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Meanwhile, On The Nation’s Favourite Reality Show…; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1Af8RrmLPY
Topic Started: Aug 11 2017, 12:25 AM (129 Views)
The Yugetnam War
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best officer on the force
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The dogs were getting closer. Barking louder. The foxes were bounding. Slowing. The bullets from the guns had hit and they were bleeding. Dying. The dogs were getting close. Closer. The dogs were right on the tails of the foxes and Maxwell could feel something. A rush going through his body. The hair on his arms raising up on end. He had been watching this hunt from the start, watching the chase from its beginning, and it was about to end. He could feel it. He could see it. Just a few more seconds and it would be over. The foxes would be dead. The dogs would get their prey.

And eventually, they did. One of the dogs caught up. Sunk its jaws into the leg of the fox at the back of the skulk as it went down. A cheer went out from his father, his friends. Himself. They’d done it. They’d caught one of the foxes.

And then the second dog reached the fox. Dug its jaws into the fox’s back. Maxwell could see the blood. Maxwell could see the thing die.

And then the third dog reached the fox and buried its fangs into the fox’s throat and Maxwell could see the blood and Maxwell could see the thing die and Maxwell could hear the fox scream as it tried to escape and-

He couldn’t take this.

He couldn’t bear to see the thing die.

And as his father kept cheering, as his friends kept whooping, Maxwell began to feel something completely different. The tingling - the rush - was now touching his skin, making it cold, making it hard, making it hurt. Something hit his stomach. Made him heave. Made him feel as if he was about to throw up right here.

He couldn’t take this.

He couldn’t bear to see the thing die.

But he had wanted to, right? He had gone along with his father. He had gone along with his friends. He had laughed and cheered and felt the rush as they and their dogs chased after the foxes, why couldn’t he take it now? Didn’t he want to see the creature, the poor thing die?

No.

He didn’t.

Not like that.

Never like that.

So he turned around. Ran away from the sight.

Never looked back.


((B02: Restart))

Personally, Maxwell hadn’t even wanted to take part in this lousy school trip to start with.

It would be pointless, he had thought. It would be boring. He had university entrance exams he had to study for, he already had an after school trip he was going on, he already had had enough of his goddamn school, so what was the point in staying for a holiday at the end? He had been to the Bahamas, he had been to the Mediterranean, he had even been to Kathmandu, so how would wherever this school could just barely afford compare to the rest of what the world could offer? How could going on scripted tours, waiting in lines, having to interact with his lower classmates be considered better than going skiing, scuba diving, eating some of the finest cuisine around? What even was the point in him going?

And he’d asked his parents all that, when they said that they wanted him to go. Why did they want him out of their faces? Why did they want him on the trip? Their answer was because it would ‘make him new friends’ or some naive rubbish like that. As if he would even know half these people once he was off in Harvard. As if he even cared about half the people in his school. He went along with it, of course - it wasn’t like his parents were going to change their mind once they were a set on it as they were - but it wasn’t like he wanted to. It wasn’t like he thought he’d enjoy this.

He supposed that it was Lyndi who convinced him that going on this trip would be fun. She had been the one all about it. She’d been chatting to him on Facebook, at the popular kid tables, in the one or two classes they’d had together, saying that the trip would be one of the funnest things they could do. One of the last times they could be with each other before their paths took them their separate ways. The last opportunity that Maxwell would have to talk to the people at this school who he did tolerate.

Admittedly, she had a point, back then.

And admittedly, as the number of his days at P.J Hobbs became smaller and smaller, Maxwell had been cautiously optimistic about this trip.

And now, as he looked up at the ceiling, as the number of his days would become smaller and smaller, the only thing Maxwell could think was how much of an idiot he was for even thinking that that trip would have been good at all.

And now, as he laid on the bed, tried to keep his body breathing steadily, he thought of his parents. How they had wanted him out of their business, even if only for a short few moments. Even though now it had meant that they had essentially killed their son.

And as he remembered back to the bus, as he desperately tried to rationalize the last few minutes before he woke up here, he thought of Lyndi. How she had been sitting next to him on the bus. How she had loved it as he placed his arm around her as the men came in. As everything had changed.

How she was likely somewhere here too. As was Paris. As was Felicia.

How they were all trapped in this game, forced to play or forced to lose.

How all of this could have been avoided if he had just been more stubborn. If he had just been less believing.

If he had just not gone on that stupid fucking trip.

But now he was here. Now he was on this bed. Now he was looking at this ceiling.

Now he was playing this game.

He sighed. Let his arms loosen, for a short moment in time.

He supposed he was just going to have to deal with this, then.

So he got up. Pushed his body off the bed. Felt the floorboards creak and whine as his feet went against them. He looked around the room, once again. Saw the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the objects contained in between. Admittedly, he could still feel a twinge of disgust when he looked at the walls. At the flaking paint. At the cobwebs strewn all across. Before this, he had lived his life in the finest of conditions, in the finest of houses. His father would hire people to repaint the place whenever its colour started to fade off. Maids - cleaners, whatever - would keep the house pristine. Make sure no parts were blemished. Make sure that the house was properly befitting of who was inside it.

It would seem, however, that the people running this game were not of the same kindness.

It would seem that Maxwell would just have to deal with these conditions until they changed for him.

He walked around. Surveyed the room around him. If he were to guess, he would guess that this used to be someone’s bedroom. Given the bed, the chair, and the cupboard he would assume that this person had been quite comfortable in here, even if Maxwell’s bedroom had more within it. Given the state of the room, given the backpack plopped onto the chair, he would assume that this place had been abandoned, and altered to the whims of the people who ran this game. Given the fact that the backpack had his name on it, he would assume that the backpack was his. That it contained the tools he would have in order for him to play this game.

He supposed there was no point in delaying the inevitable. He would need to know what was in it soon enough. He took his steps forward and undid the zipper on the bag. Looked inside. The man at the front stated that there would be a weapon that he would have, so his first priority was finding it. Seeing what he would have to play this game with.

So he ruffled through the bag. Saw food. Saw water. Saw survival tools. Saw something… yellow?

Could that be…?

He pulled it out. Let it hang from his arms.



What the fuck was this?

He looked at it, for a brief second. It was…

An outfit?

A joke?

What was he supposed to do with this?

His hands clenched. Dug down into the fabric. Something rose within him, for a brief moment. Anger. Rage.

And he pushed it back down. Relaxed his body. Whatever. There was no point in getting angry about it. He supposed he would just have to find a use for it later. He stuffed it back in the bag. Pulled the zipper over it. Took a moment to let oxygen through his lungs before he moved the bag off the chair, sitting down.

So now that he knew what he had, now that he knew where he was, he supposed that he could use this time to plan. To figure out what he was going to do. It seemed as if he was alone in the room, it seemed as if not many other people would be exploring right now, so he imagined that now would be an ideal time to figure out what path he was going to take.

Whether he would play the game or not.

Because that was what the person up front had told them, wasn’t it? They were on an island. They were playing a game now. Survival of the Fittest. Kill your friends until you become the last standing. Kill once every twenty-four hours so that everybody didn’t die. Kill at least once, or risk being thrown back in the game in the case that you do win.

Kill your friends or die yourself.

Kill your friends or else be like Mr. Dolph, not even given a chance.

And ultimately, through all his thoughts, through all of his rationalisations, Maxwell could only come down to one single question.

Did he want to play the game, or did he want to die?

Did he want to be the fittest, or did he want his whole life to come down just to this? To being a victim. To being one of so many people just senselessly slaughtered in order for the people running this game, the people behind the cameras, to prove their point.

Thinking about it more, it came down to just one question.

Did he want to die?

Did he want everything that he had done, everything he had achieved to just come down to this? Being slaughtered by one of the people he was forced to call classmates?

Did he want to be like Mr. Dolph?

Did he want to die just like him? Did he want to die snivelling and scared and being unable to do anything about it?



No.

Not like that.

Never like that.

He didn’t know how he was going to do it, he didn’t know what it would be like outside this room, but he knew he wasn't going to let them end his life.

He knew he wasn't going to let them win.

So he supposed that was his choice.

And now that he’d made it, now that he knew what he was going to do, he was going to act on it. He stood up. Picked up his bag.

And, after a brief moment, he decided to exit the room.
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