · The Tar Pits
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